The city gates sealed shut behind them with a sound like a coffin closing.
Steel groaned. Runes dimmed. The warning sirens finally fell silent.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Seven survivors stood in the center of the city hub—bloodied, burned, armor shattered and soaked with blackened monster ichor. Any one of them was powerful enough to command an army.
They were A-rank and above.
And they had barely made it back alive.
A healer rushed forward, light flaring around her hands."Sit down. Now. You're collapsing."
The man at the front—Commander Rask—ignored her. His eyes were still fixed on the sealed gates, as if something might follow them through.
"We lost three," he said hoarsely."Two S-ranks."
The plaza went silent.
Merchants stopped shouting. Survivors froze mid-step. Even the floating system displays hovering above the hub dimmed, as if the world itself was listening.
Someone whispered, "From that place?"
Rask nodded once.
"The Crimson Nest."
A Red Zone where maps failed. Where systems glitched. Where entire squads vanished without leaving bodies behind.
And yet—
"You came back," someone said.
Rask let out a short laugh. There was no relief in it.
"Yeah," he replied. "That's the strange part."
They were escorted into the inner hall, a reinforced chamber where analysts, guild leaders, and medics gathered. Armor was stripped away. Wounds were treated.
The questions came fast.
"How did you escape?""What artifact did you use?""Was there a new boss?"
Rask looked at his team.
One survivor stared at the floor, hands trembling.Another shook her head slowly, as if afraid her memory might break.
Finally, Rask spoke.
"There was a truck."
Silence.
"…A what?" an analyst asked.
"A food truck."
Someone laughed.
Then they saw his face.
"It was there," Rask continued. "Right in the center of the zone. Where the core should've been."
"That's impossible."
"Nothing survives there."
"I know," Rask snapped. "I've led six runs into that hell."
He took a breath.
"The air was calm. Too calm. Like the zone itself was holding its breath."
The woman with burn scars along her neck spoke next, her eyes unfocused.
"There were monsters everywhere," she said. "Hundreds of them."
"Then why didn't they attack?" someone demanded.
"…Because they didn't," she replied.
A younger survivor covered his face with shaking hands.
"I couldn't feel my wounds anymore," he whispered. "Not because of skills. Because of the smell."
"…Smell?"
"Food," he said. "Real food."
That single word rippled through the hall.
Not rations.Not nutrient paste.
Food.
Rask nodded."The truck was old. Modified. Parked like it belonged there."
He hesitated.
"And there was a sign."
"What did it say?"
Rask exhaled.
"Open."
By the time the survivors were cleared for rest, the story had already escaped the hall.
It spread through the city hub like wildfire.
In taverns.At trade counters.Across system forums.
A truck sighted in Red Zones.A truck sighted in Dead Cities.A truck sighted in places no one should return from.
Always the same details.
Warm lights.Calm air.The smell of food.
By nightfall, the rumor had a name.
Not given by guilds.Not recorded by the system.
Whispered by survivors who feared and hoped in equal measure.
The Apocalypse Food Truck.
High above the city, a surveillance screen flickered.
For a brief moment, it showed a forbidden zone.
A lone truck.Lights on.Monsters surrounding it—yet refusing to move.
Then the feed cut out.
And somewhere far beyond the walls—
An engine started.