he first thing Alex Chen felt was the smell.
Old upholstery. Stale gasoline. And something that might have been a dead mouse.
The second thing he felt was the cold.
He opened his eyes. A cracked ceiling stared back at him. Water stains. Peeling paint. A single light fixture that looked like it hadn't worked since the 1980s.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up too fast. His head hit something. Metal. Low clearance.
"Son of a—"
He rubbed his skull and looked around.
He was in a vehicle. A big one. Not a truck. Not a bus. Something in between.
An RV. A really, really old RV.
The windows were covered in dust. The curtains were faded floral print—the kind his grandmother might have owned. The kitchenette had a sink with no faucet handle. The stove had two burners, both rusted.
And everything smelled.
Alex swung his legs off the narrow bed. His boots hit the floor with a thunk. He stood up—hunching slightly because the ceiling was too low—and walked to the front.
The driver's seat was torn. Foam poked out of a gash in the cushion. The steering wheel was wrapped in duct tape.
Through the windshield, he saw the road.
Endless. Flat. Gray.
No buildings. No trees. Just asphalt stretching to the horizon in both directions.
"What the actual..."
A blue screen appeared in front of his eyes.
Not on the windshield. Not on a phone. In his vision.
```
[Driver System Initialized]
User: Alex Chen
Vehicle: Winnebago Brave 1978
Class: F (Lowest)
Crew: 1/4
Fuel: 47%
Food: 3 days
Water: 2 days
Credits: 0
```
Alex stared at the screen. Blinked. It was still there.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay. This is... this is something."
He looked down at his hands. Same hands. Same scars on his knuckles. Same cheap watch.
He looked at the seat next to him. A crumpled fast-food bag. A loose quarter. Nothing useful.
He looked out the window again.
The road was still there. Still empty. Still endless.
A second screen appeared.
```
[System Announcement – Global]
The Great Transfer has begun.
70,000,000 survivors have been transported.
Objective: Survive.
Rule: There are no rules.
Reward: The truth, at the end of the road.
```
Alex read it three times.
Seventy million. The Great Transfer. No rules.
He let out a breath.
"Survive," he muttered. "Yeah. That's specific."
He climbed back into the driver's seat and tried the ignition.
The engine coughed. Sputtered. Died.
He tried again.
Another cough. A groan. Then—vrooom—it caught.
The whole RV shook. The dashboard lights flickered. The radio crackled with static.
But the engine was running.
Alex glanced at the fuel gauge. Forty-seven percent. Not great. Not terrible.
He looked at the map that had appeared in his vision—a simple layout showing the road ahead, a few dots marking... something... about two miles out.
One of the dots was blinking.
```
[System: Supply Crate detected – Common (White)]
Location: Abandoned rest stop, 2.3 miles ahead.
Warning: Other survivors detected in area.
```
Alex's jaw tightened.
Other survivors.
That meant competition. That meant people who might not be friendly.
He thought about the old RV. The weak engine. The zero credits in his account.
Then he thought about the blinking dot. The crate. Whatever was inside.
Food. Water. Fuel. Maybe weapons.
He couldn't afford to ignore it.
"Alright," he said to no one. "Let's see what you've got."
He put the RV in gear. The transmission groaned. The whole vehicle shuddered.
But it moved.
The Winnebago Brave 1978—F-Class, rusted, ugly, and probably one pothole away from falling apart—rolled onto the endless road.
---
Twenty minutes later, Alex saw the rest stop.
It was a crumbling building. The roof had caved in on one side. A faded sign that once said "WELCOME" now just said "COME."
And parked out front were three vehicles.
A sedan with a missing door. A pickup truck with a tarp over the bed. And a motorcycle chained to a post.
Three vehicles. At least three people.
Alex killed the engine a quarter mile out and coasted to a stop behind a billboard. The sign had once advertised cigarettes. Now it just showed a woman smiling at nothing.
He grabbed the only weapon he had—a tire iron from under the driver's seat—and stepped out.
The air was cold. Dry. No wind.
He moved toward the rest stop on foot, keeping low, using the rusted cars in the parking lot for cover.
When he got close enough, he heard voices.
"...open it faster, dumbass."
"I'm trying. The lock's rusted."
"Well, try harder. That's a blue crate. Blue. You know what that means?"
"Parts. Good parts."
"Yeah. And there's only three of us. We could use—"
Alex peeked around the corner of a wrecked minivan.
Three men. One standing guard with a pipe. Two crouched in front of a metal crate—blue glow coming from the seams.
Rare crate. Not common.
His heartbeat sped up.
He could walk away. Find another crate. Live to fight another day.
Or he could take it.
The guard turned his back for a second. Lighting a cigarette.
Alex moved.
He didn't think. Thinking was slow. Thinking got you killed.
He crossed the distance in five silent steps. The tire iron came down on the guard's wrist. The pipe clattered to the ground. The man screamed.
Alex kicked him in the knee. The man went down.
"What the—"
The two men at the crate looked up. Eyes wide.
Alex pointed the tire iron at them.
"Step away from the crate," he said. His voice was calm. Flat. "I'm not going to ask twice."
The bigger one reached for something in his pocket.
Alex took a step forward.
"I said don't."
The man froze.
His partner—a skinny guy with bad teeth—raised his hands. "Okay, okay. It's yours. We're leaving."
They backed away slowly. The big one helped the guard to his feet. All three limped toward the pickup truck.
The engine started. The truck peeled out, kicking up dust.
Alex stood there for a moment, listening.
Then he turned to the crate.
It was blue. Metallic. Warm to the touch.
He crouched down and touched the lock.
```
[System: Rare Supply Crate (Blue)]
Open? (10 seconds)
Warning: Opening can be interrupted.
```
Ten seconds. An eternity if someone else showed up.
He started the timer.
One... two... three...
The crate hummed.
Four... five... six...
He heard an engine in the distance. Getting closer.
Seven... eight...
Sweat on his forehead.
Nine...
The lock clicked.
Ten.
The crate swung open.
```
[System: Crate opened.]
Rewards:
– Fuel Canister x2 (+20% fuel)
– MRE Package x3 (+3 days food)
– Basic Tool Kit (New module: Workbench can now be installed)
– Credit: 150
```
Alex grabbed everything. Stuffed it into his jacket. The tool kit was heavy—metal case, about the size of a shoebox.
He ran back to the RV.
The engine in the distance was louder now. A black SUV crested the hill behind him.
He jumped into the driver's seat. Turned the key. The engine coughed.
Come on. Come on.
The SUV was closing in. Two hundred yards. One hundred fifty.
The engine caught.
Alex slammed the gas pedal. The RV lurched forward—slow, too slow—but moving.
The SUV followed.
Alex checked his rearview mirror. The driver had a gun. Pointing it out the window.
A shot cracked the air. The bullet hit the road behind him.
Another shot. This one hit the back of the RV. Metal on metal.
Alex swore under his breath.
He looked at the fuel gauge. Sixty-seven percent now. Thanks to the canisters.
He looked at the road ahead. Empty.
He looked at the map in his vision. There was a turn coming up. A dirt road leading into a cluster of trees.
He took it.
The RV bounced. The suspension groaned. The trees swallowed him whole.
The SUV didn't follow.
Alex drove another mile before pulling over. His hands were shaking.
He sat there for a long moment, breathing.
Then he looked at his new supplies.
Fuel. Food. A tool kit.
And 150 credits.
He opened his system screen.
```
[User: Alex Chen]
Level: 1
Vehicle: Winnebago Brave 1978 (F-Class)
Next Level: 100 credits
Perk: [Legendary Perk Awakening] – Unique skill detected.
Details: Every 10 levels, user may choose one Legendary Perk.
```
He stared at the last line.
Unique skill.
Every 10 levels, choose one Legendary Perk.
He didn't know what that meant yet. But he knew one thing:
No one else had it.
Alex leaned back in the torn driver's seat. The engine idled. The road stretched out ahead of him.
"Alright," he said. "One crate down. A thousand more to go."
He put the RV in gear and drove.
Dear handsome readers who look like Thor Thor and beautiful readers who look like Scarlett Johnson. I wish you have a nice day. I hope you can support my novel. Thank you.