Yellow sand, endless and vast.
The fierce winds here never cease, no matter how the world outside changes. The wind here remains the same, meting out its equal cruelty to all who visit. It is the depths of winter, and the desert cold bites to the bone, especially at night. Every grain of sand is like a blade flashing with cold light, slowly and relentlessly slicing at exposed skin.
Amid the endless yellow sands, a group of travelers struggles to trek forward.
There are about a dozen people in this group, all bundled up in thick winter gear, with their joints and vital parts wrapped especially tight. Though they look ragged, as if fleeing disaster, their outfits are perfectly suited for the climate, marking them as seasoned desert explorers.
Rarely do people venture deep into the desert at this time of year. The winter desert is just as perilous and mysterious as the summer one. No matter how many treasures lie hidden in its depths, exploration must wait until spring.
But things are different this year.
On closer inspection, these scavenger-like men, struggling through the sand, actually all possess at least twenty years of martial skill, and a few of the more advanced ones even have thirty years of cultivation. Among desert treasure hunters, such a skilled team is a rarity—no wonder they dare to travel in such harsh conditions.
As the saying goes, the early bird gets the worm, and this group seems to have done well for themselves.
But on closer look, something seems off.
Because instead of returning with joy and treasures, every one of them wears a gloomy face. Those so-called thirty-year "masters" aren't acting like team leaders at all. Not only do they have no special privileges, they're actually... pulling a cart?
That's right, look closely—they really are pulling a cart!
The cart is specially designed for desert travel, equipped with sand boards to make it easier to move across the dunes. Even so, the four thirty-year veterans look like exhausted miners, two pushing and two pulling, stumbling through the sand, panting but never stopping. The experts are pulling at breakneck speed, while the less skilled members scramble desperately to keep up. In this treasure-hunting team, it seems like nobody has any rights at all.
What's inside the cart?
Why are they being treated this way?
You can't see—the sturdy shell blocks the view. Wind and sand rattle against the shell, which is like a tiny cabin, protecting whatever's inside quite thoroughly. On such a harsh, cold night, you'd think these people would be resting inside, but instead they're all charging ahead like their pants are on fire.
Once out of the fiercest wind, the biting cold eases and the swirling sand settles down. The veteran desert dwellers glance at each other, eyes full of scheming intent, each plotting their own move.
After climbing over a sand dune, a small oasis appears ahead. From a distance, you can see a group of about forty people resting there.
Spotting the group ahead, the dozen travelers' eyes light up. Led by the four cart-pullers, they shout in unison, drop the cart, and sprint forward. As they race ahead, they yell at the top of their lungs, "Help! Somebody help—!"
The nearby camp instantly erupts into commotion.
The forty-plus people in the camp are even stronger than the cart-pulling team; thirty-year veterans are everywhere. Their response is swift and organized—whether on watch or resting, everyone finds their position in seconds. Several masters with over forty years of cultivation sweep out of their tents, eyes sharp as blades, glaring at the approaching group: "Who dares charge our camp? Intruders will die!"
Swish, swish, swish—several crossbows are brought out, aimed squarely at the dozen rushing figures.
"We're on your side! We're on your side!" The lead cart-puller quickly identifies himself: "Captain, it's me—I'm your squad leader, Sun Twenty-Four!"
"Sun Twenty-Four?" The captain holds up a torch and squints—sure enough, the ones running over are his own Fourth Squad. "So it's you, kid. Why aren't you out hunting slave-mutants? What are you doing back here?"
"I did go, Captain! But as soon as we entered the Dead Desert, we ran into a weird guy!" Sun Twenty-Four glances nervously back at the cart, sees it's still sitting quietly, and relaxes a bit before explaining, "We found someone lying there. Got closer, and sure enough, he was breathing. We tried to capture him, but he was way out of our league—ended up getting robbed ourselves!"
"Hmm?" The captain points at the cart. "Is that guy in the cart?"
"He's in the cart! Hasn't eaten, drunk, or moved in days—just lazing around, only telling us to pull the cart out of the desert."
"Did you tell him your names?"
"We did!" Zhao Twenty-Four nods frantically. "We told him your name, even the boss's name—he didn't care at all!"
"Oh? Besides that damned Jade Rakshasa, someone else in this desert dares disrespect the boss? That's rare." The captain asks one last time, "What's this guy's cultivation level?"
"Just a notch above us—forty years of cultivation, tops!" Sun Twenty-Four swears, "Definitely no match for you, Captain!"
"Alright, let me see who this guy is that dares disrespect us!" The captain feels confident—he knows what kind of person Sun Twenty-Four is, always putting survival first. Whoever's in the cart probably isn't that tough. Sure he has the upper hand, but he decides to go all out, just in case.
With a wave, everyone moves in, surrounding the cart completely. Curved blades and crossbows form an impenetrable circle. Including Sun Twenty-Four and his crew, there are fifteen thirty-year veterans and six masters with over forty years of cultivation—a lineup that, a few years ago, would have made a formidable sect.
Everything ready, Sun Twenty-Four flashes a vicious, satisfied grin. He thinks they've got this in the bag. As long as they catch that guy, the Slave-Hunter Gang will make him regret ever being born.
Several experts approach the cart, but it remains silent. The captain figures the guy inside is terrified and won't show his face, so he sneers, "Kid, you dare mess with Lord Tobacco-Pipe's crew? You must be tired of living! Get him!"
Whoosh—several grappling hooks fly in, grabbing the cart's shell. The experts yank hard, and the canopy shatters with a loud crack. Amid the flying debris, they glimpse a man lying on the cart's boards. Faced with disaster, the man doesn't even try to get up, just lies there lazily, not interested in moving at all.
"Hah!" With a gust of wind, several experts attack at once. Their power surges, their moves ruthless and deadly, targeting all the man's vital points in an instant.
Amid the rushing wind, the man doesn't even open his eyes.
Under the night sky, there are a few sharp cracks, shouts of battle boil up, then quickly turn to screams of surprise.
Three minutes later, everything is calm again. A lazy voice rings out.
"Pull the cart."
And so, the cart sets off once more.
But now, it's not Sun Twenty-Four and his crew pulling the cart—it's the four masters with forty years of cultivation.