Chapter 37: New World Specialty: Scum

【Respected Navigator, arrived at the New World】

【Duration: 30 days】

【Anchor to this world?】

“No no no... fuck!”

The boy spat curses.

Scorching heat waves rose, sweeping across dry desert sands.

Endless golden dunes rolled like churning waves across an ocean.

The searing heat made every breath Alvin took burn from throat to lungs.

“Good news—this time the spawn point isn’t an alley.” In barely thirty seconds, he was drenched in sweat, feeling half-cooked; he raised a hand to shade his eyes from the blazing sun: “Bad news—I got dumped in a desert.”

He glanced at his wrist, where the Navigator system displayed its data.

【Navigator: Alvin】

【Race: Human】

【Faction: Human Empire】

【Profession: Scavenger】

【Anchored World: None】

【Remaining Energy: 0 units】

【Remaining Source Power: 0 units】

This time, Alvin wasn’t in a rush.

Thirty days weren’t long, but they should be enough.

Besides, even if they weren’t, he still had backup “energy”—the “Deflection Field Device” and “Plasma Pistol” Father Aluman had given him, both still stocked with plenty.

Of course, he’d never use them unless absolutely desperate—those were life-saving tools!

“First, I need to get out of this hellhole.”

Alvin wiped sweat, cursing his luck—he’d been dropped in a desert, and now he was fully armed.

His shell armor overlined with ballistic fiber, plus all his gear and weapons, weighed nearly fifty kilos—equivalent to carrying an adult woman.

Worse, due to inexperience, Alvin hadn’t anticipated extreme environments and hadn’t brought enough water.

At noon in the desert, temperatures soared above forty degrees; dehydration would set in within hours.

“Slipped up. This time, consider it a lesson.”

Alvin winced, swallowing dryly: “Next time I time-travel, I must—”

He was grateful Tark had trained him for three days, briefly covering survival in extreme conditions.

In his past life, he’d seen survival shows—desert daytime temps near forty degrees, untrained civilians collapsing from heatstroke or dehydration in minutes.

Alvin had been injected with Compound Five and spent over a decade in the Undercity; aside from other traits, his adaptability was unmatched—far ahead of 2K humans by tens of thousands of years!

“Thank God Tark taught me survival skills.”

After observing the dunes, the sun, and sparse vegetation, Alvin roughly determined his direction.

At that moment, he sincerely thanked Tark, vowing to learn more survival techniques from the veteran—lest he be dumped on Katatang someday.

Alvin trudged step by step through the desert under the midday sun.

The blazing sun turned the sand into an excellent heat conductor; even the air shimmered with distortion—proof of how damned hot it was.

As the sun shifted, after two full hours of walking, Alvin—who’d begun doubting his direction—finally spotted a village.

A village meant people. And people meant water.

“Heaven hasn’t abandoned me—if I hadn’t found it, I’d have had to fly out with psychic energy.” Alvin’s face lit up; he swallowed, but his dry mouth produced no saliva, his throat feeling like it was smoking, and he broke into a run toward the village.

The village looked ancient, houses built of packed earth, cracked all over.

A few elderly men, their heads wrapped in cloth, stared at Alvin’s near-dead appearance—startled for half a second, then turned and walked inside.

Soon, an old man with a white headwrap, face etched by wind and sun, shuffled out holding a crude clay jar: “Child, come quickly, drink some water.”

The language wasn’t English, but the Navigator system auto-translated—no awkward communication barrier.

The old man, fearing Alvin wouldn’t understand, gestured to the jar, indicating it held water, and offered it to him.

“God bless you—thank you so much.” Alvin grabbed the jar without hesitation, raised it to his lips, and gulped down the sweet well water.

The cool, sweet water soothed his scorched throat; every pore on his body sighed with relief.

“Don’t rush, child—there’s more. Don’t drink too fast.” The old man gently patted Alvin’s back, afraid he’d choke; his sun-blackened, wrinkled face beamed with kindness.

“Thank you. Without you, I’d have died of thirst in this desert.” Alvin drank his fill, sincerely thanking the old man.

“No need to thank me, child. The desert is cruel, but those who live in it aren’t heartless.” The old man took back the empty jar, smiling: “You look like you came to explore the desert and got lost, right?”

From some angles, Alvin’s gear did resemble the foolish outfit of some rich brat who’d impulsively decided to conquer the desert.

“Uh, yeah, old man.” Alvin scratched his head awkwardly, going along with it.

“You came to the wrong place, child. This is a cursed land.” The old man sighed, shaking his head: “Rest a bit, then leave quickly—head northwest, about thirty miles, and you’ll be out of this desert.”

“A cursed land?”

Hearing this, Alvin grew curious: “Can you tell me more, old man?”

Maybe he could find a clue—learn something about this world. Otherwise, he was completely lost, with no idea where to start.

“Ah, child, I wouldn’t lie to you. There’s a terrorist group nearby.”

The old man, thinking Alvin didn’t believe him, pleaded earnestly: “If outsiders like you are caught by them, they’ll be taken away immediately. That’s why I told you to leave quickly.”

Just as Alvin was about to ask which terrorist group, dust surged beyond the village—three armored Humvees roared in, kicking up swirling yellow sand!

“Shit, they’re here!”

The old man’s face paled; he grabbed Alvin, dragging him toward the house: “Quick, child, hide! If they find you, you’re dead.”

Alvin was shoved into a mud-brick house; the military Humvees stormed into the village, and several burly men in head coverings leapt out, rifles raised.

“Jamil, hand over the grain!” The lead man, grinning savagely, brandished an AK-47: “Come out, all of you! Don’t make me come in and search!”

“Ahmad, you came this month already—we have no grain left!” Jamil begged humbly: “Look, the whole village is empty except for old people. Where would we get grain?”

“Enough talk. Will you hand it over, or will we take it?”

Ahmad kicked the old man down, pressing his AK-47 to his forehead: “Giving grain is for the great victory. Don’t waste my time—or I’ll blow your head off!”

As Jamil said, the village held only a dozen elderly households.

But age meant nothing to them—they shoved rifles against skulls, bellowing for the last scraps of food.

No matter what they did, only two paths lay before them.

Starve to death—or be shot.

Utterly broken, Jamil’s lips trembled; empty eyes spilled two trails of tears as he stared up at the gun barrel, roaring: “Lord, punish these sinners... send them to hell!”

“Son of a bitch, you dare curse me?”

Ahmad’s finger tightened on the trigger—he’d kill the damn old man.

Jamil’s eyes held no fear—he’d already accepted his fate, glaring at them as if memorizing every face to haunt them in hell!

Click.

Ahmad froze, finger still on the trigger.

He suddenly realized—no matter how hard he pulled, the trigger wouldn’t budge, as if welded shut.

Then, before the terrified eyes of the terrorists,

Ahmad’s head swelled like an inflating balloon—until, in his twisted, horrified expression, it exploded violently.