The bloodbath Fat Seven had been waiting for never came.
The steel pipe came down fast and hard—but less than four inches from the top of Zhang Jun's head, it stopped cold.
Caught in a single hand.
Zhang Jun didn't even look up. He just stood there, one arm raised, holding the pipe steady—the same pipe that could shatter bone.
The whole warehouse went dead silent.
"Ahhh!"
A scream tore through the quiet.
Not Zhang Jun.
The blond thug.
Both his hands were still wrapped around the pipe, palms split open, blood running down the steel and dripping onto the floor. The force had reversed back into him—not just stopping the blow, but sending a shockwave up both arms that left them numb, like he'd swung into a sledgehammer.
*Clang!*
The pipe hit the concrete.
Zhang Jun let go and glanced at the blond guy writhing on the ground.
Then he moved.
Fast enough that the naked eye could barely track it.
To everyone watching, Zhang Jun's silhouette blurred for a fraction of a second. The second thug had already charged in swinging a baseball bat, the vicious grin still on his face—and then Zhang Jun's fist buried itself in his chest.
*Boom.*
The impact rang out through the empty warehouse. The guy folded like a shrimp, feet leaving the ground, and flew backward eight feet before slamming into a stack of abandoned cement bags and going limp.
Zhang Jun was already standing where the man had been. He pulled his fist back, calm as someone brushing dust off a sleeve.
"Get him! All of you—take him down!"
Fat Seven finally snapped out of his daze and screamed, voice cracking between rage and panic.
The five or six remaining thugs shook off their fear. They tightened their grips on steel pipes, machetes, and baseball bats and rushed in from multiple angles, trying to cut off every escape route.
Zhang Jun had no intention of escaping.
He stepped forward and drove straight into the chest of the nearest man.
*Crack.*
A dry snap of ribs.
The guy hadn't even managed a scream before he crumpled. Zhang Jun didn't watch him fall—his left elbow swung back. The one sneaking up behind him caught it across the face, teeth and blood flying, and dropped flat.
What looked like chaos to the thugs was, to Zhang Jun, nothing more than a quick cleanup.
No flashy technique. Just fists, elbows, knees, and footwork so economical it was almost unsettling. But every strike landed with force that left no room for resistance.
A machete slashed at him. He caught the blade between two fingers and gave a short twist.
*Crack.*
The blade snapped in half.
In under ten seconds, Zhang Jun and Fat Seven were the only ones still standing.
The thugs who'd been so eager moments ago were scattered across the floor—clutching hands, clutching chests, curled up and groaning. None of them had been hit anywhere lethal, but every single one had a broken bone or couldn't get back up.
The smell of old cement dust mixed with the faint copper of blood drifted through the air.
Fat Seven's face twitched. Not from anger. From fear.
He stared at the young man in front of him—not a scratch on him, not even breathing hard, eyes completely flat—and only one thought remained.
*Is this guy even human?*
Zhang Jun walked toward him.
Each step landed like a boot on Fat Seven's heart.
"Don't—don't come any closer!"
Fat Seven's voice came out hoarse, but his legs were already backing up on their own.
"My boss is—"
Zhang Jun stopped and cut him off.
"The debt note."
He held out his hand. His voice was so level it carried no emotion at all.
Fat Seven trembled. Survival instinct crushed whatever pride he had left. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a crumpled folded paper, and held it out with shaking hands.
Zhang Jun took it and looked it over.
His debt note, all right. Principal of two hundred million dong—which these people had inflated to three hundred fifty million with interest.
He took out his phone, opened his banking app, and entered Fat Seven's account number right in front of him.
Transfer amount: 200,000,000 VND.
"I hate people who don't play by the rules."
Zhang Jun turned the screen toward Fat Seven. The completed transaction was right there in plain view.
"You could've walked away with three hundred fifty million. Now it's worth two hundred."
He tore the debt note into pieces in front of Fat Seven's face and tossed them into the air.
Scraps of paper drifted through a shaft of light cutting through the warehouse roof, settling slowly onto the dusty concrete floor.
Zhang Jun turned and walked out without looking at Fat Seven again. He stepped over the groaning thugs like they were obstacles left in the road—nothing worth a second thought.
It wasn't until Zhang Jun's silhouette disappeared through the warehouse door that Fat Seven's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the floor, back soaked through with cold sweat.
He looked at his men rolling around on the ground, then looked at the bank notification that had just come through on his phone.
Two hundred million.
Not a cent more, not a cent less.
The relief of being alive tangled with something deeper and colder, and his throat locked up.
What the hell had he just poked?
Zhang Jun left Cement Factory No. 3 in the West District.
The loan shark debt was settled.
He didn't feel any particular sense of relief. Start to finish, the whole thing had barely stirred anything in him. Someone like Fat Seven only knew how to bully the weak—the moment he ran into someone stronger, he folded. To Zhang Jun now, the man was just a pebble on the road.
His time was worth more than this.
He had more important things to do.
Zhang Jun headed straight to the used vehicle market. He needed a cargo van—nothing flashy, but big enough to haul serious supplies.
Half an hour later, he drove out of the lot in an old silver-gray Wuling van. A little over thirty million, paid in full, no haggling.
Next stop: Binh Tan Wholesale Food Market, the supply source for half the small restaurants, convenience stores, and corner shops in the city. The moment he stepped inside, the air hit him—cardboard, plastic packaging, and a dozen different spices all blended together.
Zhang Jun grabbed a large flatbed cart and walked straight into the biggest warehouse-style wholesale store in the complex.
"Hi. I'll take two hundred cases of instant noodles—five flavors, split evenly."
The employee stacking shelves froze mid-motion and looked up like he'd misheard.
"How many, sorry?"
"Two hundred cases." Zhang Jun kept going, completely calm. "Plus a hundred cases of large-pack sausages, two hundred cases of hardtack crackers, a hundred cases of canned beef, and five hundred units of bottled water."
Every item he added made the employee's mouth open a little wider.
Eventually the manager was called out—a man in his mid-forties who looked over the list and then looked at Zhang Jun with undisguised suspicion.
"This much… you opening a supermarket?"
"Something like that."
Zhang Jun didn't elaborate.
The manager didn't push. Business was business—a customer who paid was a good customer.
"No problem at all. We'll get your order ready right now."
Forklifts started moving back and forth. Cases of noodles, water, canned goods, and crackers came down from the high shelves and stacked up in the loading area. Before long, the space outside the counter had turned into a small mountain of cardboard boxes.
Zhang Jun paid and pulled the Wuling around to the loading dock.
"Sir, this van won't fit all of it." The loading crew member looked at the old van, then at the pile of goods, and grimaced.
"I'll make multiple trips."
Zhang Jun said it simply.
He had the workers load about twenty cases of noodles and a few units of water into the back, filled it up, and drove out of the wholesale market under the curious stares of the people around him.
Out of Binh Tan Wholesale Food Market, he turned into the old Dong Hoa Industrial Zone—abandoned for years.
No one following him.
Zhang Jun parked in a secluded corner, and the moment the thought formed, the entrance to his Space Storage opened in front of him.
The cases in the van rose one by one, silent and orderly, and slid inside, arranging themselves into neat rows exactly as he intended.
The whole process was fast, clean, and effortless.
This was what power actually looked like in practice.
He emptied the van and immediately drove back to Binh Tan.
Second trip. Third trip.
He moved like an ant that didn't know what tired meant, running the same loop between the wholesale market and the industrial zone over and over. At first the workers found it strange. After a while they stopped being surprised—they just figured this young guy had an unusual amount of stamina, doing the work of a small moving crew all by himself.
None of them thought about where those cases went after they left their line of sight.
And Zhang Jun didn't even have to carry anything himself. The whole process was almost leisurely.
By the time the last pallet of bottled water was loaded, the sky had shifted to dusk.
"All your goods are accounted for! Call me directly next time you need anything!"
The manager personally walked him to the door, beaming.
Zhang Jun nodded, made one final trip to the old Dong Hoa Industrial Zone, and loaded the last batch into his Space Storage. He looked at the empty cargo hold and finally let out a slow breath.
Inside the Space Storage now, instant noodles, crackers, canned goods, and bottled water were stacked in dense clusters. Cheap mass-produced goods—but in another world, they were hard currency that could be traded for gold and superhuman power.
Last time he'd brought too little, and word hadn't had time to spread.
[Spatial Transfer: Cooldown Active] [Time Remaining: 02:11:34]
Over two hours left.
With the loan shark debt cleared, there were still a few hundred million in his account. And his Space Storage held over a hundred kilograms of gold as working capital. The tension that had been coiled tight in Zhang Jun's chest finally loosened a little.
He wasn't in any rush to go back to the Collapse.
Let the word spread over there for a while longer. The more people who knew there was a general store where you could trade gold and Deadwalker Cores for supplies, the bigger the next round of transactions would be.
The first round had only been scattered survivor groups. Most of the gold they'd brought was stuff they'd dug out of ruins on short notice. For real profit to scale up, he needed large strongholds and organized factions involved—groups that could send Awakened out specifically to collect gold. Their efficiency would far outpace anything he could manage on his own.
With that thought settled, Zhang Jun drove the old Wuling back to Dai Jun General Store.
He showered, changed into a clean t-shirt and jeans, and stood in front of the mirror looking at himself.
The feeling of strength running through his body made everything from before feel distant. The person who had swallowed his pride, kept his head down, and flinched at debt collector calls—that felt like someone else's life.
He had a sudden urge to do something to properly say goodbye to that past.
A good meal, then.
Half an hour later, the old silver-gray Wuling van pulled up in front of Summit Dining—one of the most upscale restaurants in the city.
The doorman in his crisp uniform had just spotted the van sitting between a row of luxury cars when his professional smile hitched for just a moment. He stepped forward quickly and intercepted Zhang Jun as he climbed out.
"Sir, I'm very sorry. Our parking is currently full."
Polite voice. Unmistakable distance.
"If you're dining with us, there's a public lot just past the intersection ahead."
Zhang Jun looked at him without speaking right away.
He understood exactly what was being said. Someone driving this kind of vehicle was either not the target clientele, or at the very least shouldn't be parked out front where it affected the image.
"I don't carry cash."
The doorman's smile stiffened further, with a faint trace of contempt underneath.
*Just here to cause trouble, then.*
"Sir, our establishment—"
He didn't finish.
Zhang Jun reached into his pocket, and when his hand came back out, there was a small gold nugget—about the size of a bean—sitting in his palm. He tossed it into the doorman's white-gloved hand.
"Parking fee. That cover it?"
The solid weight in his palm made the doorman go rigid.
He looked down at the nugget catching the light, mind blank for a moment. He'd worked at upscale restaurants long enough to see all kinds of wealthy guests—cash tips, black cards, even luxury watches. But someone paying a parking tip with actual gold? This was a first.
The shock hit harder than a stack of bills thrown in his face.
"That—yes, absolutely, sir! Please come right in. I'll arrange the best spot for your vehicle immediately!"
The doorman's entire demeanor flipped a hundred and eighty degrees. His back curved into a bow, his voice climbing several registers of deference.
Zhang Jun paid him no further attention and walked inside.
Led by a server, he settled into a window seat. Soft lighting, slow piano, well-dressed guests speaking in low voices. Everything was refined and unhurried—a complete contrast to the apocalyptic ruins he'd left not long ago.
He was flipping through the thick menu when a sharp, startled female voice cut through the air nearby.
"Zhang Jun?"
He looked up.
At a table not far away, a couple was standing and staring at him. The woman wore a designer dress, makeup immaculate—his ex-girlfriend, Khanh Vy.
The man beside her had on a perfectly tailored suit, an expensive watch on his wrist, and the easy bearing of someone who'd never had to worry about money. Hoang Vu.
Khanh Vy's face was full of disbelief, like she couldn't process seeing Zhang Jun here. Hoang Vu blinked once, then a smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth—not even slightly hidden.
He put his arm around Khanh Vy's waist and strolled over to Zhang Jun's table.
"Well, well. Is that Zhang Jun?"
Hoang Vu looked him up and down, voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding tables to catch it.
"Corner store not cutting it anymore? Or are you here to pick up a dishwashing shift?"
"Hoang Vu, don't." Khanh Vy tugged lightly at his arm, but it was purely for show. There was no real resistance in her eyes—if anything, a flicker of amusement.
Hoang Vu smiled and picked up the menu from Zhang Jun's table, flipping through it with exaggerated interest.
"Let's see. Truffle-glazed beef tenderloin, almost four million a plate. Does your little shop even clear that in a day? Enough for an appetizer?"
He leaned in closer, smile going cold.
"Or are you planning to eat and then 'forget' your wallet?"
Zhang Jun didn't answer.
He didn't look at Khanh Vy again either.
There had been a time when he'd thought her betrayal was something he'd have trouble getting past. But after the Collapse, after Spatial Transfer and awakening his ability, he found himself looking at the person in front of him and feeling nothing worth spending energy on.
Not interesting.
Zhang Jun's gaze drifted past Hoang Vu's shoulder to the server hovering awkwardly nearby, clearly having heard the commotion.
"What do you actually recommend here?"
His voice was even. Hoang Vu might as well not have existed.
The server froze, glancing between Hoang Vu and Zhang Jun, unsure how to handle this.
Being ignored outright in front of Khanh Vy made Hoang Vu's expression darken. He snatched the menu back and pointed to a wine listing, raising his voice deliberately.
"You know what this is? Château Valombre 1988. Eighty million a bottle. Someone like you probably can't even pronounce it, let alone order it."
Khanh Vy let out a soft laugh beside him, the superiority on her face barely concealed.
Zhang Jun finally looked up at Hoang Vu.
"You're loud."
Two words. Said quietly.
Then he turned back to the server still standing there in awkward silence.
"Get the head chef to pick for me. Whatever he's most confident in—bring that."