Chapter One: Before Arriving at Raw Meat Town

The dust storm gradually subsided, the orange-red sky began to fade, and the heavy leaden clouds slowly dispersed. The blazing sun remained, almost indistinguishable from the dust-covered road.

This highway was once one of the busiest national routes for transit vehicles, enjoying the reputation of “the loneliest long road” in the days before the collapse of modern civilization.

Now, with the passage of time and tumultuous change, the road persists, but travelers are scarce.

The sandstorm had just passed, leaving yellow dust layered thick upon the road. The wind had calmed, stirring the dust like waves, rippling in endless patterns.

On either side of the road stood dead old trees, withered by years of wind erosion and relentless sun. Their rotten branches had been drained of all vitality; a mere touch would turn them to dust.

Near the dead trees, blood and flesh lay scattered.

Three distinctly modified vehicles, wrecked in different ways, bore grim witness to a senseless disaster amidst the sandstorm.

The heavy, cumbersome pickup truck had suffered the least damage. Its rusted bull bar absorbed most of the impact from the brightly painted desert off-road vehicle. The off-roader’s front was completely destroyed, its windshield shattered into debris, and the driver had been thrown from the vehicle, impaled upon the pickup’s spiked guardrail. Blood streamed down the bodywork; he was not quite dead, his lower limbs still spasming in unconscious agony.

The third vehicle was unrecognizable, crushed between the pickup and the off-roader, reduced to a heap of scrap metal. Only the blood oozing from the twisted wreckage offered any clue about its driver’s fate.

A metallic screech echoed as the pickup’s door swung open. A burly man, breathing heavily, pushed the door wider and tumbled heavily to the ground, raising a cloud of yellow dust.

He spat, laboring to prop himself up, struggling to sit with his back against the tire, finally catching his breath and spitting out a mouthful of sand and blood.

The man’s wild, tangled curls looked as though they hadn’t been washed in ages; it was hard to tell if the debris in them was dandruff or sand. His wind goggles had been destroyed in the crash, the shattered frame still clinging to his face. His left eye seemed cut by shards, blood trailing down his cheek into his thick beard.

He made no effort to tend the wound, simply resting against the tire for a moment. Then, from his military-green jacket, he pulled a crumpled homemade cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag, and exhaled a cloud of murky smoke, promptly coughing violently.

“Hm?” The burly man halted mid-cough, as if he’d heard something, forced himself to stop coughing, removed the broken goggles, and squinted down the road.

In the distance, the highway rose and fell, and a black speck approached, accompanied by the furious roar of an engine, drawing closer and closer.

He reached for his waist, searching for his gun belt, but found nothing. With a grunt, he grabbed a steel angle bar—who knew which vehicle it had fallen from—and used it to pull himself upright, leaning against the tire.

Soon, the roaring engine faded, and a heavy motorcycle rolled to a halt before him.

A man with a hood, face masked by scarf and goggles, sat astride the bike. Behind him was a voluptuous blonde woman, heavily made up. Hanging from the bike’s rear was an iron chain dragging a pile of mangled, bloody remains.

...

The burly man scrutinized Zheng Nanfang, and Zheng Nanfang, in turn, assessed this heavyweight.

...

The two stood in silent confrontation for a long moment. Zheng Nanfang broke the silence first.

“I’m just passing through,” he said, nodding to the burly man, indicating, “I’d like to drive past; is that alright?”

The burly man eyed the oddly-dressed stranger, then suddenly burst out laughing, coughing as he laughed, and waved an inviting gesture, muttering, “That’s best for everyone.”

Zheng Nanfang sighed in relief, restarted the motorcycle, and was about to leave when the blonde woman behind him spoke up.

“There are cars here.”

“What?”

“I said…” The blonde paused, lowering her voice. “There are three cars here. One’s totaled, one belongs to that guy, and one more. You’re a race driver, aren’t you? Don’t you need a car?”

“I quite like this one,” Zheng Nanfang patted the heavy motorcycle beneath him. “It’s pretty fast.”

“Small gas tank.” The blonde twisted around, adjusting her position. “The Road’s End Carnival runs for thousands of kilometers, through districts and wastelands. Where will you refuel? Bike tanks can’t run on human oil.”

Zheng Nanfang tore off his scarf, his cracked lips forming a smile. “Is that so? Thank you—I really didn’t know.”

With that, he jumped off the bike, untied the rope and set the blonde on the seat. “Thanks. What’s your name?”

The blonde glanced hesitantly at the pile of mangled remains behind the bike. “People from the Lower Districts don’t have names.”

“Hm?” Zheng Nanfang paused, gazing quietly at her. “Everyone should have a name.”

She was taken aback, her heavily-painted face twisting into a peculiar smile. “No wonder—you’re not from the Lower Districts… It doesn’t matter. Call me Shaman. When we reach town, you’ll trade me for something more useful; does my name really matter?”

“I don’t quite understand you, but I know your name now,” Zheng Nanfang said, his tone earnest.

Shaman, the blonde, was left speechless, while the burly man laughed uproariously.

“What are you laughing at?” Zheng Nanfang turned, annoyed.

The burly man winked at Shaman, wiped blood from his mouth, and laughed gruffly, “Kid, you from the inside?”

“The west.”

...

“I’ve never been west,” the burly man said, finishing his cigarette. “But this woman’s right—you’re not from the Lower Districts. So, what are you doing here?”

“Racing.” Zheng Nanfang made no effort to hide his purpose, pulling a black card from his clothes and showing it to the man: “The Road’s End Carnival Race.”

The burly man’s laughter abruptly ceased.

Zheng Nanfang had no desire to converse further. He put away the black card and pointed at the crashed vehicles. “Which one’s yours?”

The burly man glanced at the massive pickup, nodding toward it. “That one. Why?”

“Oh.” Zheng Nanfang nodded. “Then I’ll take the other one. Shaman says bikes can’t race.”

The burly man eyed the ruined off-roader. “Kid, that car’s done for.” Seeing Zheng Nanfang’s disappointed look, he grinned. “But my mountain axe still endures—it’s the wildest beast on this road.”

Zheng Nanfang looked up, his gaze sweeping over the massive, ferocious pickup, finally settling on the burly man, questioning.

“You can drive it in the race,” the man said, spitting blood and gesturing at the giant truck, his tone tempting.

“Is that so?” Zheng Nanfang’s voice remained cool as steel, emotionless. After a pause, he asked, “What do you want?”

“I want to race too,” the burly man replied, as if waiting for the question, not giving Zheng Nanfang a chance to ask further. “The race invitation doesn’t limit the number of team members. You, the woman, and me—we can race together.”

“Don’t count me in!” Shaman shrieked.

But the two men seemed not to hear her protest.

“Is that so?” Zheng Nanfang pulled out the black card, flipping it back and forth.

The burly man waved it off. “It doesn’t say on there. But that’s the truth, and an unspoken rule of the race. If you don’t believe me, go ask in Raw Meat Town. Plenty of racers are gathering there now; almost no one races alone. A pack of wolves beats a lone tiger.”

“You know a lot about the race?” Zheng Nanfang asked.

The burly man nodded, then shook his head. “At least more than you. You need a car, I need an invitation—we can work together. Of course, you can refuse. But I advise you not to.”

“Oh? What if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll kill you. That way I get both the car and the invitation,” the burly man said, entirely unashamed, his gaze drifting to the blonde on the bike, adding, “And a hell of a woman too.”