Chapter Thirty-Eight: Prosperity Supermarket

“Should we establish an organization?”

On their way to the Baisheng Supermarket, Zhu Liang suddenly uttered these words. At once, everyone’s spirits were lifted. They were all university students, their minds hovering between maturity and immaturity. Now that the disaster had passed, their thoughts grew lively again.

“Form an organization?” Yang Fan stroked his chin, thinking Zhu Liang was right. In his previous life, many people had established organizations at the very beginning, expanding their influence and territory. If he also founded a group now, he wouldn’t seem so isolated—he’d have followers at his call.

So, Yang Fan nodded naturally. Zhu Liang immediately sensed he’d made the right suggestion and asked, “Boss, what should we call our organization? Something with a powerful ring to it.”

“Yes, yes, Boss, I think we should call it ‘Divinity’—so it’s like we’re all gods,” Chen Ming chimed in.

“How about ‘Scarlet Flame’?”

“Or ‘Flowing Cloud’?”

“Or...”

Everyone grew animated, hoping Yang Fan would take their suggestions.

“We’ll call it ‘Imperial Court,’” Yang Fan announced after listening to their ideas.

“Imperial Court? What does that mean?”

“Imperial Court—what a majestic name. It really has a presence.”

“That’s a good name.”

Whether out of flattery or genuine approval, everyone agreed enthusiastically to the name.

“Imperial Court: ‘Imperial’ stands above the gods; ‘Court’ originates from the heavenly realm,” Yang Fan explained. “For now, our organization will be called Imperial Court. As for recruiting members, that’s up to you. If you can find a hundred truly loyal people, we’ll start drafting rules and regulations. You’ll be the founding elders and enjoy the riches and honors you’ve always dreamed of.”

Yang Fan wasn’t truly ready to establish an organization yet, but for now, he’d set this framework in place.

After Yang Fan finished speaking, each person had their own thoughts, but they kept murmuring the words “Imperial Court” as they walked. Before long, they arrived at Baisheng Shopping Plaza—the largest supermarket in NC City. The building was grand, several dozen meters tall, with seven floors. Around it were many people armed with guns, all wearing matching uniforms.

Within a fifty-meter radius, these well-equipped guards were stationed—Yang Fan noted both light and heavy weapons among them. Not a force to be trifled with.

Outside, a simple and rather crude barricade blocked entry. As Yang Fan and his group approached the entrance, seven or eight gun barrels were immediately leveled at them, cold and menacing.

“Who are you? Are any of you injured?” Several uniformed men quickly ran over. Their attire was neat, but Yang Fan noticed something unusual. The uniforms weren’t just ordinary clothing—certain things had to be worn in a specific way.

The badges, too, were pinned incorrectly. At first glance, it wasn’t obvious, but on closer inspection, there were many flaws. Yang Fan had never served in the military, but he had a friend who had, and from this very camp. The rule was that anyone leaving had to sew a piece of red cloth onto their pocket—a tradition with its own story.

Yet now, many of these men lacked the red cloth. If they had lost it in the chaos of the apocalypse, it would be understandable, but for so many to be missing it, something was off. In the military, following orders is paramount—clearly, there was more to this.

Outwardly, Yang Fan remained calm, raising his hands and saying, “We’re survivors from outside. None of us are infected. We seek passage.”

He spoke loudly. The men scrutinized him, frowning. Yang Fan carefully observed their expressions. There were thirteen in total—some looked unremarkable, but several had lecherous glints in their eyes as they eyed the women in his group.

These were clearly not real soldiers. What was going on? Yang Fan frowned inwardly.

“Come in,” one of them barked. Suddenly, the barricade gate swung open and two men with pistols stepped out, leveling their weapons at the group with obvious hostility.

Yang Fan didn’t resist and followed them inside. Zhu Liang, Chen Ming, and the others trailed obediently behind—no one wanted to mess around when staring down gun barrels. They trusted Yang Fan to get them through, but knew they themselves lacked the strength, so they kept quiet.

Once inside the barricade, the group exchanged meaningful glances, almost smiling in silent understanding.

“To check you for infection, the men will stand here and strip for inspection. For the women, we’ll have female soldiers conduct the search.” A burly man with a fierce face and ill-fitting clothes strode forward, shouting the order.

At once, everyone’s expression changed. They sensed that something was amiss, though they couldn’t say exactly what. Still, a vague sense of danger hung in the air.

“What are you waiting for? Move!” someone else shouted, his voice booming. The group trembled in fear, the cold muzzles pointed directly at their faces.

Yang Fan said nothing. He walked over to Chen Ming and asked for the Desert Eagle. As soon as Yang Fan moved, the others trained their guns on him, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation. But Yang Fan was too fast—he seized the pistol, and in an instant—

Bang, bang, bang...

Thirteen shots rang out, knocking the guns from their hands. The whole scene lasted barely a second or two, leaving everyone stunned.

“You... you... you dare attack us? We’re under attack! Enemy attack!” the burly man bellowed, his voice trembling with fear. But seeing their numbers, he still didn’t take Yang Fan seriously.

Bang. Blood splattered across the ground as a gaping wound appeared in the man’s forehead—utterly horrific. Yang Fan gave him no chance, killing him on the spot. The Desert Eagle’s power was overwhelming, and Yang Fan’s ruthless decisiveness terrified everyone into silence.

A god of slaughter had appeared!

“Stop your whining,” Yang Fan said coldly. In that instant, he understood: none of these people were real soldiers—they were imposters, likely from a nearby faction. Perhaps they had attacked the military camp, or perhaps the military had fallen to the undead and these men had donned the uniforms, pretending to be soldiers and committing unspeakable acts.

Though this was somewhat different from his previous life, his fate had already changed—anything was possible.

And so, he stood there, waiting for someone with real authority to appear. The others stared at Yang Fan in shock, some retching at the sight of their first killing. Most of them were his own people; the imposters were simply stunned.

Finally, Yang Fan sensed a powerful presence approaching—a true expert had arrived...