Chapter Seventy-Three: The Madman

The car sped along the road, passing by countless people who had descended into madness. They had turned to chaos, morphing into lawless rioters, and with death looming at every corner, they killed, stole, assaulted, and committed atrocities without restraint. Each one seemed utterly deranged. Yang Fan remained silent, and the others—such as Wang Cheng—clenched their fists, but since Yang Fan made no move, they dared not act either; provoking his displeasure would not end well.

As they drove on, Wang Cheng suddenly pointed to a nearby street and said, “If you want to go south, take that street. The way ahead is completely blocked, but this street will get us there quickly.”

“Alright.” Fu Gaobin turned the steering wheel and drove toward the street. But as they reached the entrance...

The brutality of the apocalypse was made manifest in this shadowed alley. Packs of rioters laughed maniacally, dragging people from one end of the street to the other. Some women, stripped bare, were covered in bruises, their bodies smeared with white fluids that clung to their hair, faces, and skin. Their hands were bound, their faces numb and devoid of any sign of human awareness.

Around them, burly, equally unclothed men encircled the women, subjecting them to unspeakable abuse. This was the world after the end; this was the cruelty of the apocalypse.

This street was dangerously near the southern part of the city, and as their car arrived, it drew the attention of many. The people here were all refugees, now madmen, and fortunately, there were no mutated beasts or powerful zombies present—otherwise, all would surely perish. Yet even now, they had lost the will to survive, caring only to vent their rage in endless, frantic release.

A group of thirty or forty men, armed with blades and iron rods, stood at the filthy street entrance, glaring coldly at Yang Fan’s car.

“Heh heh... Boss, more people have come. Those schoolgirls last time didn’t last long—just a few days and they were dead. I wonder if there are any beautiful girls in this car,” one of the leaders, a gaunt man, said with a sinister grin, his words chilling to the bone.

“Yeah, virgins aren’t much fun. Mature women are better, I just don’t know how many are in that car,” someone else chimed in.

“Our boss is clever, knowing this is the only way south. We’ve caught so many here. Hahaha! Not many have come lately, but now we can have some real fun with new girls.”

Their laughter rang out, making the two women in the car blanch with terror. Only the lingering awe of Yang Fan’s earlier display kept them from screaming. Fu Gaobin, at the wheel, eyed the thugs grimly. Wang Cheng was visibly tense. As for Yang Fan...

Over thirty men, dressed poorly and sweating profusely, evidence of their prolonged madness, guarded this crucial intersection. Any men who arrived were tortured to death; the fate of women needed no explanation.

Their leader was a shirtless, tattooed man, his muscles as hard as stone—a survivor who had inherited an apocalypse system. Many of these men also carried firearms. From inside the car, Yang Fan saw it all with his “Zombie Eye.” In fact, ever since Wang Cheng suggested this route, Yang Fan had already understood the lay of the land.

His “True Eagle Eye” allowed him to see everything clearly. He had come here for one reason—to clean out the trash.

The mob gradually surrounded the car. In the distance, men hung from windows, their fate uncertain. Corpses littered the ground, though as dusk approached, only their vague outlines could be seen.

It was seven in the evening; daylight was fading fast...

“What should we do?” Fu Gaobin asked.

Wang Cheng replied coldly, “Should we just kill them?”

“But they have guns,” Fu Gaobin pointed out, noting the 67-type pistols in some hands and growing anxious.

“Get out of the car! Move, now!”

“Damn it, let’s smash the car!”

“Go!”

A few began shouting, some already hefting tables and chairs, rushing toward the vehicle. Their laughter grew more maniacal, their faces twisted in madness. They had lost all sense of morality, all sense of humanity.

Seeing the approaching mob, Fu Gaobin was about to open the car door to fight—only to see Yang Fan...

“Die.”

Yang Fan’s expression was icy. In his hands appeared an MP5K submachine gun, a powerful weapon costing seventeen hundred apocalypse coins, with each fifty-round magazine costing two hundred more. He had bought two magazines.

With the cold muzzle leveled at the mob, Yang Fan squeezed the trigger without hesitation. His mastery of firearms meant he knew every weapon’s attack pattern—machine guns posed no challenge, though the environment here wasn’t ideal for such firepower.

Gunshots erupted, sharp and relentless. Bullets sped forth like a swarm of insects, boring into skulls, snatching away life after life, each impact blooming into a crimson blossom.

In a single exchange, over thirty men were cut down, with only a handful left standing. None had expected Yang Fan’s ferocity or the devastating power of a military-grade submachine gun.

Suddenly, silence fell. Even Wang Cheng and Fu Gaobin were stunned at the sight of Yang Fan, who had conjured the weapon as if by magic. With just a few bursts, corpses littered the ground. Anyone observant would have noticed the perfect bullet holes in each forehead, every shot precise and unerring.

The surviving thugs trembled with fear, eyes wide as they stared at Yang Fan, then at their fallen comrades. There was no grief, no regret—only terror, fear for their own lives.

“Kneel,” Yang Fan commanded.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

A chorus of knees hitting pavement echoed. None dared hesitate; all knelt, quaking with dread. Yet a few, not yet resigned, clutched their pistols in secret, hoping for a chance to strike. But the instant their fingers tightened, Yang Fan fired again.

Bang!

Three more dropped dead. Now, no one dared move, only fear and trembling remained.

What do madmen fear most? A madman more ruthless than themselves. And Yang Fan was just that—an extraordinary madman.