High Martial Arts: From Mechanic to Sword Immortal

On the personal account interface, a string of numbers jumped wildly before finally stopping.

Thirty-five thousand contribution points.

The sudden appearance of this huge sum of money in Han Feng's account left him completely bewildered.

Get rich!

This money was enough for him to buy all the worthless junk in the aircraft graveyard as spare parts.

He can fly in the sky forever, until the end of time, until he completely melts down the engine of the "CJ-3"!

However, the surge of ecstasy that rushed to his head was extinguished by a suppressed shout before it could spread.

Behind the convoy, a female team member's voice trembled in the wind, choked with sobs, and completely changed.

"Captain! Brother Wang... he's gone!"

In an instant, the valley fell into a deathly silence.

The once bustling battlefield, filled with the sounds of gunfire and the roars of monsters, has now fallen silent.

All that remained was the mournful sound of the wind blowing across the abandoned highway.

Han Feng's smile froze on his face.

He looked at Feng Biao.

The tall man stood frozen in place like a statue.

His hand, which was about to reach into his pocket for a cigarette, froze in mid-air for a full two seconds.

Then, he slowly withdrew his hand.

He vigorously rubbed his trouser legs, which were covered in dust and dried bloodstains, back and forth.

"oh."

Feng Biao responded.

The voice was frighteningly calm, devoid of any emotion.

"The wound was too big. The bumpy ride in the vehicle just now tore off an artery in his back, and the bleeding wouldn't stop."

The voice of the female team member called Sister Ling came from afar, her tone mechanical and numb.

"understood."

Feng Biao turned around and looked at the armored vehicle carrying the seriously wounded.

The car door was half open.

Several guards were silently and slowly zipping up a black body bag.

No one speaks.

No one cried.

Their movements were so skilled it was heartbreaking.

A guard silently lifted one end of the corpse.

Another guard skillfully helped carry the body deeper into the carriage.

Others picked up kettles and rags and began cleaning up the bloodstains on the ground.

Even the youngest member of the team was subconsciously checking the ammunition in his hands, reloading the cold gun barrel.

Han Feng stood aside, unable to say a word, and could only watch all of this quietly.

For him, the deceased "Brother Wang" was just a name, a symbol.

He felt no sadness.

But he could feel a tremendous pressure.

That's the law of the wilderness—cold, direct, and unreasonable.

Here, death is not the end of the journey, but merely a process that must be processed.

The departure of their companions couldn't even stop them from checking their equipment.

Because those who are alive must continue on their journey.

Feng Biao took a crumpled cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

He took out his lighter and pressed it several times, but the flame just wouldn't come out.

He muttered a curse under his breath, slammed the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it to dust with his mud-covered combat boots.

"Take off Old Wang's nameplate."

"And his Walkman, his daughter has always wanted it."

Feng Biao spoke in Ling Jie's direction, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper was being rubbed.

"It's already been stored away."

Sister Ling patted a small bag at her waist, her voice very soft.

"OK."

Feng Biao nodded, turned around, and walked back towards Han Feng.

At this moment, the light in his eyes dimmed considerably, and he seemed to have lost all his energy, enveloped by an indescribable weariness.

"Young man, please excuse my poor appearance."

Feng Biao tugged at the corners of his mouth, a smile that looked more like a grimace.

Han Feng shook his head.

He didn't say any of those empty words about accepting one's fate.

In the presence of such a weathered man, any words of comfort seem pale and powerless.

"In our line of work, it's only a matter of time before we get our hands on a bag."

Feng Biao turned around, waved to the team members who were still busy, and his voice returned to its previous fierce tone.

"Don't you fucking stand there! Check the vehicles, load up the monster corpses, and we're leaving in ten minutes!"

"This place reeks of blood; I don't want to feed the stray dogs that pass by. Hurry up!"

"yes!"

The team members responded in unison, their voices filled with a fierce determination born of being driven to the brink of despair.

The sadness was quickly packed away and stuffed into the deepest corner of my heart.

Instead, there is a strong instinct to survive.

This is the real wasteland.

Human life is fragile; to live is the greatest victory.

Feng Biao looked at Han Feng one last time, and patted him heavily on the shoulder with his large, fan-like hand.

The grip was very strong, making Han Feng's shoulder ache.

"Young man, judging from your age, you must be a student at Wuhan University, right?"

"Take my advice."

Feng Biao pointed to the silent armored vehicle behind him, which was carrying corpses.

He then pointed to Han Feng's "CJ-3" aircraft, which had damaged wings and was covered in wounds.

"Once I have money, I'll replace this piece of junk."

"No matter how good your skills are, if your equipment isn't up to par, you're still doomed."

"You only have one life."

After saying that, Feng Biao did not linger.

He strode back to the convoy and waved to everyone.

"Attention, team! We're departing in five minutes!"

"No one is allowed to fall behind!"

His voice regained its previous crispness and coldness, like a piece of cold steel.

Only Han Feng noticed that the moment he turned around, his broad back seemed to collapse slightly.

The roar of the engine resumed.

Several heavy off-road vehicles, riddled with bullet holes and dents, sped off towards the East China Sea Fortress City, kicking up clouds of dust, never to look back.

Han Feng was left alone, standing on the empty and desolate highway.

The wind whipped up sand and dust, which stung my face.

The bloodstains on the ground hadn't even dried yet, but the team members had already swiftly moved the bodies of the five Ironwing Ravens away.

Everything that just happened felt like a brief but cruel dream.

But it taught Han Feng a lesson in the most direct way.

In this world where human life is worth less than a dog's, only sufficient power can provide a secure livelihood.

"wilderness……"

Han Feng murmured to himself, his eyes showing no trace of confusion, but rather an unprecedented clarity.

Without further hesitation, he got back into the cockpit.

Piloting the damaged aircraft, they slowly ascended into the air, heading back towards the aircraft graveyard.

……

Aircraft graveyard.

Grandpa Sun saw the CJ-3 trainer aircraft with a large hole in its left wing wobbling as it landed on the runway, and he forgot to put down the teacup he was about to bring to his lips.

He sprang up from the recliner in a flash, a movement completely out of character for his age.

He rushed to the side of the plane, circled it once, and the wrinkles on his face twisted into a pretzel.

"You little brat!"

Grandpa Sun was about to unleash a torrent of curses, but when he saw Han Feng's expression, he swallowed back all his words.

Han Feng jumped off the plane, his face pale, a consequence of overexertion.

But his eyes changed.

It was no longer the relaxed and playful feeling I had when I first came here, but a coldness and determination.

"Have you run into a tough opponent?"

Grandpa Sun asked, his tone less accusatory and more inquisitive.

Han Feng nodded, making no attempt to hide anything.

"I took down five Ironwing Ravens, and a mercenary died right in front of me."

Grandpa Sun was stunned.

He looked Han Feng up and down, a complex expression flashing in his cloudy eyes.

He didn't ask any more questions about the details of the battle, nor did he mention the repair costs for the damaged aircraft.

He silently pulled a crumpled cigarette case from his pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it with his slightly trembling hand.

"Ha, a dead man."

He took a deep breath, and the smoke he exhaled blurred the wrinkles on his face.

"This godforsaken place, people die every single day."

The old man's voice carried a rusty, aged quality.

He walked up to Han Feng and patted his shoulder heavily with his calloused and greasy hand.

"Kid, figured it out?"

Han Feng glanced at him with some surprise.

"I can tell just by looking at your eyes."

Grandpa Sun threw the half-burnt cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it out with his toe.

"When you came here before, you just thought it was fun."

"Today, it's the knife."

He raised his head and looked at Han Feng with an unprecedentedly solemn expression.

"Old man, I don't know why you like driving this thing so much."

He pointed to the wrecked plane.

"But listen to what the old man said: flying planes can't put food on the table."

"Instead of wasting money on that, you might as well go to the black market to buy some cultivation resources and steadily refine your qi and blood."

"In this era, only those who are truly strong can live with dignity, understand?"