Farming Life Starting in Africa

Analysis and predictions on the universal platform indicate that the expected remaining lifespan of experimental subjects treated with this agent is reduced by nearly 40 percent on average compared to the control group, and some individuals may even live even shorter lives.

After reading this information, Rosen shook his head; he had no intention of spending his life to become stronger.

The big tree in his mind is still growing quietly. Although he doesn't know what it will grow into yet, he guesses it will be heading in a positive direction.

Maybe one day I can really be like Captain America, with my physical functions gradually improving, becoming a healthy and strong warrior, without any side effects.

If all else fails, we can look forward to Azu's path; he can barely accept Homelander's abilities.

The communal meals at the construction site were lively and bustling in the evening. Four or five long tables were set up under the makeshift dining shed, and the workers lined up to get their food, their stainless steel plates clattering against the pots.

Rosen sat at the far end of the corner table, holding a bowl. In front of him was a plate of stir-fried green peppers and pork and a large bowl of egg drop soup. Steaming hot air wafted onto his face, carrying the unique oily aroma of food cooked in a large pot.

The workers at the next table were chatting animatedly, each one louder than the last, their voices clearly audible even across two tables.

Rosen suddenly overheard the workers talking about an unregulated race that night at the abandoned building west of McCarran. Intrigued, Rosen listened intently for a few more minutes.

People go there every weekend night. They have all kinds of cars, from modified Mustangs to old Toyotas that they don't know where they got them from. The stakes vary, and sometimes you can even see people driving million-dollar supercars for a spin.

Rosen was thinking about his modified Dodge Ram, which hadn't been driven on the road yet. He wondered if he should test its performance today.

When Rosen drove his black Dodge Ram into the abandoned industrial area, he noticed that the open space between the few buildings that hadn't completely collapsed was filled with all sorts of cars, their headlights and taillights illuminating the area as brightly as daytime.

When Rosen drove the car into the parking lot, the surrounding noise suddenly stopped for a moment—then burst into laughter.

The laughter was undisguised, and several people jumped off the hood and pointed at his car.

He heard a loud voice shouting, "Hey buddy, you've got the wrong truck! The farm is twenty kilometers east!"

Then came another burst of laughter. Although Rosen had heavily modified the Dodge Ram, lowering its height considerably, it still looked out of place among the low-slung Japanese performance cars and wide-body Mustangs.

As Rosen shifted the car to neutral, pulled the handbrake, and got out, several scantily clad women around him looked at him.

Today he used the face of a native, with deep features, a tight jawline, and gray-blue eyes that reflected a little light under the streetlights.

As he closed the car door, he heard someone whistle briefly, followed by a few low laughs, as if someone was commenting on his appearance.

A bald, tattooed man emerged from the crowd, a worn-out leather jacket draped over his shoulders. His head was so bald it reflected light, and an old scar across his eyebrow severed the hairline, leaving a thin, hairless white line.

He walked to the front of Rosen's car, reached out and patted the hood, making a dull thud as his hand landed.

"Hey," he tilted his head to look at Rosen, "drive your truck away. These kinds of vans aren't welcome here. Go back to your farm and get your goods."

Rosen stood there with a smile, hands in his jeans pockets, tilting his head at him. "Isn't there a car race tonight? What, afraid I'll win the championship?"

Before the tattooed man could reply, the crowd around him erupted in cheers and shouts, with some clapping and others whistling.

The tattooed man laughed too, a loud laugh that stretched his mouth so wide you could see his back teeth. He turned around and shrugged at the people next to him, as if to say, "Did you hear that?" Then he turned back to stare at Rosen.

"You think you can win the championship with this car?"

He patted the front of the pickup truck, ran his finger along the edge of the hood, and said, "Fine—if you win the championship, I'll eat your shit."

Rosen made a disgusted face, wrinkled his nose, and took a half step back. "What, I won the competition and you still expect me to freeload off me?"

His voice wasn't loud, but the surrounding silence lasted for a moment, and his words clearly reached the ears of a dozen or so people nearby. Many of them were barely suppressing their laughter.

A voluptuous Black woman next to him slapped the tattooed man's buttocks, the sound of her hand hitting him making a crisp sound. Her voice was loud enough for everyone around to hear: "Hey, Luke—haha, let's go for it! Beat him, and tonight's mine is yours!"

The tattooed man named Luke seemed to have been given a stimulant; his shoulders were tense, and his eyes were burning with lust as he stared at Rosen, giving Rosen goosebumps.

"Then come and fight me! The loser eats shit!"

Rosen covered his nose, his expression of disgust deepening. "Eat it yourself if you want."

He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, pulled out a wad of cash, and held it up to shake it. The papery texture of the new bills made a rustling sound under the light.

"This is my entry fee—five thousand dollars. If I win, you can go eat her food."

He gestured with his chin toward the Black woman next to him, "If I lose, this money is yours."

The cheers around them suddenly erupted. Some people were shouting something in Spanish, some were clapping and stomping their feet, and others were stuffing money into the hands of those next to them for impromptu betting. The scene instantly became more than twice as lively.

Just then, a hand suddenly landed on Rosen's shoulder.

Long, slender fingers pressed clearly against Rosen's shoulder through the fabric of his coat. Several thoughts flashed through Rosen's mind as he turned, and then a face came into view.

Her long, curly, dark hair fell from her shoulders, with some tucked behind her ears, revealing a smooth neckline and a dark braided headband with a small silver bead hanging from the end, swaying under the light.

He has deep-set features, high brow bones, a straight nose, and a strong, sharp jawline.

She was wearing a dark gray, tight-fitting tank top, over which was an open, dark short jacket with slight wear lines at the shoulders. She wore dark jeans and work boots, and standing under the streetlight, she left Rosen momentarily stunned.

Rosen looked at her, and a torrent of curses poured out of his mind!