Chapter 80: The Storm Approaches

The cold wind swept across the wasteland, carrying a bone-chilling sting that pressed in from all sides. Vashila shivered, then straightened his body and looked ahead. Under the pitch-black canopy of storm clouds, the entire wilderness felt suffocating. He frowned and muttered a curse under his breath. Flexing his fingers around his weapon, he cast a wary glance around.

Nothing. Not a soul.

This damned ghost of a weather!

Satisfied that nothing unusual lurked in the distance, Vashila shook his head. Since joining the Federation, he had never felt so uneasy. Something was off with the higher-ups lately—not only was security tighter, but patrols were increasingly frequent.

He’d heard the rumors: their assault on District Nine had failed, and now the gifted were striking back. Several Federation outposts had already fallen, their occupants enslaved. Worse, the Federation seemed powerless against those abilities flaunting their might on Federation turf. It was demoralizing for many, but not for Vashila. He wasn’t a native of the Federation. For twenty years, he’d wandered as a wasteland nomad, serving as a bodyguard to merchants, traversing the wilds. He’d seen slaves, mobs, mutants, and even survived an electromagnetic storm. After that ordeal, the weathered man chose to settle in a Federation enclave. Skilled and dependable, he joined the Federation legion, becoming a security captain and shooting instructor. Life was decent—danger still lurked, but on the wasteland, even a casual stroll might lead to a mutant dropping out of nowhere. In comparison, the predictable risks of combat hardly seemed worth worrying about.

To Vashila, the Federation’s anti-gifted indoctrination was meaningless. Only those raised from childhood under Federation brainwashing truly believed humanity could defeat the gifted. Vashila scoffed at such notions—he’d seen plenty of gifted ones during his travels. Some could defy the very forces of nature single-handedly. From then on, he’d never even considered hunting the gifted.

Perhaps for this reason, seeing his subordinates so dispirited amused him. Of course, he dared not show it. The gifted were taboo in the Federation; no one wanted to be associated with them.

But… now, these big shots were finally hitting a brick wall.

Suddenly, at that moment, Vashila spotted a few lights flickering at the end of the road. Instantly alert, he gripped his gun and rose, then kicked the dozing colleague beside him, ordering everyone to pay attention. The once quiet outpost stirred to life, soldiers quickly assembling as if to drive away boredom and gloom. Brilliant searchlights snapped on, illuminating the way ahead. Weapons were raised, aiming forward. Only when the newcomers appeared within the beams did everyone breathe a collective sigh of relief, lowering their guns.

Within the searchlights, a convoy emerged, surrounded by four or five off-road vehicles, and in their midst, three steel-plated trucks stood out—classic wasteland merchant caravans, shuttling between enclaves, ferrying goods and supplies. They were the most welcome sight for any settlement.

Vashila exhaled, recognizing the familiar emblem. He fished out a cigarette and placed it between his lips, then stepped out of the outpost toward the convoy, glancing at the central truck and raising his hand.

"Hey, Old Jack! You're later than usual!"

Old Jack—the merchant leader—was a portly man, the living embodiment of the word ‘merchant.’ Hearing Vashila’s greeting, Jack pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his shiny brow, and with a smile, got out and approached Vashila, nodding in greeting.

"Hello, Captain Vashila... Well, haha... Sorry, we’re a bit late this time... But your supplies were really hard to source..."

"You can explain that to the commander."

Taking the papers Jack handed over, Vashila checked them while grumbling.

"He’s been waiting on this shipment for a while. Odd, isn’t it? Merchant caravans rarely come these days... Last one was nearly half a month ago. Supplies in the enclave are tight, so thanks for bringing these. All right, everything’s in order—go on in."

After verifying the documents, Vashila stepped aside, waving them through. Yet, contrary to expectation, Jack didn’t leave as he usually did. Instead, clutching the papers, he hesitated, then looked at Vashila, forcing a nervous smile.

"Um... Captain Vashila, this time... we won’t be going in..."

"What? What does that mean?"

Vashila was momentarily stunned. He stared at the merchant.

"Not going in? How will you unload?"

"Well... We can unload the goods here, and you can send someone to fetch them..."

Jack spoke as he wiped his brow again. Now Vashila noticed how jittery he was, constantly scanning the surroundings, as if fearing something might jump out at any moment.

"What’s going on, Jack? Are you serious? If you don’t unload inside, the enclave won’t pay your balance—you know that."

Jack’s odd behavior made Vashila suspicious. He discreetly signaled, and the machine guns atop the outpost were raised, targeting the convoy.

But Jack seemed unfazed, only nervously glancing around before turning back to Vashila.

"I know, but... Never mind, I don’t want the balance. I’ll leave the goods here... You can send someone to collect them..."

He turned to leave as he spoke. Seeing this, Vashila realized something was very wrong. Wasteland merchants valued their goods more than their lives. Jack was known for never letting himself be shortchanged. For him to forgo payment was as rare as the sun rising in the west.

Something’s definitely off!

Thinking quickly, Vashila rushed forward and grabbed Jack by the shoulder, pulling him aside before he could react.

"Jack, what’s going on?"

Dragged aside, Jack paled, looking as frightened as a girl cornered by thugs. Yet his eyes kept darting around. The more unnerved Jack seemed, the more Vashila’s doubts grew. He patted Jack’s shoulder, calming him before speaking.

"All right, tell me what’s happened. You’re not acting normal… Did you hear something? Come on, if you can’t trust anyone, you can trust me—I’ve watched your convoy for years."

Jack’s face contorted as he listened, frowning and thinking for a moment. Then, as if making up his mind, he slapped his thigh.

"Fine, since you’ve said so much, I can’t ignore our old friendship..."

He leaned close, lowering his voice to whisper in Vashila’s ear.

"We’ve heard... The Federation is on the Doctor’s treatment list."

"...What? What are you talking about?"

Vashila was utterly bewildered. He was prepared for shocking news, but this? The Doctor? Treatment list?

"Listen... You don’t really know the situation here. Since you helped me out back then, I’ll give you a word of advice: leave the Federation soon, find somewhere far away. If you don’t understand, check for yourself—you’ll soon know what I mean... Anyway, after this deal, we won’t trade with the Federation again."

"What do you mean? Why?"

"Heh... You’ll find out. Maybe you’ll wish you didn’t."

Jack smiled at Vashila’s confusion, patting his shoulder. Without another word, he turned and left. Vashila stood there, watching the convoy fade into the distance, shivering involuntarily. For some reason, a deep sense of foreboding crept over him.

Perhaps it was time to say farewell to the Federation.

But before that... Vashila turned, his expression grave, gazing at the enclave before him.

How should he report this strange incident to the commander?