The Undying Transmigrator

Chapter 9: Firefight

Two hours later, in the convoy heading toward the suburban laboratory, Mo Wen remotely piloted a reconnaissance drone across the endless yellow sand when a question popped into his mind: "Are we basically paying for our own PvP here?"

The gang leader adjusted the scope of his 40mm grenade sniper rifle without looking up. "No."

"A long time ago, there were rumors that corporate types enjoyed watching Outer Ring residents fight to the death, deliberately organizing some kind of slaughter competition. But those were later debunked."

"Compared to us obsolete old humans who are prone to killing in fits of passion, new humans aren't just superior in every capability—their genetic predisposition for social harmony and moral standards far surpasses ours."

"Besides, I actually just got paid. A huge sum."

Mo Wen stiffened suddenly, realizing he'd forgotten a potential trump card. "Wait a minute...couldn't we have just borrowed money from those corporate guys? Crowdfunded this operation or something?"

The gang leader paused his work, also recognizing their oversight, but his voice remained cold. "Borrowed money always needs repayment. If we can't leave behind an inheritance, at least don't leave behind debts."

"I don't like gambling. Though admittedly, both gang life and mercenary work are riskier than gambling—you're basically carrying your head in your hands."

Mo Wen shrugged. "Fine, I don't like gambling either. But we often have to bet our lives anyway. Our opponents, though...they probably love taking risks. I bet they've borrowed plenty."

On the drone's display, clusters of heat signatures littered the path ahead, all concealed beneath the yellow sand, lying in wait for their arrival.This was a terrible ambush—but that didn't mean it would be easy to handle. The harsh sandy environment outside the city made cross-country travel impossible for cargo trucks, and there were only so many roads. To deliver their goods, they'd have to face the enemies ahead.

Given that corporate drones couldn't possibly lag behind in tech, the moment they spotted the enemy's setup, the enemy had definitely spotted them too.

Strike first.

Mo Wen forcibly shared the drone's feed with the other three while barking an order over comms: "Combat prep!"

The 30,000-credit swarm of strafing drones activated, divided into ten squads of ten, interspersed with a few rocket drones. They ascended from the armored vehicles and cargo trucks, ready to engage—

But the gang leader gripped Mo Wen's shoulder. "Don't waste ammo. They're trying to attrition us."

"They obviously knew an ambush wouldn't work, so they're hiding under the sand to reduce our kill efficiency and drain our supplies."

"Charge straight through their setup."

"We've got enough mass and speed. Just eliminate anything that tries to intercept us, and they won't catch up."

Mo Wen disagreed. "Their mission is to stop us. They absolutely have heavy weapons to destroy our vehicles. This would just deliver us into their kill zone."

The gang leader smirked. "Enemy or ally, we're all here to make money. Compared to the payout for destroying targets, a truckload of valuable goods is worth far more. Until they're certain they can't succeed, they'll focus on interception, not destruction."

"Greed made them our enemies—but it also makes them hesitant."

It made sense. Mo Wen was convinced.

He immediately handed drone control to the gang leader, then flung open the vehicle door, grabbing both his light and heavy sniper rifles along with ammo before leaping onto the roof.

"Full throttle!"

"If they bring out heavy weapons, I'll pick them off."

The engines roared louder, like awakened beasts bellowing in fury as the convoy's speed surged.

Beneath the sand, pairs of crimson eyes ignited. Twisted forms completely divorced from nature emerged—grotesque, horrifying mutants.

Sharks with blade-like fins that propelled them across sand; monstrous birds with overgrown muscles and hammer-like wings; patchwork abominations with randomly arranged limbs and heads, as if designed by a child's nightmare...

To ordinary people, they were the stuff of nightmares. But to Life Pharmaceuticals, they shared one label: "Failures."

Short-lived, stupid, unreproducible. No one would waste effort on such things—but for hired mercenaries, they were plenty savage and cheap.

Just activate the brain implants, and they'd pursue targets relentlessly until death.

So—attack!

Hundreds of kilograms of flesh and blood, wielding innate mutated limbs capable of killing normal humans in one strike, charged onto the road. They hurled themselves at speeding metallic behemoths weighing several tons—even dozens of tons.

Naturally, the steel beasts crushed anything directly in their path. Flesh shattered against reinforced fronts or painted tires in gory hues.

But these creatures knew no fear, no retreat—only objective.

Even if they only made tires skid, added a few grams of weight, or slowed the convoy by a fraction, the enemy mercs were content to waste these worthless lives.

The gang leader coldly calculated the cost of letting them pile up versus actively eliminating them. Enemy numbers and paths formed equations in his cybernetic brain.

Minimum expenditure, maximum effect.

Easy.

Creatures attempting to climb the vehicles from the sides were shot down entirely.

Meanwhile, the gang leader's precise micro-management of the drones ensured short bursts struck key targets, further disrupting the already chaotic horde.

They shoved each other, weaponized limbs stabbing into allies, even severing locomotion limbs—turning themselves into meat barricades.

The enemy mercs weren't surprised. These repurposed failures were dirt-cheap. Even trading a few bullets was worth it. Besides, they weren't the real attack.

On the beast-covered road, anti-tank mines—adjusted for trigger weight—lay silent, awaiting the convoy. Amid the sand, a sniper drone's scope locked onto Mo Wen, who was preparing to counter-snipe from the roof.

The enemy merc nearly laughed through his screen as he marked Mo Wen as primary target.

This idiot really thought proxy warfare had the same intensity as street thug fights!

Destruction was always easier than protection. One slip, and life vanished.

*Bang! Bang! Bang!*

The trajectories of bullets meant to kill Mo Wen materialized in his mind before the sniper drone even fired. But he felt no fear, no hesitation—only reciprocated the impending death back to its sender.

His light sniper's reports nearly blended together, semi-auto mimicking full-auto, each round precisely erasing a threat.

The enemy merc reviewed damage reports from his destroyed drone. Facing the skill that saw through the horde, followed the barrel, instantly blew up his drone, and wiped out 20,000 credits of assets—his mentality nearly shattered.

"*Holy shit, is this some goddamn military-grade cyborg here to stomp noobs?*"

"This bastard *definitely* violated corporate protocols!"