Chapter 711

The three drifters who had somehow survived the Dual Bulls’ annihilation shoved open the rusted iron door, dragging their worn-out bodies inside—never expecting to be greeted by precise takedowns.

Their faces were slammed against the musty floorboards, and the first thought flashing through their minds was absurd: This dump? Worth fighting over?

The winds of the Badlands had long since ground their second-hand cyberware into squeaking ruin. Every piece of furniture in this place screamed “scrapyard special”: a folding chair with a broken leg, a low table propped up on tires, and a fridge that sounded like it coughed blood when it ran—its insides holding nothing but a few beers older than they were, and half a frostbitten slab of synthetic pizza.