The apocalypse has descended, and the once bustling countryside is now desolate.

A state highway winds forward, still relatively intact for the moment, though the scenery on both sides is bleak.

Withered weeds grow rampant, covering the uneven ground. Abandoned villas are looted and dismantled, leaving only collapsed bricks and tiles. Abandoned vehicles lie in tatters, silently narrating the harshness of the apocalypse.

An armed convoy rushes along the highway like a torrent, raising clouds of dust, stretching for two or three kilometers.

The scorching sun burns the earth like a fireball, yet the soldiers on the rooftops remain fully armed, their black helmets and bulletproof vests appearing particularly heavy under the sunlight.

Both the drivers gripping the steering wheels and the soldiers leaning against the cabin doors are tense, with nerves tightly wound, their eyes scanning the roadside's rustling dry grass with eagle-like focus.

The hot wind blows, causing the brittle wild grass to sway like waves, adding an underlying sense of danger.

Whenever they hear any unusual sound, even just a faint rustling, the convoy's heavy machine guns slowly move in response to the soldiers' actions.

The black muzzles are like silent Grim Reapers, staring at suspicious spots. The soldiers' fingers are ever ready to pull the triggers and unleash a rain of bullets.

For behind those waist-high dry weeds indeed lurk many ragged survivors. Their eyes are sunken, cheekbones protruding, their sallow faces etched with fatigue and hunger.

Long-term starvation erodes their bodies like a chronic poison, yet it also sharpens their desire to survive and their sensitivity to danger.

Hearing the dull sound of wheels from afar on the road, these ghost-like survivors cautiously crawl from their hiding spots, carrying a glimmer of hope, peering at the "prey" appearing in their view.

However, all these survivors possess are some ordinary firearms, mostly semi-automatic weapons with limited firing rates.

These rudimentary weapons, which might serve as hunting tools in peacetime, are as insignificant and feeble as sticks when faced with the well-equipped and heavily armored convoy, totally outmatched.

Occasionally, some survivors, clinging to luck, tentatively poke half their heads out from the dense grass to steal a glance at the massive armored vehicles racing by, trying to seek an opportunity.

Such risky actions are often met with the well-trained, merciless precise shots from the machine gunners atop the armored vehicles.

Whenever the dull gunshots ring out, the bullets pierce the air instantly, and fresh blood spills forth, staining the roadside's dry wild grass crimson.

"It's the Richmond Guard Team coming."

Witnessing their companions being easily cut down like grass, the remaining survivors abandon any unrealistic fantasies.

They huddle tightly in the waist-high, stifling grass, silently praying in their hearts that the armed convoy will quickly move away to avoid undeserved disaster.

At this moment, the leading Striker armored vehicle begins to slowly decelerate, preparing to turn past a bombed-out gas station ahead.

Suddenly, from behind a bullet-riddled, dilapidated building near the gas station, a low, muffled sound erupts, accompanied by a barely discernible gray smoke plume.

In the muffled rumble, an 84mm shell roars through the air like a howl from hell, striking the side of the Striker armored vehicle fifty meters away.

"Boom—!"

The deafening explosion sounds like the sudden toll of a funeral bell; the semi-armor-piercing shell easily rends the armored vehicle's seemingly solid defense, then violently explodes within the cramped cabin.

The immense energy releases instantaneously, hurling the fifteen-ton steel behemoth into the air like a toy.

The machine gunner on the roof is flung like a ragdoll with great force, flying over ten meters before crashing to the ground, leaving a bloody mess.

The sudden explosion is like a bolt from the blue, plunging the once strictly-secured convoy into massive panic and chaos.

Following armored vehicles slam their brakes, tires screeching sharply against the rough road surface.

Soldiers aboard start shouting frantically and, from their posts, peer out to observe the surroundings. Their firearms become uncontrollable, wildly firing at any suspicious targets around them.

Especially those leading armored vehicles, like mad dogs, recklessly pour out their furious bullets toward the direction from which the shell came.

Dust billows, debris flies, and the air is thick with the pungent smell of gunpowder.

The attack forces the enormous armed convoy to halt its advance; over a hundred assorted vehicles scatter instinctively toward the road's sides like startled herds.

Their tracks and tires crush the dry vegetation, emitting a cacophony of creaking noises.

The infantry aboard tumble out from the back of the vehicles amidst the commotion, helmet-clad and panicked, expanding their search across the road's flanks of ruins and grass.

The engines' roar, soldiers' shouts, and the frenzy of gunfire intermingle, rising and falling, composing a chaotic symphony of the apocalypse.

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In the command vehicle at the convoy's center, Major General Borg relies on his status as the highest commanding officer of the troops to have a makeshift camp bed.

At this moment, he lies on it face up, eyes tightly shut, trying to snatch a bit of respite amidst the relentless jostling.

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