Apocalypse Gachapon

Ye Zhongming immediately rolled upon entering—not because of any danger inside, but because another lifeform had thrown a punch at him.

It was a half-beast-like creature with a burly humanoid body, a short, thick tail, and a ferocious, monstrous head.

What had stood out most to Ye Zhongming earlier were its fanged teeth and the heavy, labored breathing. Yet its hands—each with six fingers—were neatly groomed, jade-white, starkly contrasting its sallow skin.

Ye Zhongming didn’t know why this thing had attacked him, but his heightened alertness the moment he entered allowed him to react instantly. He rolled away, then darted behind a massive green plant, vanishing from sight.

This space resembled a tropical rainforest—lush vegetation of all colors, towering trees, and bizarre plants filled the area, exuding vitality. It was a stark contrast to the city or the underground palace.

The temperature was at least 40°C with 90% humidity. As Ye Zhongming moved through the jungle, he mentally assessed his surroundings.

No equipment. No battle beasts. No puppets. Everything was gone—only his body remained.

His top priority was checking whether his profession and skills still worked. In fact, this was the main reason he had separated from the group. As for why that creature had ambushed him? He didn’t care much. To the King of Cloud Peak, once he figured things out, he’d just find an opportunity to kill it.

Whether it was a spur-of-the-moment attack or a hired hit, eliminating the source would solve the problem.

He hid behind a banana-like plant, observing quietly for a full minute. Detecting no further threats, he slowly placed his hand on a small plant nearby.

It was a Swordthorn Grass—something he recognized from the Blue Realm.

This plant posed no threat to evolved, but once matured, its central stem became razor-sharp. Plucked and wrapped with its own leaves at the base, it turned into a double-edged dagger.

Even a level-three lifeform couldn’t withstand a single strike from it.

With nothing else, even a weapon like this would suffice.

Ye Zhongming activated his Gardener job, channeling energy into the immature Swordthorn Grass.

A surge of relief—his job skills still worked!

Likewise, his mental energy, his greatest asset, remained intact.

In this unfamiliar environment, nothing was more reassuring.

As the Swordthorn Grass visibly matured before his eyes, in another space, several figures stood before a wall-sized light screen, watching Ye Zhongming.

“Kill this trash. He doesn’t belong here.”

A cold voice spoke. Like the escorts, this person wore a mask and robe—but his was silver.

“Reason?”

Another silver-masked figure countered.

“His admission ticket wasn’t his. Isn’t that enough?”

The second sneered. “And how did he get it? By killing your spokesperson. He earned it through strength—what’s wrong with that? Even among trash, he’s stronger than the trash you picked.”

“Aiyaholi, do you have a death wish?”

The first speaker’s aura turned icy, his killing intent palpable.

“You’re the one bending rules. If you made a mistake, admit it. Improve your judgment next time. While the Stareye Race has no rule against casually killing trash, and you lot murder at the slightest provocation, think about our current situation. Think about our disadvantages. Are these really just trash? Maybe they’re our future hope.”

With a cold snort, the second figure bowed to the leader at the front, then walked away, muttering:

“The Stareye Race has never been popular among the universal races. For eons, we’ve lurked in the shadows. Even in the united front against the Slave Race, we’re expendable. Our headquarters is buried underground—‘fitting our style,’ they say. But what is our style? Must assassins and killers live like rats?”

“The Slave Race drains the universe’s resources. If unchecked, all races perish. But mark my words—if the Stareye Race doesn’t change, we’ll be the first to fall!”

“Yet faced with these crises, you fret over petty interests and worthless pride. What does that solve?!”

A door slammed, cutting off the tirade.

The first speaker stood stiffly, seething in silence.

“Aiyaholi isn’t wrong,” the leader—gold-masked and robed—finally said. “The Stareye Race is already weak among the universal races. Centuries of prejudice have left us struggling. These ‘trash’ might be our chance to change that.”

“Every ‘Hope Campaign’ after newbies shed their trash status determines resource allocation. Every time, we’re just extras—no, background noise. This time, Lord Star and Lord Eye expect more.”

“Keep an eye on this new trash from Earth. If he shows promise, prioritize him.”

“You mean…?”

After their first trial, surviving trash would become newbies. If prioritized, should his trial be made easier?

“This trial originally had four slots, correct? Reduce it to three. Let the survivors share the extra rewards.”

“Understood, Commander Cheng Liuji.”

…………………………………………………………

Plucking the central stem, Ye Zhongming didn’t hastily craft it into a dagger. Instead, he closed his eyes—and two spirits materialized on his shoulders.

They had followed him here!

“Make some Fertile Soil for Daddy!”

His previous stockpile was lost with his storage, so he relied on the Earth Spirit to produce fresh black soil.

Obediently, it “produced” a batch.

Ye Zhongming applied it to nearby Swordthorn Grass, accelerating their growth. Harvesting more stems, he then activated his top-tier craftsman ability.