He transmigrated into a cultivation world on the wasteland, where spiritual energy was as sparse as poison and cultivators struggled to survive beneath the claws of radiation beasts.
Lu Zhao awoke with a copy of The Militia Training Manual and a few potatoes.
While everyone else risked their lives for a single rotten spirit stone, he quietly promoted manure fertilizer, improved the soil, and built blast furnaces.
A sect’s immortal maiden sneered, “A mortal dares to speak of cultivation?”
A demonic overlord scoffed, “The tricks of ants. Your struggle is futile.”
Then the extraterrestrial fiends arrived, and an endless demonic tide swallowed the world. Immortal artifacts shattered, and all magic fell silent.
At the brink of despair, an imposing steel defense line rose behind Lu Zhao, and guns powered by spiritual energy roared along the assembly line.
His calm voice carried across the battlefield over the loudspeakers:
“Attention: Militia First Regiment of Qingyan Valley, take up firing positions.”
“Target: The demonic tide ahead. Combat doctrine: saturate the area with firepower and overwhelm the enemy.”
“Open fire.”
