The least valuable job in the wasteland is scavenger.
While others fought tooth and nail over half a spirit stone, Shen Xiu crouched nearby and waited for them to finish. Once they left, he rummaged through the wreckage and dug up a sword embryo, a shattered pill, half a broken talisman, and a formation plate with a corner missing.
Then a voice suddenly appeared in his head.
The System said these scraps were ancient relics from three thousand years ago, drained of their spiritual energy. Every crack faced the same way: from the inside out, as if they’d been destroyed by their own people.
The sword immortal had shattered his own sword. The talisman master had sealed his junior in a sheet of talisman paper. The formation keeper had blown apart his master’s protective formation from within. Before they died, each had left a message for people three thousand years in the future.
It was the same word every time: Run.
