Volume One: Planet of Ten Thousand Beasts Chapter 11: Gathering Point Number 11

While Li Juxu rested, Wang Xiaoxin had already treated the wounds of Cao Gang and Mouse, whose injuries were relatively minor. Afterwards, the two began inventorying supplies. Anything taken had to be retrieved; with the enemy dead, their supplies became their own. These spoils of war were the only consolation for the group.

Pig’s gunshot wound was easier to handle—remove the bullet, disinfect, and bandage. Wang Xiaoxin, carrying anesthetics, ensured Pig suffered little. The drummer’s condition was more serious—shot in the abdomen, with no facilities for surgery in the wild. Wang performed basic hemorrhage control; they needed to return to the gathering point quickly or risk losing him.

As the greatest hero of the battle, Li Juxu received the enemy sniper’s rifle and several rounds of ammunition. The others had no special rewards, but no one objected, as this was the team’s custom. Other spoils seized from the enemy would be sold collectively, with proceeds evenly distributed.

Among the supplies was a folding stretcher. They carefully placed the drummer on it, with Li Juxu and Cao Gang carrying it. After cremating the bodies of the monkey and the hunting dog, the others loaded the supplies and quickly withdrew. Less than half an hour after their departure, over fifty blood wolves, drawn by the scent of blood, appeared. Had Li Juxu’s team not retreated, the pack would have annihilated them.

At Gathering Point 11, towering, thick walls stood guard, with cannon after cannon neatly arrayed atop. Most striking were the four electromagnetic cannons capable of effortlessly blasting tanks to rubble. The city gates remained open unless a crisis occurred; many came and went, though most were in a hurry.

“Cao Gang, running into trouble?” a ten-man squad approached from behind as they queued to enter. The speaker’s face was dark, with two slightly yellowed front teeth, his gaze flickering over the wounds on Cao Gang’s group.

“Wild Dog, you’re still alive!” Cao Gang replied coolly. “Wild Dog” wasn’t an insult but the man’s nickname; most hunters adopted aliases, unlike Cao Gang, who used his real name.

Wild Dog was a core member of the Black Spider team, and beside him stood their silent leader, Flower Spider, a middle-aged man who rarely spoke.

“Heaven wouldn’t take me,” Wild Dog boasted, eyes settling on the stretcher. “Drummer, if Little Red from the Red House knew you were hurt, she’d be heartbroken for two months.”

The drummer opened his eyes, shot Wild Dog a glance, snorted, and closed them again. Hunting was perilous, always on the edge of life and death, and stress needed release. Nearly every gathering point had bustling places like the Red House, and Little Red was the drummer’s frequent companion.

Cao Gang’s team had briefly cooperated with Black Spider on a mission, fostering slight camaraderie but nothing deep. After a few probing words, the exchange ceased. Every team held secrets; unless bonded by life-and-death, few things were freely shared.

Though Black Spider’s group masked their success well, veterans like Cao Gang could clearly see they had gained much, while their own losses made them reluctant to converse. No one wished their joy to rest on another’s pain.

Entering the gathering point required a fee—20 copper coins per entry. Even exiting for a minute and re-entering cost the same; the infrared scanners at the gates charged regardless of the interval. Frequent visitors usually purchased weekly, monthly, or yearly passes for better rates.

Cao Gang’s team focused on missions, spending most time outdoors and entering the gathering point only when restocking supplies, paying per visit without passes.

Crossing the gate, the bustling atmosphere struck them—streets filled with vendors, shopkeepers, and pedestrians. It warmed the heart, as if emerging from a primeval forest into human society, the gate a sharp border between two worlds.

First order: send the drummer for treatment. Afterwards, Pig booked several rooms at a cheap inn for the team to rest. Their purpose on Beasts’ Planet was to earn money, not indulge in luxury. Cheap lodgings were the norm; Cao Gang went to contact middlemen for reselling supplies.

Directly finding buyers was possible but time-consuming; sometimes it took days. Middlemen offered lower prices but quick sales.

The loot from the muscular team included Type 38 rifles, daggers, shields, bulletproof vests, stun batons, pistols, smoke grenades—over a hundred scattered items. They kept what was useful and sold the rest, unwilling to expend energy guarding excess gear.

The middlemen were experts; without hesitation, they quoted prices. After bargaining, the total came to 10,358,000 copper coins.

“Scoundrels!” Mouse muttered softly after the middlemen left happily. Normally, they might have fetched at least 11.3 million; the middlemen made nearly a million in profit, while the team, having risked life in gunfire, would only split a little over a million each.

“That’s this world for you; no use getting angry. We can’t change it,” Pig took it philosophically. Information was also a resource; they lacked it, the middlemen had it, so the money justly went to them.

“I want to keep the strength potion for myself. Please give a face to a brother. Next time, I won’t compete,” Cao Gang produced a strength potion taken from the muscular man’s supplies—the most valuable spoil.

It was a level-one strength potion, worth around 12 million on the market, fluctuating on the black market. After taking it, one’s strength might increase by about 10 kilograms, varying by individual—some gained 15 kilograms, others only a kilogram or two, luck playing a part.

Everyone knew strength potions were rare and precious, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Though others desired it, Cao Gang had spoken, and as team leader, he had priority.

Though a team item, Cao Gang paid 10 million copper coins internally—a high price but accepted by all.

With the potion’s ownership settled, it was time to split the money: 10,358,000 plus 10,000,000 equals 21,358,000 copper coins. The drummer’s surgery cost 258,000; the monkey and hunting dog’s death compensation was 2 million each. That left 17.1 million, half—8.55 million—kept as team funds. The remaining 8.55 million was divided among eight people, 1.06 million each. That was the haul.

The monkey and hunting dog’s death money would be transferred to their families’ accounts—team custom and a key reason for member loyalty. Their equipment would be sold, proceeds also sent to families. From then on, monkey and hunting dog had no ties to the team.

Dead men, closed accounts; on Beasts’ Planet, that was the harsh reality.

This was the usual distribution method—except this time, Pig voiced a dissenting opinion.

“I don’t agree!”