In front of the old stone house were piled some worn-out tires, wheel hubs, and simple mechanical parts.
A man covered in grease was crouching beside the parts, repairing a motorcycle.
Just then, a quiet question sounded above his head. "Hello, where did you get this truck?"
Hearing the question, the man did not even look up and continued dismantling the motorcycle in his hands. "Picked it up by the roadside. It was already beat to hell when we found it, and it stank inside. It's fixed up now. If you want it, five thousand Federal Coins, or equivalent cryptocurrency or goods."
He tightened the wrench to the fixed torque and screwed in the bolts before him one by one. "This kind of truck is bulletproof, but it was already shot up by the time it got to me. I can't guarantee it's as good as the original. I can only guarantee it can run. If anything goes wrong within a year, bring it back here and I'll fix it."
He hung the wrench from his waist and stood up. "But even the bare-bones version of this thing sells for at least thirty thousand Federal Coins in the city, so don't expect too much at this five-thousand price."
He raised his head and looked toward the source of the voice.
Only to discover that the place was already empty.
He hurriedly turned to look at the patched-up truck beside him. The truck was still there; it had not been stolen.
"Another guy who only asks and never buys." The man shook his head, crouched down, and continued tinkering with the motorcycle in front of him.
Meanwhile, in the wilderness roughly twenty kilometers from the Wanderer camp, He Ao walked along the hardened road, scanning the traces around him.
This