System: My Doomsday Train Chapter 2: No one wants to die, but there are always those who must.

Surrounded by a throng of covetous gazes.

Chen Mang leisurely munched on two hot steamed buns stuffed with pickled vegetables, then drained the last drops from his water bottle, drawing in a deep breath. Fullness finally washed over him somewhat; starvation had pushed him to the edge of collapse these past days.

He had shielded his vital areas as best he could before, and though soreness plagued his entire body now, his mobility remained largely unimpeded. His joints held firm.

A cigarette would hit the spot right now—he invariably craved one after eating well.

Leaning quietly against the carriage's metal wall, he scanned the surroundings without a word. Thrust abruptly into this realm, the chaos of recent days had rattled him deeply. From a life of abundance, he'd been hurled into this apocalyptic nightmare.

Survival now loomed as the paramount challenge.

Regarding cigarettes.

What delusion was this, amid endless hunger pangs—where could one even procure a smoke?

Right at that moment—

"Boss..."

A dirt-smeared bald fellow drew near, maintaining a cautious gap, then beamed a sycophantic grin. He gingerly fished a rag from his shirt pocket, drew out two crumpled smokes, and presented them with fawning deference and fear: "Boss, care for a smoke?"

"..."

Chen Mang eyed the rag holding the pair of wrinkled cigarettes, then lifted his gaze to the bald man. Everyone aboard this carriage teetered on famine's brink, stripped bare of possessions, yet this guy had squirreled away two cigs. Had they surfaced sooner, they'd have been ripped away in seconds.

Sure enough.

Several men fixed greedy stares on the bald man's rear. Should he refuse, grim tidings awaited the fellow.

The bald man knew it full well, his eyes pleading with raw worry.

Momentarily hesitating, Chen Mang accepted the cigarettes, lit one with his lips, swathed the second in the rag, and stowed it in his pocket.

Seeing this unfold.

Relief flooded the bald man; he swiftly yanked half a matchbox from his shirt, groveling as he stepped closer, struck a light in the gloomy carriage, and held the flame steady to Chen Mang’s lips. "Boss, fire for you."

"Hoo..."

Perched on the straw mat, back to the carriage's iron side, Chen Mang puffed out smoke, brows knitting slightly as coughs escaped despite himself. The cig carried a musty bite, rough on the throat.

Yet here, a post-meal smoke counted as pure indulgence—what right had he to complain?

He inhaled deeply once more.

Ashes flicked to the carriage's metal deck nearby, then his eyes met the bald man's as he gestured him closer, murmuring low: "Stick by my side from here on out."

Words barely out.

Covetous glares from fellow riders toward the bald man vanished in a flash.

"Thank you, boss, thank you."

Thrill lit the bald man's face; he scrambled up and settled gingerly on the metal next to Chen Mang, butt hovering clear of the straw mat.

Cigarette's ember glowed crimson in the murky carriage.

Before long.

The smoke dwindled to nothing; Chen Mang ground out the butt against the carriage floor. A short silence later, he whispered: "Where'd the cigarette come from?"

This world puzzled him greatly—he craved intel from talks. Earlier chats skipped because no one fit the bill, but this eager submitter marked the first viable ear.

Submission didn't irk him; he welcomed it, knowing solo power fell short always. Hands multiplied eased burdens.

Genuine loyalty or not...

Pondering that proved as futile and wearisome as a youth's debut crush dream.

"Well..."

The bald man darted looks about, voice hushed: "Boss, I was once a Deputy Train Captain, though just for a tiny train—nothing like this beast."

"Disaster wrecked it total; stranded in wilds, this train nabbed me into slavery. A pack of smokes lingered unfinished then—hoarded till now, just these two remain."

"Slave cars on this train span three parts, roughly 100 souls each, making 300 slaves altogether."

"Likely a level 2 train, perhaps nearing level 3."

"Destination's the mines. Hard labor there, perilous with deaths now and then, but mining shifts bring grub till bellies bulge—full feasts for all."

"Just..."

"Boss, if you could hook me up with a safer gig come time."

"..."

Silence stretched as Chen Mang digested the details, then eyed the middle-aged man—head near his ear, rear planted firmly off the straw mat.

Exaggerated pose signaled self-control, earning Chen Mang's regard.

He grasped limits well.

"Deputy Train Captain?"

"Yeah." The bald man flushed sheepishly: "Deputy's my lifelong station. Pre-Doomsday, class vice prez; corporate deputy manager gig; post-Doomsday lucked into Deputy Train Captain."

"I’ve never led; never dreamed of leading."

"Limited abilities."

"Fortunate to scrape by pre- and post-Doomsday."

"..."

Chen Mang held his tongue. Days of watching plus this man's disclosures painted the post-apoc landscape stark: two breeds mainly.

Train Captains, slaves.

Trains varied by tier—higher ones boasted beefier shields and arms.

His first three days here.

Parked in wilds they stayed. Barred from exiting cars, gaps in links revealed thugs ever-watchful, braced for monstrous outbreaks anytime.

In this doomsday world.

Trains alone hosted crowds; bigger hubs meant grander trains.

Thriving long here demanded Train Captain status and a train of one's own.

Train Captain...

Deep musings overtook him wordlessly. Ex-Deputy Train Captain bald guy knew rails deeper than slave rabble. Valuable asset, not to waste—a true talent.

Key point: fallen from rank to chains, yet he fit seamless, slave by nature.

And spotting opportunity.

Prized items proffered swift for safeguard and favor.

Crafty old fox, that one.

...

Silence reclaimed the carriage, broken only by sporadic piss streams in far corner.

Bald man loyally kept vigil by Chen Mang, head on arm for quick doze.

Anxiety swirled in his eyes for road ahead.

In this world.

Basic security lay solely in rolling train cars; halting at wilds or pits spiked perils, courting massive Corpse Tide sieges.

He refused to perish.

No soul in the carriage craved death.

No one sought death.

Yet death claimed some regardless.