As Liven landed, it felt as though every bone in his body had shattered. Pain radiated from everywhere, but he had indeed succeeded in breaking through the zombie blockade and reached the end of the passage.

Without hesitation, Liven rolled out of the passage.

Once he left the church's passageway, it felt as though he had entered another world. Liven looked up and saw the layout of a train station. He was lying on a platform, with countless tracks on either side.

Above him, an electronic sign flashed with the English letters: **DEATH**!

"Ha ha ha ha..." Liven laughed heartily.

Liven swayed as he stood up and began walking forward. He was certain this was the platform for the Death Train. But where was the Death Train itself?

Liven wasn't in a hurry. Since he had reached the Death Train platform, it meant he was safe. Soon, after crossing two overpasses, Liven finally spotted a black train at Platform 13, adorned with red trim, exuding an indescribable sense of mystery.

"Welcome to the Death Train. Your number is 23."

Liven was momentarily stunned. There were already 22 people who had arrived before him?

But this realization lasted only a moment. The number was meaningless—it was just a simple sequence.

Liven approached the Death Train. The next step was deciding on a carriage number. Unlike the entry sequence, the carriage number was important.

The carriages of the Death Train were not interconnected. In simple terms, once you entered a specific carriage, you were confined to that carriage—at least during the initial boarding phase.

Different carriages would lead to different situations. However, upon reflection, before boarding the Death Train, there was no way to know who would be in the carriage you chose or what would happen. Whether the chosen carriage number was good or bad seemed to depend entirely on luck.

"Then how about lucky number 7?"

Liven walked to Carriage 7. He liked this number because the last digit of his birth year was 7, and he was also born on July 7th. Ever since he was old enough to understand, Liven had considered "7" his lucky number.

Having made up his mind, Liven didn't hesitate and directly entered Carriage 7.

Glancing forward, Liven realized he wasn't the first to board Carriage 7. There were already three people inside: two men and one woman.

Liven couldn't help but size them up. The first man was dressed in simple white sportswear, but the clothes were spotless, without a trace of dust or zombie blood.

This meant one of two things: either the man was weak and had purely lucked his way onto the Death Train platform without encountering any combat, or he was incredibly strong—strong beyond imagination.

Liven leaned toward the latter, as the man's expression was calm, showing no signs of fear or panic.

The second man appeared to be in his thirties, with a strikingly muscular build. It wasn't the exaggerated muscles of a bodybuilder, but rather the lean, defined muscles of a seasoned soldier—someone who had trained for combat, with a physique full of explosive power.

Compared to the showy muscles of a bodybuilder, this man's muscles were clearly honed for practical combat.

As for the last person, a woman, she was decent-looking, dressed in a professional suit, but her face was filled with panic, constantly looking around. It was clear she was deeply afraid.

"She's a lucky waste."

Liven curled his lip, immediately categorizing her as someone who would inevitably die.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Liven didn't discriminate against women. In his previous life, he had seen many powerful women on the Death Train. The reason he judged this woman as doomed was that her expression betrayed her lack of mental fortitude.

In the collapsed world of the apocalypse, the more fearful you were, the quicker you died.

While Liven was sizing them up, they were also observing him. After a moment, Liven walked forward. The woman in the professional suit seemed to want to strike up a conversation but hesitated.

Liven guessed that she had probably tried to talk to the other two men earlier but had been rebuffed, leaving her too embarrassed to speak now.

But that was fine—it saved him the trouble.

As Liven thought this, he walked to the far corner of the carriage and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

The basic carriages of the Death Train had no seats.

Liven closed his eyes and began to rest. For now, there was no need to worry. It was clear that the man in sportswear and the muscular man were both on high alert, likely guarding against zombies entering.

But Liven knew that zombies couldn't enter the Death Train platform. Moreover, even if someone intended to cause trouble on the Death Train, mutual killing was strictly prohibited here.

Despite its ominous name, the Death Train was humanity's last hope, the only place of peace.

As Liven closed his eyes, the world turned dark, and he gradually fell asleep. The continuous battles had left him exhausted, and he soon drifted into a deep slumber.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he was awakened by noise. Opening his eyes, Liven saw that two more people had boarded the train: a girl in a judo uniform and a man who looked like a complete thug—or, to put it bluntly, he was the very image of a hoodlum.

At the moment, the thug was harassing the woman in the professional suit, causing her to scream and curse in frustration.

Liven turned his head, unwilling to get involved in such trivial matters. He pulled out a piece of chocolate from his pocket and began to eat.

"You actually have food?" The thug, who had been harassing the woman, heard Liven chewing and immediately perked up. He abandoned the woman and quickly walked over to Liven. "Give it to me. Hand over all your food."

Liven glanced up at him and said, "What do you have to trade?"

"Huh?" The thug was momentarily stunned, then a fierce glint appeared in his eyes. He grabbed Liven's collar and yanked him to his feet. "Kid, how about I trade you with my fists? What do you think?"

Liven sneered, "Idiot."

The thug glared. "You don't think I'll hit you?"

Liven replied disdainfully, "Go ahead and try."

The thug immediately raised his fist without hesitation, but at that moment, his raised hand suddenly froze. Though his fist was lifted, it didn't immediately swing toward Liven.

To onlookers, it might have seemed like the thug had chickened out, but Liven knew better—the thug had likely received a warning from that mysterious voice.

On the Death Train, any form of mutual violence was strictly prohibited.

"You mysterious, sneaky bastard! I don't believe you can do anything to me!"

After a moment of hesitation, the thug suddenly roared and swung his fist hard toward Liven's nose.

But at that very moment...

The thug's head suddenly fell off.