After a sudden downpour, the sun dried the mud on the road again, and dust flew when the big trucks rumbled by.

In the hot and humid wind, the dust rose weakly, only to fall back down.

The exposed skin could feel an unpleasant sensation of slickness and stickiness, a discomfort that stuck in the crotch.

Just a few steps outdoors and people genuinely longed for ice-cold soda and air conditioning.

Regrettably, these two are luxuries in the wilderness.

Enjoying them is rare.

As summer gradually recedes, after seemingly endless torrents of rain, the long rainy season, agonizing enough to make one sprout mushrooms, finally comes to an end.

The wilderness once again welcomes stability and prosperity.

Disregarding the relatively less frequent downpours and the sun that isn't quite as ferocious, the season is as good as high, clear autumn weather.

Cooped up for months, the settlement folks and scavengers once again lug all their belongings and swarm out like busy farmers. For a moment, the once desolate and deserted wilderness appears vaguely bustling.

Unlike previous years, there's a noticeable addition of bright red.

More and more overloaded little red-painted tricycles appear on the roads, traveling between settlements or temporary construction sites and mines.

The drivers, dressed equally conspicuously, chew betel nuts, smoke, and carry guns, ensuring goods reach every godforsaken place.

The tricycles and uniforms often have a white logo sprayed on them, with the name of the company that has recently gained fame in the wilderness—Messenger Logistics.

"Uncle, Old, Old... Who the heck is this Old Dang? The name is quite complex..."

A bearded man slammed the brakes, jumped off the vehicle, and spat betel nut residue into the mud, while stammering over the list, unable to recognize the characters.

Then, naturally, came the roar.

"Fuck, if you can't read, don't read it, Old Chang! Old Chang!"

The customer laughed, pulled aside the tarp of a battered RV, emerged, snatched the list, signed his name, and slapped it back into the delivery man's hands: "Where's the stuff?!"

"Hey, why so fierce."

The delivery man shook his head, turned to rummage in the truck for a long time, and finally found a metal box of uniform design and handed it over.

It even had a combination lock.

Old Chang, clearly not dealing with them for the first time, was already accustomed to Messenger Logistics' routine, never letting him waste words, and soon, when Old Chang emerged from the house, the empty box was tossed back.

The box was from Messenger Logistics.

As for what's inside the box... Well, nobody asks, and nobody tells.

The rule is simple: confirm the contents at dispatch, adhere to the boss's rules, and the delivery person doesn't have to worry about anything. If standards are too rigid in the wilderness, there's no business to be done.

Once the delivery was confirmed, the delivery man started riding the tricycle for other ordinary deliveries.

Most were products from Messenger Logistics' catalogue: uniformly packaged and batch-procured medicine, emergency food, clothing, toilet paper, strong booze, and a small portion of refrigerated items like vegetables or meat, or digital products that can't be made or patched together in the wilderness, occasionally a few books, some odd CDs... or even seaweed egg drop soup without veggies, flowers, or broth.

Finally, the delivery man cursed angrily, demanding who bought the huge toilet, and said he didn't do installations!

After finishing a round of deliveries, the delivery man lit a cigarette, loaded the items to be sent from the settlement, finalized the contract, received a partly filled order sheet, nodded, and agreed with the settlement head for the next delivery time.

The next visit would be three days later, barring urgent matters or special circumstances.

It was natural, and nobody cared.

Unlike city counterparts who get cursed bloody for not delivering by next day, in wilderness logistics, time is the least of concerns.

Surviving the delivery is the priority.

"Each time there are so many goods; isn't it unsafe?" Curious men smoking at the settlement gate poked their heads: "What if we run into bandits?"

The delivery man turned, glanced at him, then at a few seemingly curious people nearby, grinned an enigmatic smile: "What else can we do? Run."

He said: "Company policy is that if robbed, just ditch the cargo and run away, don't worry about it; whoever grabs it, keeps it."

"That's generous?" Someone laughed, not trusting his nonsense.

"That's what the training says, and it's true that robberies are frequent. The dead get compensation, twenty months of salary; survivors don't lose money and can continue delivering."

The delivery man lit another cigarette, slowly started the engine, and left.

In the crowd, a few people exchanged looks, about to say something, but suddenly the crowd dispersed.

A dark, gaunt man walked over, looked expressionlessly at the questioner, and without warning, slapped him.

Along with the adjacent few, each received a slap and a punch to the gut.

No one dared fight back, not even dodge.

"Un-Uncle Li..."

"Grown some guts, Rat Hui."

The gaunt man clicked his tongue in lament, "Even daring thoughts on Coast's goods? Since you're itching to die, let me help and kick you out of the settlement; you can do it yourself, right? If you make a name, maybe I'll even look up to you someday."

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