Genetic code—a code compiled from gene sequences according to a specific algorithm—serves as the username for EP. Due to the widespread use of EP and the uniqueness of genetic codes, it is often used much like an ID number. After all, in the apocalypse, there is no civil affairs bureau; if you want to prove who you are, only your DNA can speak for you.

In many survivor camps where order still exists, genetic codes are checked before entry is permitted. The main purpose is to hunt down those who have previously broken the law within the camp.

After showing the EP on their arms, the militia politely let the two of them pass.

“I always thought this wasteland was full of savagery... I didn’t expect to witness civilization here.” Seeing that these armed soldiers didn’t harass them in any way, Jason Carter finally began to relax.

However, in response to Jason Carter’s comment, Grace Bennett just gave a playful smile.

“Oh? My opinion is exactly the opposite of yours. I actually think there’s so-called ‘civilization’ everywhere on the wasteland—it’s just that the form is rather peculiar.”

The steel gate slowly opened, and the camp’s alert was lifted as the meat mountain fell. Behind the sandbags at the entrance, Jason Carter saw the anti-tank gun that had destroyed the meat mountain. Its menacing barrel exuded a chilling aura, and on the ground lay metal shell casings as thick as a thigh.

Making way for the truck entering the camp, Jason Carter followed Grace Bennett into the camp’s interior.

This order that persists amid chaos—Sixth District—welcomes travelers from the wasteland like a harbor. However, if you imagine it as the embodiment of justice, that would be far too naive.

Chapter 7: Sixth District

Civilization is the spiritual wealth and inventions that have accumulated throughout history, which enhance humanity’s adaptation to and understanding of the objective world, align with human spiritual pursuits, and can be recognized and accepted by the vast majority.

By that definition, civilization does exist here.

It’s just rather deformed in its development.

If there’s one word to sum up the technological level of the Sixth District, it’s “uneven.” You can see mercenaries with rifles slung at their waists, idly smoking at recruitment points, and traders using holographic computers to tally goods. People missing arms or legs are a common sight—some hobble on crutches, while others walk on mechanical prosthetics more agile than real legs.

If there’s one word to sum up the standard of living in the Sixth District... it’s also “uneven.”

Emaciated men and women are everywhere; hunger has left people too weak even to wail. Soldiers in uniform patrol the streets in groups of three, guns in hand. They ignore the starving masses, and also ignore the prostitutes soliciting openly on the street.

Like machines, their faces are hidden behind pitch-black sunglasses, betraying no expression.

“Absolute neutrality—that’s the foundation of the Sixth District’s foothold on this wasteland. The laws here are simple: murder and theft are punishable by death, untaxed transactions result in expulsion, and malicious injury leads to imprisonment.” Grace Bennett casually explained to the still-unaccustomed Jason Carter.

“Then why wasn’t that person executed?” Jason Carter swallowed hard, staring in disbelief as a uniformed man beat a woman—too weak from hunger to resist—to death with a wooden stick. Sensing Jason Carter’s gaze, the man even grinned at Jason Carter in a friendly manner.

“That’s an inspector, responsible for handling corpses in the slums.” Grace Bennett answered in a matter-of-fact tone, though Jason Carter could sense that she didn’t like this place either.

But that woman was clearly still alive...

“The inner circle of the Sixth District is a bit cleaner, but you have to pay some arcrystal to get in. We’re only here to trade for some useful stuff, so the outer market is enough.” Grace Bennett changed the subject.

“...” Jason Carter nodded silently.

This twisted civilization.

The outer market was filthy and chaotic, but still much better than the slums. Thieves or other foolish criminals who were shot were simply tossed beside the garbage heaps, to be dragged by inspectors to the “farm” at night and mixed with the day’s “fat” harvest from the camp to make fertilizer for growth-accelerating crops.

Some of the more notorious “big thieves” were coated in formalin and nailed to wooden boards.

“—Roger Johnson, nicknamed Claw Wolf. Committed three murders in the Sixth District, shot dead by the security team in the sewers.”

Looking closely, the wooden plaque even listed the deceased’s identity.

The name looked foreign, but that wasn’t surprising. NATO forces had once landed in this city, and many people stayed behind.

At the entrance to the market, two relatively well-dressed merchants were haggling fiercely. At last, they seemed to reach an agreement and signed their names on a contract. Under the notarization of the market manager, one party produced arcrystals and placed them on an energy counter, while the other led out ten barely-clothed women from a rented tent.

That’s right—led out.

Each woman wore a ring-shaped electronic lock around her slender, pale neck, her eyes vacant as she obediently followed the pull.