The Demonic Cultivator In Zombie World - Chapter 180: The Most Expensive Things Come for Free

[Post-apocalyptic + System Space + Stockpiling + Base Building + Strong Female Lead + Reverse Harem + Not a Mary Sue]Who says a five-year-old can only be a burden?Cloud Xiaoxiao, a formidable survivor in the post-apocalyptic world, is reborn six days before the apocalypse hits. Unloved by both parents and unwanted after their divorce, she decides to take matters into her own hands.At just five years old, she goes on a rampage. She empties out her father’s supermarkets and 4S car dealerships, landing him in the hospital.Armed with a super system in a world ravaged by zombies, extreme temperatures, and acid rain, she hoards enough supplies to last several lifetimes. She becomes a base-building maniac, constructing the strongest fortress in the post-apocalyptic world.Sunny Boy Next Door: “Little one, want big brother to sing you a lullaby?”Unlucky Bandit: “Kid, what do you want? I’ll get it for you.”Cool Big Brother: “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”Yandere Hottie: “Little one, call me big brother and I’ll kill them all for you. How about that?”Hot-Tempered Brawler: “Shorty, who’s bullying you? I’ll beat them to death!”…Cloud Xiaoxiao hastily raises her hand, “Stop, stop! I can take on ten at once!”“Whoever dares to bully me, I’ll finish them off myself!”(This story has no romantic pairings. Readers who mind this, please be cautious.)(The female lead appears innocent on the outside but is actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Her personality was shaped by the post-apocalyptic world, growing beyond the bounds of normal rules. So she’s a bit ruthless, a bit wild, a bit wicked…)

Crossing to a garbage star in the interstellar age, Ji Yu is so poor that she is about to plow the soil and eat it, but… the soil is poisonous and can’t be eaten… There is no way, she can only lower her body to pick up the garbage, sell it and sell it. of……

For example, no one wants such beautiful grass seeds. Pick up a bead and sell it online.

But as soon as I posted it on the Internet, someone made a negative comment: “All the grass seeds and fruits are sold. Are you crazy to think about money?”

A few days later, the man slammed the wall in regret: “Kneel and beg you to sell me one grass seed and fruit, only one! One is fine.”

Ji You said coldly: “Not for sale!”

For another example, these shattered stones on the street are so shiny that nobody wants them. Pick them up, polish them into bracelets, and sell them on the Internet.

The crowd made nasty words: “Broken rocks are all sold, haven’t you seen the money?”

A few days later, everyone wept bitterly and said, “I have no eyes, I am clumsy, such a beautiful and beautiful stone, please beg me for one.”

Ji You said, “It’s gone.”

- Description from novelbuddy

“Coming live to you, from Cerou Street, this is MBP News, and we have an unfolding situation to report. Late last night, at approximately 3:00 AM, an explosive-like sound reverberated through this area, disrupting the sleep of residents and instilling fear in their hearts,” the news anchor, a striking figure, delivered the report with poise, standing before the camera amidst a bustling scene.

In the background, the blaring horns of ambulances and police vehicles disturbed the serenity of the beautiful morning light. Two individuals wearing protective suits, presumably forensic experts, held a stretcher carrying a charred body.

The news anchor, who had been reporting earlier, placed a hand on her ear, fitted with an earpiece, and looked visibly surprised. Her voice filled with urgency as she continued, “We have just received an update from our headquarters regarding the sole fatality in this unexpected incident. The victim of this tragic event is none other than Norman, the famous gigolo of Night palace.”

“My colleague, who was set to cover an event today at Nightplace, obtained this information firsthand from Countess Maria, who held a special place for Norman in her heart. Our focus this morning is on this breaking news,” the female news reporter continued amidst the chaotic scene, while Norman's charred body lay alone in the ambulance.

Meanwhile, in a different world, a young boy lay fast asleep with his head on the table. The sun, seemingly displeased with the boy's carefree slumber, cast its rays directly onto his face. Annoyed by the intrusion, the boy shifted his head in another direction, unwilling to be roused from his deep sleep.

*ZZZr Zzrz Zzrzzr* However, an additional source disturbed his sleep, filling the room with a buzzing sound. The boy furrowed his brows in annoyance, his eyes still closed. He searched his surroundings and discovered a glass-like slab. With closed eyes, he slid his finger across it and placed it near his ear.

“Hello...” he mumbled in his drowsy voice, which carried a hint of depth.

“Hey, Pissed-up Prat, where are you?” a voice laced with disdain emanated from the slab.

The boy, referred to as the “Pissed-up Prat” by the irritating female voice, recognized it as a voice he heard frequently but couldn't recall its owner. With his eyes still closed, he inquired, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean, 'who is this'? Wake up, come home, or eat shit for breakfast if you prefer!” the voice behind the transparent slab retorted before falling silent.

The boy, still not fully awakened, gazed at the half-opened glass slab with a mixture of confusion and surprise. As his eyes darted around the room, he became increasingly shocked.

As he recollected the fragmented memories from the night before he lost consciousness, his gaze fell upon the entrance of the shop. Once old and damp, it now bore a different appearance. While not transformed into a luxurious space, it had undergone improvements compared to its previously dilapidated state.

The shop took on a rectangular shape, with one longer side adorned with wooden shelves intricately patterned. Rows of empty glass jars lined these shelves. On the opposite side, there was another wooden shelf, also displaying empty jars. Towards the beginning of the counter, where the boy had been sleeping, there stood a peculiar machine.

Confusion etched across his face, he murmured to himself, “Whose shop is this?”

In response to his question, a mechanical voice resonated in his mind.

[The Omnistore belongs to you, host.]

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