Chapter 4 – Smoke and Ashes
The last monster hit the ground with a wet thud, its skull caved in by Andrew's obsidian warhammer—a brutal umbra construct that dissolved back into smoke the moment its job was done.
He exhaled slowly, scanning the blood-slick street. Bodies of goblins and twisted beasts littered the cracked pavement. The alley they'd fought in was quiet now, only the faint moans of the dying echoing through the haze.
Clara stood nearby, panting hard. Her clothes were torn, soot-stained, and her left shoulder bled through her shirt. But her eyes were alive with that same chaotic gleam—battlelust fading into heavy exhaustion.
"You okay?" Andrew asked, flicking blood off his hand.
Clara nodded faintly, though her lips trembled. "Yeah… yeah, I think so."
He turned to leave, but she caught his wrist.
"Wait—Andrew…" she muttered. Her voice was softer now. "Can you help me get home? My house isn't far from here. I just… I need to know if they're still alive. Please."
Andrew looked into her eyes. For a moment, she looked more fragile than fierce. Not the powerful girl who'd lit up the battlefield minutes ago—but a scared, wounded girl who'd just seen hell. He, who had no relative alive near him at the moment had no one to return to, after a moment of silence.
He gave a small nod. "Lead the way."
They walked in silence, passing blackened buildings and broken glass. The sky above Yaoundé was overcast with ash and smoke, casting eerie shadows on the ground. Every step felt heavier.
The sun dipped lower as they walked in silence. The streets were littered with overturned cars, the buildings painted with soot and ash, and the air carried the coppery scent of dried blood and ruin. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was the kind of silence that screamed something was missing.
Clara trudged ahead with her arms crossed tightly, her jaw clenched. Andrew followed a step behind, shadows flickering around his feet like silent companions. He glanced at her from time to time but said nothing. She hadn't spoken since the shelter.
The moment replayed in his head again and again. The couple had looked terrified—begging, trembling, covered in blood. But the second Clara lowered her guard, they attacked. One had a knife, the other a short spear. They were fast—definitely Players.
Andrew had moved on instinct. A pulse of shadow. A step behind the man. A clean slice through the spine. Blood sprayed. The woman screamed and lunged at Clara.
Clara had reacted, but not fast enough. Andrew had to intervene again, tearing the woman away with an umbra tendril and snapping her neck like a twig.
The aftermath wasn't as quiet as the kill. Clara's knees buckled as she stared at the bodies. She dry-heaved, then turned and vomited in the corner of the shelter, her hands shaking uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, not to him, but to herself. "They… looked so scared…"
Andrew didn't respond. He didn't feel anything. No regret, no guilt. Just… nothing.
It bothered him more than the killing itself.
Now, hours later, her eyes were swollen and red, but dry. She hadn't cried, but she looked like she had screamed all her tears away in silence.
Andrew sighed and adjusted the strap of the backpack. He had absorbed most of the loot from the shelter—their weapons, canned goods, and some medical supplies—into his Shadow Box. The system made it convenient, almost too convenient. It felt like stealing from corpses... because that's exactly what it was.
But the world didn't care anymore.
They passed the charred husk of a police truck, its windows shattered and bullet holes riddling the sides. Clara slowed down.
"We're close," she murmured.
He caught up to her, noticing the change in her posture—rigid now, her fingers twitching slightly. This wasn't just a house they were approaching. It was home.
Or it used to be.
Her family.
Andrew said nothing. He just followed her up the cracked pavement and into a neighborhood that had once been alive with laughter, color, and chaos. Now it was a graveyard of ash and memory.
They reached a scorched gate. Clara pushed it open slowly.
Her house—what remained of it—was still standing, barely. The walls were blackened, the roof partially collapsed, and the air carried the bitter stench of smoke and rot.
She stepped forward as if sleepwalking, her lips trembling.
"Mom…?"
She didn't cry out louder than that. Just a whisper. A hopeful, terrified whisper.
They stepped inside together.
The living room was a mess of burned furniture and rubble. The hallway beyond was worse.
She found them in what used to be the kitchen. Two bodies, charred and fused together, lay in the corner. Unrecognizable… but the size and the clothing were enough.
Clara fell to her knees and let out a choked sob, her body convulsing as grief overtook her. Andrew didn't speak. He just stood there, eyes low, fists clenched.
He wanted to say something—anything.
But what do you say when the world has ended?
He turned away, stepping outside to give her space. The sun was setting now, bathing the city in a red, ominous glow.
He stared out over the horizon, but his thoughts drifted—not to the apocalypse, not to the monsters.
To people.
His little brother, Evan. Just twelve. He wondered if he was alive, if he was scared, if he was alone in a world that didn't make sense anymore.
And to her—his best friend back in Bafoussam. Had she survived? Has she become a Player? Was she hiding, fighting, or… worse?
He didn't know.
But he had to find out.