The first wave came from the left—a group of thirteen. Their eyes burned with mindless hunger, jaws snapping as they surged forward. Another thirteen emerged from the right, closing the trap.
Ethan didn't flinch. His quick mind mapped the battlefield in seconds. "Luke, right flank. Spawn, hold left. I'll cut us through the center."
He surged forward. His Straightblade gleamed as it arced through the air severing a rotted neck with one swing. Blood sprayed, hot and black, spattering across his face and clothes. He didn't stop. Another slash cut open a chest, ribs snapping like kindling, the corpse collapsing at his feet.
Spawn met the left flank with brutal efficiency, its clawed hand crushing skulls, its jagged weapon hacking through flesh. Bones cracked, bodies were thrown aside like broken dolls.
Luke gritted his teeth and engaged the right flank, his blade flashing, cutting down one after another in a bloody dance. His strikes weren't as clean as Ethan's, but power fueled his speed.
Ethan moved like a storm, his strikes calculated yet merciless. In moments, the street was a butchered mess of twitching corpses, blood pooling into the cracked asphalt.
But it wasn't victory— In a dying world there is no victory— it was only survival.
Just as the two zombies lunged at Ethan with snapping jaws, Spawn swung his axe in a vicious arc. The weapon howled through the air, cleaving both zombies cleanly in half at the waist. Their upper bodies slid from their twitching legs, spilling black, foul-smelling blood across the broken pavement. The stench of rot thickened the air, coating every breath with decay.
Luke, no longer relying on distance, had switched to his Straightblade. He rushed in with surprising speed, his sword flashing in a clean strike that severed a zombie's head from its shoulders. The head rolled grotesquely across the ground, jaw still working as if trying to bite the air.
The trio had grown stronger, their bodies hardened by battles and the leveling of their stats. They fought like predators now, efficient and merciless. The thirteen zombies were cut down one by one, their deaths swift but messy. In minutes, the cracked asphalt was slick with ichor, corpses piled like refuse.
But the sound of their struggle was their undoing. The noise carried through the air, a grim beacon for the restless dead. Groans and shrieks rose in the distance as more zombies staggered closer, the scattered groups knitting together into a seething, merging horde. A tide of corpses, endless and hungry.
And among them came the true threat. Ten bluish-grey P1s, their movements jerky yet unnervingly fast, and several S1s slinking like twisted beasts on all fours. Their eyes glowed with predatory hunger as they fanned out, cutting off escape.
Ethan's sharp mind processed everything in an instant. "To the left!" he barked, wasting no time.
The left flank had only one S1 zombie nearby. Dangerous, but manageable. Better than being surrounded.
He sprinted forward, the S1 already rushing to meet him. It moved like a deranged primate, bounding high into the air, its claws extended to tear his skull open.
But Ethan's agility was no less terrifying. With a precise sidestep, he avoided the deadly strike. His sword flashed upward in a fluid arc, steel singing. The blade severed the S1's neck cleanly, sending its head spinning through the air. Cold, foul blood erupted in a spray, splattering across Ethan's protective garment, dripping down his cheek.
No pause. No hesitation.
Two P1 zombies thundered in next, their inhuman speed making them blur through the wreckage. Spawn, ever the relentless shadow, intercepted the first. His axe whistled through the air, carving deep into its skull with a wet crack. The P1 collapsed in two grotesque halves, its twitching body spraying black ichor onto the cracked road.
Ethan met the second head-on. His blade slashed, but the P1 pulled back, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Still, the steel sheared through its arm, severing its right hand at the wrist. The monster shrieked in fury, gore spraying.
Luke appeared behind it like a striking viper. His sword plunged forward and swept cleanly through its neck, sending the head tumbling as its body collapsed in a heap.
Three P1s down. White light orbs drifted from their remains, absorbed instantly. Luke felt the rush of energy course through his veins, his level surging to 8. Yet the treasure left behind was meager—three white boxes and a mere 30 Survival Coins. Hardly a reward for such bloodshed.
The remaining seven P1s didn't falter. Fear was alien to them. They snarled and charged, five forming a pack while two hung back. Their power was terrifying—each one was a blur of claws and snapping jaws, far more dangerous than a hundred shambling corpses.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Retreat!"
His voice carried steel, and without hesitation Luke and Spawn followed, their bodies moving with the speed of men far beyond ordinary human limits. The trio sprinted, widening the gap with the massive horde. But the seven P1s were relentless, closing distance with horrifying restlessness.
Ten seconds later, five of them were nearly upon them—less than ten meters away.
Ethan's voice cut through the chaos. "The Thorns!"
Luke raised his hand, the Thorn Ring pulsing with power. A gray beam shot from the gemstone into the cracked ground ahead of the charging zombies.
The earth shuddered violently. With a deafening rumble, a jagged spike of blackened thorn erupted from below, three meters tall. The sharpened spire punched straight through the skull of one P1, lifting its body into the air like a grotesque trophy. Blood poured down the thorn in thick rivulets.
Spawn took the opening. With an inhuman lunge, he swung his axe, splitting another P1's skull in half. The body twitched and collapsed in a spray of gore.
But the other three crashed into him, claws raking his skeletal frame. Sparks flew as talons scraped against hardened bone. Thanks to the Reinforced Bones skill, Spawn's body no longer shattered under such strikes. Only scratches marred his white frame. He roared without sound, locking them in a deadly grapple.
Ethan darted in, his blade flashing like lightning. One P1's head rolled across the road, its blood hissing as it hit the ground. Luke seized his moment, his sword cleaving through another's spine with brutal force.
The last of the three didn't even have time to react before Spawn's axe bisected its body, intestines spilling wetly across the asphalt. The stench was overwhelming, like a slaughterhouse in the summer heat.
Two P1s remained.
Compared to facing five at once, the pressure lifted from Ethan's chest. His grip steadied on his weapon. His protective garment and heightened stats gave him the edge now.
Spawn stepped forward and, with one savage swing, cleaved a P1 entirely in half. The body split with a sickening tear, foul blood showering the cracked street.
The final P1 screeched, lunging wildly. Ethan calmly drew the Stinger Pistol, its heavy frame gleaming under the gray sky. He raised the weapon, braced his stance, and squeezed the trigger.
Boom!
The explosion was deafening.
The bullet, almost artillery in force, smashed through the zombie's skull. Its head detonated instantly, fragments of bone and brain matter spraying in a grotesque burst. Black ichor splattered across the ruined roads, dripping down like paint. The body stumbled once, then crumpled lifelessly to the ground.
Silence followed, broken only by their own ragged breathing. The stench of death lingered heavy.
"This is… an amazing gun! You could call it a portable cannon."
Ethan's voice carried a mix of awe and grim satisfaction as he lowered the still-smoking barrel of the Stinger Pistol. Before him, the zombie's head had not merely cracked—it had exploded like a rotten melon under pressure, shards of bone and blackened flesh splattering across the asphalt. The smell of burnt gunpowder mingled with the rancid stench of the undead, a foul perfume of war.
His eyes glinted, the faint spark of excitement that had been buried under weeks of exhaustion flickering to life. He could already imagine: if the Stinger's bullet connected with a Hunter's skull, its head would be reduced to mist. Even if the shot missed the head, tearing through limbs or torso, the raw force alone could cripple those monsters.
Surprisingly, the recoil was not the bone-shattering kick he had braced for. Instead, it felt almost manageable, no heavier than a Type 54 pistol. Maybe all because of his own strength. Any way this is deadly power wrapped in deceptive restraint.
Then came the familiar chime:
[You have advanced to Level 14. You have earned 2 status points. Please allocate your attributes accordingly!]
The sound was sweet, almost mocking, a reminder that survival and slaughter were one and the same.
"Assign two points to Agility." Ethan's response was instant. His mind worked like a blade honed in despair.
When the world first fell into ruin, he had poured everything into strength and stamina—back then, all he had was a crude novice club, and swinging it against rotten skulls drained him to the bone. But those days were gone. Facing evolved monsters like the Hunters, raw muscle was no longer enough. Speed, precision, reflex—that was the currency of survival now, especially with firearms in his hands.
Around him, the battlefield was littered with corpses. The seven P1 zombies lay in grotesque heaps, their bodies leaking black ichor into the cracked road. From their deaths came spoils: a skill book, six white treasure boxes, and a modest clink of seventy Survival Coins.
Without hesitation, Ethan swept them up. Quick, efficient, every movement honed by necessity. The delay was death.
"Move!" He signaled, retreating with Luke at his side.
The trio had carved a bloody path through ten P1 zombies. With them gone, the swarm of ordinary undead posed little threat.
Ordinary zombies were pathetic in speed—slower even than the most sluggish schoolchild. The power-evolved P1s were faster, yes, moving at the limit of peak human ability, but they still could not match Ethan and Luke, whose bodies had been strengthened again and again through endless combat.
Their strategy was brutal yet effective: Spawn in the front, Ethan and Luke circling as sharp fangs. They cut down the evolved first, isolating them, while retreating step by step.
And Spawn… Spawn was no longer the frail summon Ethan had first called forth. The creature was a nightmare given form—its blood-stained bone axe rising and falling in wide arcs, splitting torsos, ripping skulls from spines. Each swing painted the air with red mist, and ordinary zombies crumpled like brittle dolls around it.
Without Spawn's bony frame drawing the horde's fury, Ethan and Luke would never have lasted. Fighting while retreating was an exhausting game—each strike drained stamina like leaking water from a cracked jar. The difference between facing one zombie and facing hundreds was night and day.
By the end, more than one hundred and fifty corpses littered the ground behind them. Their clothes were soaked with gore, the sticky weight of sweat and blood clinging to every step. And yet, they could not rest. They pushed on, panting, driven by sheer will.
Only when they broke free of the swarm and returned to Grace did Ethan finally allow his muscles to slacken.
Both men bit into the Apples of Vitality, the strange fruit flooding their veins with warmth, patching over fatigue like sunlight piercing through storm clouds.
Grace was waiting for them. Her figure stood out even in the bleak grayness of the ruined world—long hair tied back, her sharp features carrying both elegance and fire. She carried the air of a woman who once lived in grace and refinement, but now burned with the hunger of survival.
She stepped closer, her eyes—bright, almost feverish—locking onto Ethan. "How is it?"
Her voice trembled, not with fear, but with eagerness.
Ethan's reply was steady, low, a soldier's report. "The evolved are gone. About two hundred ordinary ones remain."
Grace's lips curled into a smile, a predator's hunger beneath her beauty. She had once been a fencing expert, a woman who thrived on skill, precision, and challenge. The long days trapped in weakness had been torture to her. Now, the fire in her eyes told Ethan she craved battle, craved growth, craved freedom.
"Then we'll clear them," she said, her tone closer to a vow than a question.
Alone, she would have been swallowed in minutes. But with Ethan, Luke, and the monstrous Spawn at her side, she believed—no, she knew—they could butcher two hundred corpses and claim the road as their own.
Ethan studied her for a moment. The blood on his hands, the weight of exhaustion pressing on his shoulders, the haunting truth that no matter how many zombies they felled, humanity was still rotting away day by day. Yet… he nodded.
"Yes."
The fight was not over. The real war was only beginning.