The scent of blood and steel overflowed from the surroundings, the synchronized beating hearts of myriads desperately clinging to whatever hope they could procure. They stomped the dirt with their feet, and the crimson flowers that bloomed across the ground, along with it the myriads danced to the tune of death at their final hour.
Battered bodies, bleeding wounds, and the sight of death in their eyes gripped every fiber of their being. Breathless gasps, fatigued and exhausted, moved through all their bodies. As if they were repeatedly being hammered down every single passing moment. The sweat and blood they toiled would just end in the hands of the abyss.
Excruciating pain, families flashing before their eyes as they stared into their final moments—with a final breath, they perished eternally, or how it was supposed to be. The world's virus reactivated their long-dead cells, modifying them to be capable of sustaining themselves. Yet their bodies remained dead.
