One of the soldiers gestured for Arjun to transform back. Without hesitation, his massive lizard form shrank, his body shifting seamlessly until he stood in his human form once more.
A soldier rushed over, handing him a set of clothes. "Here, put these on."
Arjun nodded, quickly slipping into the clothes. The fabric was rough against his skin, but he ignored the discomfort and followed the soldiers toward their leader.
Inside a makeshift command center, a sturdy-built man in a military uniform stood waiting. His sharp eyes assessed Arjun before extending a firm handshake. "Welcome, Arjun."
Arjun returned the handshake. "Hello."
The captain pulled out a small metallic card and handed it over. "This is your ID. Congratulations, you're now a Level 3 citizen of Whitefield Stronghold."
Arjun raised an eyebrow. "Level 3?"
The captain gave a short nod. "Every citizen here is ranked. Ordinary people are Level 5. Awakened ones are Level 4. But if an Awakened is powerful—like you—they start at Level 3. From there, you can rise through the ranks, all the way to Level 1, by contributing to the stronghold."
Arjun turned the card over in his hands, weighing the implications. A structured system, clear-cut ranks… This wasn't just a refuge; it was an organized society.
The captain continued, "The higher your level, the more resources the military allocates to you. Stronger Awakened get better weapons, training, and support."
His gaze sharpened. "If you join the military, you'll gain contribution points much faster. We'll also invest in your growth from day one."
It wasn't just a casual offer—there was an edge of expectation in the captain's voice. The stronghold clearly needed powerful fighters, and Arjun was a valuable asset.
But Arjun had already made up his mind. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm not looking to join the military right now."
The captain's expression stiffened for a moment before he let out a short breath. "I see." He didn't argue, but the look in his eyes said he'd seen this before—new Awakened refusing at first, only to return when they realized how tough survival was without military backing.
"Well," the captain said, crossing his arms, "if you ever change your mind, come find me. I'm Captain Ranjit."
Arjun gave a polite nod. "I'll keep that in mind."
Arjun took the ID card and stepped past the checkpoint, officially entering the stronghold. The moment he crossed the barrier, his eyes swept across the surroundings.
It wasn't much different from the outside.
The military had set up heavy roadblocks, turning the streets into fortified zones. Rows of tanks sat menacingly behind steel barricades, their muzzles pointed outward, ready for any threat. Armed soldiers patrolled the area, their expressions hard and unreadable. The air was thick with tension, an invisible pressure pressing down on everyone who passed through.
Despite the heavy military presence, the stronghold still had signs of daily life. City buses ran at regular intervals, transporting people from one area to another. The sight was oddly normal, yet something felt off.
Then, Arjun noticed the bodies.
Zombie corpses littered the roadsides. Some were fresh, their twisted forms a grim reminder of recent battles. Others had been dead for so long that they were nearly unrecognizable, crushed under the weight of countless vehicles until they had become part of the asphalt itself. The stench of decay hung in the air, mixing with the exhaust fumes and the metallic tang of gunpowder.
His lips curled in distaste. "Truly an awful place," he muttered under his breath.
Beyond the barricades, soldiers stood like statues, gripping their rifles with white-knuckled intensity. Their eyes, cold and alert, flicked over every vehicle and person that passed. No one was trusted here—not even the living.
Whitefield wasn't a small area. To secure this stronghold, the military must have suffered heavy losses. Every inch of land here had likely been paid for in blood.
Arjun lifted his gaze to the high-rise buildings towering above. Many had been repurposed, their windows reinforced with metal sheets and sandbags. Military flags fluttered from balconies, marking them as command centers. The residential zone had to be further inside, away from the danger.
He approached a soldier standing near a checkpoint. "Where can I exchange items?"
The soldier barely glanced at him before pointing down the road. "Follow the main street until you reach the second barricade. You'll see a repurposed school building—Trading Hall is written on it."
Arjun nodded in thanks and boarded the nearest bus.
The vehicle was nearly empty, only a handful of passengers sitting in silence. No one spoke. The atmosphere inside was thick with exhaustion and quiet despair. As the bus rolled forward, it reached another checkpoint.
Through the window, Arjun observed rows of tents clustered together in makeshift camps. This area was clearly where the general population stayed. The sight inside was even grimmer—most of the people here were injured, elderly, or women tending to children. Their eyes held a dull, distant look, as if hope had long since abandoned them.
The men, he realized, were likely out working—fighting, scavenging, or doing whatever it took to keep their families alive.
As the bus slowed to a stop, Arjun's eyes landed on a large building. It was once a school, but its name had been crudely painted over. In bold, uneven strokes, new words had been scrawled across its walls:
"Trading Hall."
More than a thousand soldiers guarded the school, their presence turning the once peaceful institution into a heavily fortified exchange hub. People moved in and out, their backs weighed down with goods. With the sheer volume of materials being transported, logistics required a constant workforce. Ordinary citizens were under military protection, but in return, they had to take shifts helping with transport and distribution.
Armed patrols roamed the perimeter, their eyes scanning every vehicle that approached. They were on high alert, their expressions hardened from experience.
As the bus rolled to a stop, Arjun stepped off. He adjusted his bag and walked toward the school entrance, stopping multiple times to show his ID at various checkpoints. Security was tight—understandably so. Resources were survival itself in this world.
Upon entering the building, he noticed a large bulletin board near the entrance. It had once been used for school announcements, but now it displayed lists of tradeable goods and their exchange rates. The neat handwriting and bold numbers made it clear—this was the economy of the stronghold.
His eyes skimmed over the listings:
List No. 37: 10 kg of rice and other food items can be exchanged for 1,000 contribution points and 100 bullets, or equivalent items of the same value. This exchange has no time limit and can be repeated.
List No. 71: 100 boxes of aspirin and other anti-inflammatory drugs can be exchanged for 1,000 contribution points and 100 bullets, or equivalent items of the same value. This exchange has no time limit and can be repeated.
List No. 92: 10 boxes of AA and AAA batteries can be exchanged for 100 contribution points and 10 bullets, or equivalent items of the same value. This exchange has no time limit and can be repeated.
Arjun's brows lifted slightly in surprise. Food, medicine, and bullets… The contribution points are generous.
If he didn't need to go out and kill zombies regularly, he could probably survive just by trading. But the sheer quantity of supplies needed was daunting. Keeping up with these demands would be exhausting.
Without drawing attention, a bag suddenly appeared in his hands. He moved toward one of the counters and placed it down.
"Hello," he said to the woman behind the desk. "How much will I get for these?"
She barely acknowledged him, focused instead on unpacking the bag. Her hands moved efficiently as she took out the contents—five 10 kg rice bags, assorted pulses, some clothes, and a well-stocked medical kit.
After a quick calculation, she looked up and said, "You'll get 8,000 contribution points."
Arjun nodded. That was more than he expected.
"If you want to proceed, give me your ID," she added in the same monotone voice, clearly used to this routine.
"Yes, please," Arjun replied, handing over the card.
She inserted it into a small terminal, waited a moment, then handed it back. "The amount has been allocated to your card." Her tone made it clear—transaction complete, time to move on.
Arjun took his card and stepped back, his mind racing. They have a working digital system inside the stronghold?
A realization struck him. Did they set up a Local Area Network (LAN) here?
It made sense. The military must have created an internal network to manage data and transactions efficiently.
Arjun wandered through the trading hall, scanning the nearby shops for anything useful. His eyes widened when he saw a display filled with firearms—everything from pistols and assault rifles to full-fledged rocket launchers.
For a moment, he couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement. He had always dreamed of using guns, just like in the action movies he had grown up watching. But in India, firearms were tightly controlled—only those with licenses could own them. Yet now, after the apocalypse, the military was openly selling weapons to the public.
His gaze lingered on the weapons, and he quickly realized something. These must be old military stock, released to civilians to increase their survival chances. If that were the case, he needed to get one before supplies ran out.
But when he checked the prices, his excitement faded.
A simple handgun costs 1,000 points… and just 15 bullets cost 150 points?
It was expensive—too expensive. Even if he had 15 bullets, there was no guarantee he could take down nine or ten zombies. Not every shot would hit the head, especially with how fast those things moved.
And the assault rifles? The cheapest one started at 5,000 points, with each bullet priced at 50 points.
His earlier confidence in his wealth crumbled. I thought I was rich after looting those shopping centers, but at these prices… I'm barely getting by.
He sighed. The apocalypse had only just begun, and he already foresaw that food and medicine prices would skyrocket in the coming days. Weapons might become even more expensive—or worse, unavailable.
A soldier behind the counter cleared his throat. "Sir, are you looking to buy something?"
Arjun nodded. "Yes. I'll take a Glock 19 and 15 rounds of ammo." He handed over his ID card.
The soldier processed the transaction and placed the handgun and bullets in front of him. Arjun picked up the weapon, feeling its weight in his hands. He had never fired a gun before—he'd have to figure it out on his own.
"Anything else, sir?" the soldier asked.
Arjun hesitated for a moment before leaning in slightly. "Actually… I was hoping to get some information about the situation outside. Do you know where I can find updates?"
The soldier's face hardened. "Apologies, sir. We're not allowed to share details about the outside world. It's to prevent panic among civilians."
Arjun frowned. So they're keeping people in the dark? That made things more complicated. He couldn't just walk out without knowing what he was heading into. He needed information before deciding his next move.
Someone here must know. Maybe Subhash and Janvi could help him.
Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he tucked the gun inside and moved deeper into the trading hall. The space was divided into different sections—each serving a specific purpose.
There was a job posting board where people could take on tasks in exchange for contribution points. A mission section where dangerous assignments were listed, likely for those strong enough to handle them.
Then, his eyes landed on something familiar.
The serum.
Janvi had mentioned it before. He stepped closer to check the details. The price tag made his stomach drop.
100,000 contribution points.
Arjun exhaled slowly. So that's how much it costs to strengthen oneself in this world…
He didn't buy it since he now had less than 8,000 points. He needed to gather more if he wanted to purchase it.
After exploring a few more sections, Arjun finally stepped out of the trading hall.
The moment he emerged, a crowd was already gathering near the entrance.
"Sir! Do you need a mechanic? I can fix cars and drive too! Just 10 units per day!"
"Sir! Do you need a servant? I can cook and clean! Only 5 units per day!"
More voices piled on, desperate and pleading. Within seconds, people swarmed around him, each trying to sell their skills, their labor—anything for a chance to survive.
Arjun barely had time to react before the crowd pressed closer, hands reaching out, voices overlapping, their desperation almost suffocating.
"Silence!" A soldier's sharp command cut through the noise.
"Get away from here!"
At once, the people scattered, fear overriding their hunger for work.
Arjun stood still for a moment, watching them retreat. His gaze lingered on a few faces—men and women who, not too long ago, were probably middle-class professionals, people with stable jobs, homes, and families. Yet within mere days, the apocalypse had stripped them of everything, forcing them to beg for work just to survive another day.
A thought surfaced in his mind.
If people are willing to work for so little… can I hire scientists? Engineers? If I start building my own world, shaping it in the right direction… would it be possible?
The idea took root.
I could do it, couldn't I?
But he had to be careful. His secret—his power—had to remain hidden. The space inside him was unlike anything in this world. If developed properly, it could become his true home, a safe haven.
One day, when it was strong enough… he wouldn't have to fear anyone.
For now, he tucked the thought away and moved forward, his mind already calculating the next steps.