He ran.
The infected were closing in fast — faster than before. Their growls echoed through the concrete ruins of the city, like a chorus of hunger and madness.
Ryuji's chest burned, his legs numb from sprinting. His katana was stained black with blood. He'd cut down three — maybe four — but they kept coming.
He darted into a collapsed alleyway, chest heaving.
Rain began to fall.
Cold, heavy drops.
Lightning flashed in the distance.
"Why won't they stop?"
Then—pain.
A sharp sting in his shoulder.
He turned, eyes wide, to see one of them — a crawler, half-bodied but fast — sinking its jagged teeth into his flesh.
He screamed and stabbed it through the eye, slamming its head into the wall with his boot.
But the damage was done.
Blood ran down his shoulder.
He fell back, gasping.
"No… not like this…"
The infection was already working. He could feel it — heat pulsing through his veins, a burning fever twisting his stomach. His vision blurred. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He crawled to a rooftop, dragging his blade with him, his strength fading.
The katana trembled in his grip.
"Grandpa… I failed you."
Rain soaked his hair. The city looked so distant from up here. Silent. Dead.
With a shaking hand, Ryuji raised the blade. He placed the edge at his chest, near his heart.
"Better this… than turning into one of them."
He closed his eyes.
And then —
The sky screamed.
A bolt of lightning tore down from the heavens like a divine judgment, blinding white and furious.
It struck the rooftop — and him.
The world exploded in blue light.
Time stopped.
In that moment, Ryuji didn't feel pain.
He felt power.
Images flashed in his mind — ancient warriors standing against impossible odds, swords crackling with lightning, seven forms of thunder and death.
Their voices echoed in his head, distant and eternal.
"You were chosen."
"Awaken."
"Become the blade."
Ryuji gasped, his body seizing. Electricity surged through every nerve, every muscle, every memory.
The virus inside him screamed — and died.
His eyes opened. No longer dull.
But glowing — faintly, faintly blue.
He stood. Slowly. Power humming in his veins like a storm waiting to break.
The wound on his shoulder had stopped bleeding. The flesh was knitting itself back together.
And in his hand, the katana sparked — tiny arcs of lightning dancing along the blade's surface.
Ryuji stared down at the weapon.
It wasn't just steel anymore.
It was his.
"Thunderstrike Form One… I don't know how I know it. But I do."
Behind him, another infected emerged from the stairwell, snarling.
Ryuji didn't flinch.
He stepped forward, blade raised.
And moved like lightning.