'Ding!'
The soft chime of the elevator echoed like a whisper before a storm. With a groaning hiss, the doors slid apart, revealing the dimly lit lobby of the building. Shadows danced across the cracked tiles and smeared walls—silent harbingers of the horror that lay ahead.
Yuki stepped out first, her metallic boots hitting the floor with a low, ominous clink-clink. Her silhouette gleamed under the flickering ceiling light—an armored wraith, blade in hand, unmoved by death.
Merek followed, his revolver already drawn. The heavy weight of the gun in his right hand was oddly comforting. Then he saw them—five of them. Three lurked on the left, and two staggered from the right. The air thickened instantly, laced with rot, sweat, and the coppery bite of dried blood.
The last of the three on the left was grotesquely bloated, its massive frame jiggling with each step. A deep, guttural growl escaped its maw, overpowering the rasping breaths of the others.
Merek didn't need to ask. He knew.
"High-level…" he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.
"I'll take the right," he declared aloud, lifting the revolver and locking onto the two approaching zombies. They were young—barely older than teens. One still wore a bloodstained school blazer, the other had a cracked phone hanging from their neck, frozen in a message they never got to send.
Merek didn't blink.
He steadied his breath, heartbeat hammering like war drums in his chest. His aim had always been shaky, but at this distance, he didn't need to be perfect—just fast.
Closer. Closer.
The sound hit him first—raspy moans laced with hunger, the slap of wet flesh against tile, the sickly-sweet stench of decay.
Click. He pulled the hammer back.
Bang!
The silver bullet roared from the chamber like a dragon's breath. It tore through the air, a streak of burning light invisible to human eyes, until it exploded into the first zombie's skull.
Bone shattered.
The body jerked mid-step before collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.
Merek's body moved on instinct. He twisted, shoulder slamming into the wall with a jolt of pain—but he barely felt it. The second zombie lunged, teeth bared, eyes glazed in death.
He raised his arm again, barrel aligning with its center mass.
Bang!
"Three bullets remaining."
Merek muttered it under his breath, the revolver heavy in his grip, still warm from the recent shot. He turned his head toward Yuki's side—just in time to see her crash into the wall.
The blow had come from the largest of the undead—a grotesque mass of muscle and rotting fat. It had waited while she swiftly dispatched the first two, then lunged with surprising speed. The force of the strike sent her flying, seventy-five kilograms of steel slamming into concrete with a thunderous crack. Crumbled plaster and dust rained down around her.
Merek winced. Even for a wraith, that hit was brutal.
But Yuki rose.
Her sword hissed as she raised it, then bent her knees low, her helm tilting forward. For a breath, she stilled—then vanished.
A blur.
She shot forward in a line, so fast the eye could barely follow. Afterimages of her form lingered in the air—shades frozen in the arc of a strike, the twist of her torso, the swing of her blade. The zombie stood, confused, its sluggish mind unable to comprehend.
Then—thud.
Its head slipped clean off its shoulders, hitting the floor with a wet bounce and rolling past Merek's feet. Yuki emerged behind the beast, mid-stride, cloak fluttering.
She didn't pause. With an elegant, almost lazy swing, she bisected the corpse from head to groin and walked through the falling halves as if parting a curtain.
A soft mist of white death-energy rose from the three corpses and was instantly drawn toward her, seeping through the slits of her helm like steam being inhaled.
A crisp chime echoed in Merek's mind.
[Your Wraith has risen to Level 4!]
His jaw hung slightly open. That speed. That precision. That was no brute-force strike. That was a technique—one honed in life, not granted by undeath.
"What was that?" he asked, stunned, as he crouched beside the corpses he had taken down, fingers deftly working to pry out the still-glowing essence cores. Yuki moved to do the same with her kills, movements calm and methodical.
"A technique I learned… when I was alive." Her voice was hollow, yet something in it—a note of memory, perhaps—lingered behind the helm.
Merek's eyes lit up.
A technique? That powerful?
It looked every bit like a stage-one combat skill. Which meant if his wraiths could retain and execute their own techniques from life…
Then his job wasn't just viable—it was terrifying.
His hands trembled, not from fear, but anticipation.
He had to weave another. Soon.
But weaving required a soul.
Grinding his teeth, he placed the essence cores on his palm and began swallowing them, one after the other, the bitter taste crawling down his throat.
Then he swallowed the one drawn from the fat zombie.
The notification hit him like lightning.
[You have consumed a level 5 zombie essence core.]
[You have risen to Level 5!]
He paused.
The world looked a little sharper now. The air was lighter. Something deep within him stirred.
Power.
With renewed vigor coursing through him, Merek strode out of the hallway and into the building's lobby—a vast chamber littered with overturned chairs, broken signage, and thick silence.
He stopped.
The exit was sealed. A burglary gate of thick steel bars stood between him and the street beyond, chained shut with a padlock. Behind it, a roller shutter loomed, its edges curled just enough to hint at daylight beyond. Freedom.
Three steps forward—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He turned.
Five individuals stepped into the lobby from the hallway. Under the bright, functioning ceiling lights, every detail was visible—the wear in their clothes, the grime smudged on their faces, the desperation in their eyes.
Three men. Two women. One woman clutched a baby to her chest. The child didn't cry—it just stared blankly with wide, unfocused eyes. Among the men, one stood ahead of the rest. He wore a dirt-smeared, half-buttoned suit, the tie slung loosely around his neck like an afterthought.
His shoes clicked sharply on the clean floor, an echo of a world not yet gone.
"Why did you kill those zombies?!" he barked, fury surging in his voice.