Adam walked slowly through the city's ruins, the bag of medicine bumping against his thigh with each step. The street was quiet, almost dead, though he constantly felt as if something were watching him from behind shattered windows and the shadows of abandoned cars. The air was thick with dust and the stench of burning, and every breath reminded him of the exhaustion creeping deeper into his bones.
His body ached, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He kept returning to that moment in the pharmacy—the moment the man transformed into something inhuman. When Adam, desperate, shouted and made an instinctive motion, and the air exploded between them.
"It must've been that skill... Void Manipulation," he muttered under his breath, gripping the bag's strap tighter.
In all the chaos, he had completely forgotten to analyze the ability he'd gained from the scroll. Void Manipulation... how did it even work? His mind circled around that wave—around that moment when the air seemed to tear the attacker from space itself. He'd have to test it properly later, analyze it in detail. First, he needed food. Shelter. Only then could he afford to experiment without risking his life.
After several more minutes of walking, Adam reached a fork in the road. He planned to turn right—he remembered there had once been a store a few blocks down. But after a few steps, he saw and heard them—an entire section of the street was packed with zombies. Maybe twenty, maybe thirty.
He stopped, muscles tensing. He froze for a second, assessing the situation. He could try to sneak along the side wall. But one mistake, one sound—and the entire horde would charge. He drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled through clenched teeth.
Not worth it.
He turned silently and backed away, looking for another route.
A few minutes later, he had to change course again—this time due to a collapsed tenement. He passed through an overgrown yard, jumped over a low wall, and found himself at another intersection.
From a distance, he heard groans—but this time, they weren't the usual kind. These were more intense. Screams. Impacts. Dull explosions.
He cautiously approached the corner of a building where the sounds originated and peeked around the edge.
What he saw etched itself into his memory.
On a wide street between wrecked cars and burning dumpsters, a group of people was fighting. Maybe ten of them—three wielded firearms, the others carried swords, clubs, one even had an axe. Two of them were surrounded by a blue glow—as if their skin shone from within. One of them raised his hand, and a streak of light shot from his fingers, striking a cluster of zombies and exploding in a blinding sphere.
Zombies—at least thirty—pressed in from every side. But these people fought with precision and coordination, like they'd done this many times before. Gunshots were accurate. Bladed strikes crushed skulls. Magic? Or maybe some kind of skill? Adam couldn't say. But one thing was certain—these people knew exactly what they were doing.
Amid the chaos, a man's voice rang out—loud and commanding:
"Erik, to the left! Hold the line! Maren, fire now!"
Adam noticed he was the one leading them—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in dark armor with metal reinforcements and leather pauldrons. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes glowed with intense light, as if something inside him burned. One hand fired bursts of energy while the other gestured rapidly, issuing orders.
But it was the woman on his left who caught Adam's attention most. She looked just over thirty. Her hair was tied in a high braid, and her face—slender and sun-kissed—bore a scar across her cheek. Dressed in dark, practical clothes resembling leather armor, she stood out not just in appearance, but in how she moved. A flaming blade spun around her in perfect harmony with each motion—as if she fought alongside a living being, her movements fluid, almost dance-like.
Adam instinctively clenched the strap of his bag. For a moment, he stared at the group. A thought flashed through his mind—what if... what if he approached them? Tried to talk? Asked for help? They were strong, organized. With people like that, he'd have a much better chance of surviving.
But hesitation quickly followed. This world is no longer operated by the old rules. He didn't know who they were. What they'd do if he approached. Would they take his bag? See him as a threat?
Too many questions and too many unknowns.
He inhaled through his nose, trying to calm the storm in his mind.
Not now. Maybe someday—but today, it was safer to stay away from people.
He backed away quietly, not wanting to risk a confrontation—with either zombies or the group.
He chose another path, this one leading through the ruined yard of an old office building. A section of the stairs lay shattered near the entrance. As he passed the rubble, his eyes caught a piece of metal jutting out from under the concrete.
He stopped. Pushed aside some bricks and pulled out a heavy steel pipe, slightly curved at one end as if bent by immense force. He tested it in his hand. Cold, but solid. It felt much better than the IV stand from the pharmacy.
He glanced at his old weapon—the dented stand was slung over his shoulder. With a sigh, he unhooked it and tossed it aside. That piece of metal had saved his life, but now he needed something truly fit for combat. With the pipe in hand, he felt a bit more secure.
He looked at it, then couldn't help comparing it to the gear those other people had. Armor, swords, blades made of energy—like something pulled straight from a fantasy game or another world. Where had they gotten it? How did they acquire such things?
He looked down at his own gloves—the black, flexible material with a faint sheen. Scout's Gloves. He remembered the gray box that had appeared above the dead fly's body. That's where they came from.
Then it hit him—those people hadn't brought that gear with them. They'd received it, just like he'd received the gloves. From the system.
Everything he saw could've come from those "drops."
"I wonder what else those boxes can drop..." he murmured with a half-smile, gripping the pipe tighter as he moved on.
Soon he spotted a market. The facade was partially destroyed, and one of the windows shattered. The store's logo hung by a single hinge, swaying gently in the wind. Adam approached cautiously, peering through the broken window. The interior was dim, but seemed empty.
He stepped inside slowly, moving silently. The smell was thick—a mix of vegetables, spilled milk, and blood. Shelves were overturned, products scattered across the floor. A shopping basket lay on its side near the register.
Then he heard it—shuffling.
A zombie emerged from behind one of the shelves. Its eyes were blank, head tilted. It didn't notice Adam right away. Adam didn't wait. He stepped forward quietly, swung, and struck the zombie's skull with the pipe. A dull thud and the crunch of breaking bone confirmed the hit. The body collapsed.
[Essence Record — Kill Confirmed]
[Target: Zombie (Level 2)]
[Reward: +1 STR]
Before he could read the notification fully, he heard something else. A wet, rapid rustling—almost like air being torn apart. It came from behind the coolers.
He turned just in time to see a blur. Something small, low, and far too fast. Before his eyes could focus, he caught a flash of movement—a crouched figure slicing through the space between shelves with terrifying fluidity. It moved unlike the others—no dragging feet, no groans.
Adam instantly knew—this wasn't a regular zombie. And instinctively, he understood—he couldn't let this thing get close.
Before he could react fully, the zombie leapt from the side, claws outstretched like blades. Adam jumped, but too late to avoid it entirely. The claws grazed his sleeve, slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. He lost balance and fell sideways, slamming his elbow on the floor. He hissed in pain but got up immediately—there was no time for hesitation.
The zombie lunged again, attacking from a low stance—almost crawling, then suddenly pouncing. Adam dodged to the side but misjudged his footing—he crashed into a shelf and nearly fell. The pipe whooshed through the air but struck nothing.
The creature vanished from view for a second, then reappeared—this time from the side, leaping over a toppled basket of goods. Adam barely dodged, stumbling backward over bottles. That's when he saw it—glass drink shelves.
A flash of inspiration.
Adam realized he couldn't win with brute force—he needed to be clever. He backed toward the shelf and, at the last second, knocked it over. Glass bottles shattered across the floor, and the smaller zombie slid into them, crashing down hard, its head slamming against the tiles. It tried to get up, claws scraping the floor, body twitching, still trying to find purchase.
Adam didn't wait. He lunged forward and swung the pipe with savage force. The first blow hit the arm, then the shoulder, and finally—with a sickening crunch—the skull. With each hit, the twitching slowed until it stopped completely. Only the spilled blood and shattered glass bore witness to what had happened.
[Essence Record — Kill Confirmed]
[Target: Zombie (Level 4)]
[Reward: +3 AGI | +1 VIT]
Adam glanced at the system window glowing before his eyes. Level four zombie. Stronger than the others.
The last enemy had been more dangerous—smaller, but moving with startling agility. Adam had to fight hard just to survive.
Then he remembered that one moment—when the claws grazed his arm. He looked down. The sleeve was sliced. Clean, like a blade had passed right next to the skin. He ran his fingers over the fabric, searching for pain.
Nothing. No cut. Just torn cloth.
A chill ran down his spine. So close. Just a split second away. If he hadn't stepped back—he might already be one of them. A zombie. Just hunger and instinct.
He froze.
"Wait... how do I even know that scratches turn people into zombies?" he thought. "In movies, sure, but this isn't a movie. This is real. Or... is it really different?"
He looked again at the torn sleeve. His skin was untouched. But the thought that it could have been worse was hard to ignore. In this world, it was better to assume the worst. Better to avoid contact. Better not to take chances.
Because in this world, mistakes weren't forgiven.