Back to the present.
It was a miracle Lucas had survived this long—he'd even managed to kill one of the zombies after stealing one of their swords.
Unfortunately, his injuries were severe. He felt like he might pass out at any moment, and with every passing second, he slipped further out of consciousness.
Cough! Huff! Huff...!
Lucas was running, his body covered in wounds. Ten zombies chased behind him in a frenzy.
He gritted his teeth, enduring the biting pain.
Deep gashes were visible on his chest, waist, and back. Smaller cuts were scattered across the rest of his body.
The worst was a stab wound in his abdomen—deep and bleeding profusely.
All of this made Lucas look utterly pitiful, especially since he was now completely naked.
'I shouldn't have killed them in the first place,' Lucas thought.
The zombies were so mindless that they all simply followed him as he ran in circles. Other than their combat ability, they resembled the typical zombies you'd see in a Hollywood movie.
But no sooner had that thought crossed his mind than ten more zombies emerged from the shadows and joined the chase.
Lucas's heart sank. Now, zombies were coming at him from every direction.
Clang! Clang! Clang...!
His sword clashed against theirs. Two zombies stood in his way, swinging their blades. Lucas's hands trembled as he tried to hold off their pressure.
He attempted to break through, but their swordplay blocked every opening.
Though they were dumb, their sword skills were decent. Their techniques hinted that they had once been trained swordsmen. That was bad news. With his battered body, Lucas struggled to parry even basic attacks.
He looked for a gap to escape, but the zombies behind him had already caught up. Their swords swung toward him from all sides.
There was no way to dodge the seven blades aimed at him.
Still, Lucas didn't give in. Gritting his teeth, he summoned the last of his strength and swung his sword.
Splat!
The sounds of metal clashing, flesh tearing, and blood spurting all seemed to vanish, replaced by one deafening silence—the sound of blood pouring out.
Lucas's desperate swing decapitated two zombies.
But that was all he could do.
A moment later, he realized his body had been struck—his head was severed.
The last thing he heard was the sound of his own blood hitting the ground.
'Huh?'
His vision flickered.
He saw two zombie heads falling through the air.
He instinctively turned and saw five zombies mid-swing, their swords closing in.
Time slowed.
He could clearly see their attack angles, and as he moved to dodge—
Time snapped back to normal.
Their swords sliced into him, cutting off his hands, then his head again.
He died—again—feeling every ounce of pain from the fresh wounds.
Suddenly, he saw the two severed zombie heads again. He was back—again.
Confused and in pain, he groaned.
"What the hell is happening to me?"
The five zombie swords landed once more.
He died.
And then, again.
Over and over, Lucas returned to the instant before his death, forced to experience it anew. The pain accumulated. It didn't fade—it worsened.
'Am I in hell? Is this my punishment? Is this because I killed Simon?'
He died again before the thought finished.
At that moment, Lucas faced two choices:
First, he could let his consciousness fade. Eventually, the pain would vanish, drowned by numbness and death.
Second, he could force himself to stay awake—focus, fight, and keep dying.
The first choice was tempting. His body longed for it.
But his mind refused.
He didn't know how many times he'd died. He'd lost count.
Each time he returned, he bit his tongue—forcing himself to focus. He studied the movements of the five attackers.
Slash!
Dead again.
He came back.
Bit his tongue.
Died.
Again.
The agony drove him insane.
Then—instinct? Desperation? Inspiration?—he tried something different. Before the remaining four swords reached him, he threw his head toward the blade that had killed him before.
Another decapitation.
But this time, the pain was... less.
As he stared at the falling heads again, something exploded inside him—a hidden strength.
His knees buckled, dropping him low.
In one smooth motion, he spun in a circular low kick, sweeping the legs of all five zombies. Without pause, Lucas leapt up and decapitated them one by one.
More zombies came.
He barely had time to breathe.
Clang!
Fourteen more emerged.
He'd expected it. They always came after a while.
They were endless.
Outnumbered and cornered, Lucas let them kill him before his injuries worsened.
He died. Killed them. Died again. Killed again.
Over and over.
He fought through death, clinging to consciousness through pure will.
Eventually, something changed inside him.
He noticed it—time slowing again.
At first, it was only a blink.
But the more he died and came back, the longer the slow-motion moments lasted.
Without realizing it, his instincts were evolving—sharpening into something inhuman.
He had chosen to stay conscious, to suffer, and now he was changing.
After hundreds of deaths, Lucas had fully immersed himself in battle. His mind faded behind pure instinct.
If his former self could see what he had become, he wouldn't recognize it.
Mountains of zombie corpses surrounded him. The air was thick with the stench of blood and rot.
A massive, blood-red eye high above still watched him coldly—blinking now and then.
No one knew how much time had passed. Ten minutes? An hour? A full day?
Lucas no longer cared.
A notification echoed faintly in his mind:
[Circle of Slaughter Ends]
[You've Proved You're Worthy to Be the Godslayer's Successor]
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