Ethan's eyes sharpened, almost glowing as he read the stat bonuses. This wasn't just armor—it was a power multiplier. "I want this," he said immediately, voice decisive.
Grace chuckled softly. "I figured you would."
Grace's gaze lingered on the gleaming Level 2 Protective Garment. There was no hint of resentment in her eyes—she knew full well that the killing blow against the P1 zombie had been struck by Ethan, with Spawn's brute force breaking the creature's defenses. She wasn't one to let pride push her into foolish disputes. In the apocalypse, the wrong argument could cost more than equipment—it could cost lives.
Ethan ran his hand across the smooth, reinforced weave of the armor, feeling the strength in its layered construction. Each fiber seemed to hum with durability, a silent promise that it could take a beating and still protect the one wearing it. In a world where a single scratch could mean a slow, horrifying death, this wasn't just gear.
It was survival.
It was life.
Without wasting time, Ethan reached for the nearest white treasure box. A bright white flare burst out—but as the light faded, his hands closed on empty air. The box was gone, leaving nothing behind.
He frowned, his mind immediately working through the odds. So much for luck… it's clearly taking the day off.
Not letting disappointment slow him down, Ethan grabbed the second white box. This time, the glow subsided to reveal a long, sleek Straightblade—its steel shimmering with a razor edge that promised clean, deadly cuts.
Grace's eyes immediately lit up. She stepped forward, her beauty sharpened by the intensity in her expression. The fight had left her hair slightly disheveled, a few rebellious strands framing her flawless, sweat-dusted face. She took the blade in both hands, testing its balance, the steel singing faintly as it moved.
"This," she said softly but with absolute conviction, "is mine."
Ethan gave her a knowing smirk. "No argument here."
He had seen her skill with lesser weapons—paired with this blade, she would become twice as dangerous.
Grace ran her fingertips over the polished surface of the sword guard as if committing every detail to memory. "Keep the rest. This is all I want."
"Fair enough."
Ethan slipped the rest of the loot into his pack and began fastening the Level 2 Protective Garment to his body. The fit was snug but allowed full mobility, and the moment he tightened the last strap, he could feel the difference—like his entire body had just been upgraded.
---
"We're here!" Luna's voice rang out from the front of the bus as it slowed to a stop. The girl's dormitory loomed ahead—its once bright facade now shadowed with grime, shattered windows, and the faint moaning of the dead.
"Move!" Ethan barked. He and Spawn burst through the bus door, boots hitting the cracked pavement hard.
Twenty zombies lurched toward them, their movements quickening at the sight of fresh prey.
Spawn charged first, his massive axe cleaving the air in deadly arcs. Each swing was a blur of blood and bone-shattering force—one zombie lost its head entirely, another's torso split apart like wet paper. None of them could withstand the skeletal juggernaut.
Ethan followed close behind, and the moment his boots hit the killing ground, he became a phantom. The new armor's agility boost made him faster, sharper—his sword flashed once, and a zombie's head spun into the air. Another lunged at his side, and he sidestepped so quickly it was as if he had vanished, then brought his blade down in a perfect vertical cut.
From inside the bus, Luna's voice trembled in awe. "He's… faster than yesterday. So much stronger." She clenched the seat in front of her. "When will I ever be that strong?"
William, sitting beside her, could only watch in silence as Ethan and Spawn tore through the horde like wolves in a flock of sheep. The envy in his eyes was impossible to hide.
Grace joined them moments later, her Straightblade carving graceful arcs through the air. She was lethal elegance—every strike calculated, every movement flowing like a dancer's step, her beauty magnified by the raw force of survival.
In minutes, the dormitory entrance was littered with unmoving corpses.
---
"Luke! Where are you? It's me—Ethan!" His voice carried over the battlefield.
Inside dorm room 206, a tall, striking young man leapt to the window. Relief and excitement flashed in his features. "Ethan! I'm here—second floor, dorm 206!"
Ethan turned to Grace. "Hold this position. Don't let the bus get swarmed."
He didn't need to explain further—he knew the noise would draw more undead, and someone had to anchor the defense. Grace simply nodded, eyes scanning for movement.
Ethan and Spawn rushed through the entrance. Six zombies blocked the stairwell, and the two cut through them without slowing—Spawn smashing ribcages to dust, Ethan slicing clean through necks and spines.
Halfway up the stairs, a sudden blur of motion lunged from the shadows—a diminutive zombie, its skin a slick blue-gray, moving with an unnatural, predatory grace.
Its claw shot toward Ethan's chest.
Instinct screamed, and he threw himself backward, flipping over the stair railing and rolling to the floor below. The claws slashed the air where his head had been an instant before.
"So fast…" His pulse pounded, his body tensed. Even with the new armor and boosts, the thing was nearly too quick for him to read. Without it, he would have been shredded before he even realized the attack was coming.
This was no ordinary zombie.
[[Speed-Evolved Infected – S1: Level 10 – Type I Variant]
A swift, early-stage evolved infected bred for high-speed strikes and rapid pursuit. Though not at its ultimate mutation stage, this variant's blistering acceleration and reflexes already make it a nightmare for survivors. It thrives on relentless hit-and-run tactics, darting through open spaces or weaving between obstacles to outmaneuver prey. Often deployed alongside bulkier infected, it serves as the swift spearhead that disrupts defensive formations before the rest of the swarm closes in.
Traits:
Explosive Acceleration: Can launch into a full sprint in less than a heartbeat, covering short distances before a target can react.
Rapid Movement: Sustains high speed over open ground, capable of circling prey and striking from blind spots.
Heightened Reflexes: Reacts to sudden threats or attacks almost instinctively, making it difficult to land precise blows.
Erratic Evasion: Constantly changes direction mid-charge, making ranged targeting difficult for untrained marksmen.
Skill – Viral Infection:
Carries a potent, fast-acting strain of the virus. Even a fleeting slash or glancing bite is enough to doom a victim. Those infected by this variant often succumb before realizing they've been hit, mutating into standard drones or lesser speed-types within minutes.]
The first clash was a blur—one that forced Ethan to retreat two full steps, boots scraping against the cold concrete. The S1 zombie was unlike the sluggish corpses they'd been cutting down all morning. It moved like something possessed, a ghost with claws.
It darted past Ethan in a flicker, its talons flashing, and slammed into Spawn.
The sound was like a hammer against brittle stone—its claw hooked into Spawn's ribcage, wrenching free an entire piece of bleached bone with frightening precision. The way it dissected him was almost surgical, an eerie mix of animal ferocity and cold, calculated cruelty.
Spawn's hollow eyes flared with power, his left arm swinging the massive axe in a deadly arc. But the S1 was already gone, a streak of blue-gray, its head twisting unnaturally as it evaded the blow.
Ethan didn't hesitate. His mind sharpened to a single thought—Close the distance. Take the kill.
He shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow, armor plates clinking faintly against one another. The cold gleam of his blade caught the dim stairwell light as he brought it down in a clean, lethal strike.
But the S1 wasn't just fast—it was anticipating him. It swayed right, the blade missing its skull by a finger's width, then countered instantly. Its claw slashed toward his throat, the movement so quick it blurred.
A light flared in Ethan's eyes—not fear, but calculation. He pivoted his weight, twisting his hips, and drove his boot into the zombie's midsection with ruthless force. The impact cracked like breaking timber, hurling the creature several yards back.
Before it could recover, Spawn surged forward, axe aimed to split it in half.
Again, the S1 twisted—its movements almost playful in their mockery of human reflexes. Spawn's strike hit nothing but air.
That was all the opening Ethan needed.
He stepped in, his sword flashing once. In mid-air, the S1 had nowhere to go—its own speed had betrayed it. The blade carved through the base of its skull, severing its head clean from its shoulders.
Foul black-red blood sprayed in a gruesome arc, spattering across the stairwell walls and Ethan's clothes. The head rolled down the steps, thudding to a stop against the wall.
Ethan stood there for a moment, chest heaving, adrenaline burning in his veins. He knew—without the Level 2 Protective Garment's stat boosts—the fight would have ended with his infection, not the zombie's death.
From the headless corpse, a shimmering white sphere rose into the air, pulsing faintly before sinking into Ethan's chest.
A familiar chime echoed in his mind.
[You have advanced to Level 9. You have earned 2 status points. Please allocate your attributes accordingly!]
"Agility, one point. Stamina, one point," Ethan decided instantly, mind already looking to the next fight.
Beside the corpse lay the spoils—two white treasure chests and a black-bound skill book, its surface etched with curling patterns that seemed to twist when viewed directly.
He picked it up and flipped the cover.
[[Shadow Steps – Level 2]
Type: Active
Effect:
Allows the user to merge with ambient darkness, moving with supernatural swiftness and precision for a brief window. While active, the user becomes a blur on the battlefield—slipping between enemy strikes, closing distances in an instant, and delivering rapid counterattacks before foes can track their movements. This ability demands precise stamina control; overexertion risks leaving the body drained and vulnerable before the shadows dissipate.
Bonuses While Active:
+30 Agility for 30 seconds
Activation Cost:
15 Stamina Points
Cooldown:
None (May be used repeatedly as long as sufficient stamina remains)
Sell Value:
350 Survival Coins
Description:
A stealth combat technique rumored to originate from the hidden assassins of the post-outbreak underground. Those who master Shadow Steps become ghosts in the fray, flickering in and out of sight with each heartbeat. In skilled hands, it is a tool of silent slaughter—yet for the reckless, it can become a swift road to exhaustion and death. To wield the shadows is to gamble with your own endurance, for they give speed freely… but demand a heavy price when your strength wanes.]
Ethan's lips curved into a rare grin. Perfect.
The black light from the book surged into him, coiling through his veins like smoke, forming a faint rune beneath his sea of knowledge. Power—pure and lethal—settled into his muscles.
The treasure chests went into his back pack without hesitation. Time was still bleeding away, and Luke was waiting.
Zhong Hai University's dormitories were laid out like military barracks—ten four-person rooms per floor. Zombies were scattered rather than clustered, and Ethan and Spawn cleared the second floor in swift, brutal sweeps.
Finally, Ethan stopped outside Room 206. He knocked once, loud enough to carry. "Luke, it's me—open up!"
The door flew open, revealing Luke. He was tall, clean-cut, with the kind of face that would have made him a poster boy for university sports before the world fell apart. In his hand was a novice staff, gripped more for comfort than utility.
"Luke," Ethan said with a relieved smirk, stepping forward to punch him lightly on the shoulder. "Still breathing, huh? Thought I'd have to drag your sorry hide out of here."
Luke grinned, a mix of relief and disbelief. "Ethan, buddy… I owe you big time."
Before Ethan could respond, a clear, melodic voice drifted from inside.
"It is you… Ethan. Been a long time, hasn't it?"
A woman stepped out—tall, with an athletic, sculpted frame that spoke of years in sports, her movements fluid and confident. Long black hair spilled in silken waves down her back, framing a face that was both sharp and soft in perfect balance. Her eyes caught the light, deep and intelligent, and her oval cheeks were flushed with the excitement of seeing a familiar face.
Maria.
Ethan's expression softened. "Maria. Hello."
He remembered her well—one of the two girls who had chased Luke all the way from their hometown to this university. Back then, Luke had been the golden boy—ten confessions in a single year, a trail of admirers wherever he went. Yet Ethan knew the truth: his friend had never once returned any of those affections.
But now, in the shadow of a broken world, all those schoolyard stories felt like echoes from another lifetime.
The dormitory door opened wider, and one after another, five young women stepped out behind Luke. Their eyes flickered with a mix of fear and determination, each one clutching whatever they could find as makeshift weapons—metal chair legs, a kitchen knife, even a broken lacrosse stick. Despite the grime and exhaustion, their beauty was undeniable: long hair matted but still framing striking features, eyes bright with the primal will to survive. In another world, they might have been laughing in lecture halls, walking campus gardens, or sipping coffee at the student café. Now, they were survivors in a nightmare.
"Let's go!" Ethan barked, voice sharp enough to cut through the air. "This is no place to talk!"
Without another word, he turned and sprinted for the stairs, his boots thudding against the concrete. Spawn thundered after him, skeletal frame rattling faintly as he moved.
Luke fell into position at the rear, shielding the girls as they descended. His staff wasn't much compared to a blade or firearm, but the way he held it—ready to crack skulls—showed he was committed to keeping them alive.
The moment they burst outside, the sound hit them first—wet, guttural snarls and the meaty crunch of teeth against flesh.
In front of the school bus, Grace was a whirlwind. Her sword was an extension of her body, every strike precise, every movement controlled despite the chaos around her. More than ten zombies lay in a broken, twitching heap at her feet, but the swarm wasn't stopping.
They came in waves, a black tide of rotting flesh and gnashing teeth. With each step backward, Grace bought precious seconds for those behind her—but the hopelessness in the scene was palpable. For every one she cut down, two more emerged from the shadows between the buildings.
Ethan's pulse surged. There was no time to hesitate. "Spawn—front!"
The skeletal warrior crashed forward like a bone-armored tank, cleaving through the nearest corpse with a single blow. Ethan was right beside him, blade flashing in a flurry of quick, efficient cuts. His mind was already running ahead—angle of approach, escape path, timing. Every move was part of the bigger picture: open the corridor, get the girls inside, close the gap before the horde swallowed them whole.
A path to the bus opened, bodies toppling to the pavement.
"Go!" Ethan's command rang out like a rifle shot.
Luke ushered the women through, backing into the bus with his staff raised in warning. "We're good, Ethan!" he shouted once the last of them was inside.
"Retreat!" Ethan ordered without breaking stride.
Grace skewered another zombie through the jaw, ripping her blade free in a spray of blackened gore, then sprinted for the bus. Ethan and Spawn fell back with her, striking down anything that came too close.
Luna, her jaw tight and eyes fixed, gunned the ignition the moment the door closed. The school bus roared to life, lurching forward and accelerating out of the campus gates.
---
The road ahead was no kinder than the campus. Zombies stumbled into their path, and each impact sent a shudder through the bus frame. Some corpses were launched into the air, tumbling grotesquely; others rolled under the tires with a bone-crunching grind. Inside, the survivors gripped seats and window frames, trying to steady themselves.
From the driver's seat, Luna's voice carried over the noise. "Where are we going?" Her eyes stayed locked on the road, but Ethan could hear the tension beneath the calm.
"Lake District gas station," Ethan said without hesitation. "We'll need fuel before anything else."
Then he turned toward Luke. "What level are you?"
Luke's brow furrowed. "Level four."
Ethan reached into his bag, picking the Level 1 skill book—Overwhelming Power. He tossed it across the aisle. "See if it's compatible."
Luke grabbed it, soon information about it popped into his head, then shook his head and tossed it back. "Not my style."
Without missing a beat, Ethan pulled out a Level 1 Protective Garment—the same one he'd worn earlier—and tossed it to Luke. "Then wear this. Better protection than what you've got."
The armor shimmered faintly as Luke slipped it on, automatically resizing to fit his frame. He flexed his arms once, feeling the boost in strength almost immediately.
While Luke adjusted the straps, Ethan set two white treasure boxes on his lap and cracked them open. A burst of light flared from the first, fading into nothing—a hidden reward stored directly into his inventory. The second clicked open to reveal a gleam of polished silver.
He lifted it free: a sturdy, clean-lined shield, perfectly balanced in weight.
[[Level 1: White Shield]
Type: Defensive Gear – Shield
Effect:
Provides reliable physical defense against direct strikes from monsters up to Level 10, effectively nullifying low-tier melee assaults. Capable of absorbing sustained blows without immediate degradation, making it ideal for front-line engagement in early encounters.
Bonus Stats:
+2 Strength
+5 Endurance
Limitation:
Ineffective against monsters above Level 10 and offers no resistance to high-tier energy or elemental attacks.
Description:
A standard-issue militia shield reinforced with stabilizing energy channels. While plain in design, it boasts dependable performance against low-level threats, allowing wielders to hold the line during extended skirmishes. Favored by settlement guards, scavenger escorts, and traveling mercenaries, it serves as both a tool of defense and a symbol of safety for those standing in harm's way.
Constructed from tempered alloys and coated with an anti-corrosive finish, it maintains peak durability even under harsh environmental conditions. The shield's balanced weight distribution ensures ease of maneuverability, reducing fatigue during prolonged use.
Compatibility:
Can be used by any class proficient in shields or melee defense equipment.
Durability: 20/20
Sell Value: 150 Survival Coins]
Ethan tested the grip, sliding his arm into the leather straps and giving it a few short sweeps. It was light, almost deceptively so, yet every strike he made with it felt solid, anchored.
"Not bad for a starter," he murmured.
Then he looked up, locking eyes with Grace through the dim, flickering interior lights. She sat across from him, sword resting against her thigh, chest still rising and falling from the fight. Their gaze held for just a moment—silent understanding passing between them.
"Hey, Luke—catch," Ethan called out, tossing the shield over.
Luke caught it with ease. He didn't speak. He rarely did. But the way he adjusted his grip, tested the weight, and gave a single, firm nod spoke volumes. He didn't need words. He never did.
Ethan smirked faintly. He didn't need the shield—not when he had the Level 2 Protective Garment. Besides, he'd never been the type to play tank. That role always belonged to someone else.
Luke.
The guy who charged in first. The one who stood at the front without hesitation. The one who didn't care how many enemies there were—he'd rather they all focused on him than touch anyone else.
Every friend group had a tank. Luke was his.
Their bond wasn't just built on shared interests—it was forged in blood. Years ago, as teenagers, they had stood side-by-side in a back alley, clutching rusty iron bars, fending off eight well-known thugs who had come to break them. Outnumbered, outarmed, and nearly overwhelmed, they refused to back down. The fight was brutal. The pain unforgettable. If the police hadn't shown up when they did, they both knew they might not have lived to tell the tale.
That moment defined them. It carved trust deeper than words could reach.
Now, in a world torn apart by the undead, that trust remained unshaken.
"Fits you better anyway," Ethan said, watching Luke test the shield's balance. "You were born to take the hits. Now we just need a good sword."
Luke didn't respond—but the way he stood, ready and alert, was all the answer Ethan needed.
They had survived the past together.
Now, they would survive this hell together—or die trying.
Ethan glanced at the six girls seated along the aisle. Their clothes were a little torn and dirt-stained from the chaos of the past day, but the resilience in their faces was undeniable. Even in fear, they carried an air of striking beauty—shining hair framing expressive eyes, lips pressed tight against panic. A strange mix of fragility and steel lingered in their postures.
He leaned closer to Luke and asked quietly, "One of them your girlfriend?"
His tone was low, but six sets of ears perked immediately.
Among them, Maria and Bella stood out most—Maria with her tall, graceful frame and sharp, intelligent eyes; Bella with her warm, dimpled smile and soft curls, though now her expression was shadowed. Both had pursued Luke since their school days, each certain they'd be the one to win his heart.
"No," Luke said firmly, not even glancing at them. His voice carried no hesitation, no apology—just the truth as he saw it.
If he didn't like someone, he didn't. That was Luke.
The girls' expressions faltered—tiny cracks of gloom in otherwise composed faces. But no one said anything.
---
The school bus barreled down cracked streets, the thuds of crushed corpses under the tires shaking the frame. In minutes, they arrived at the Lake District gas station.
The forecourt was eerily quiet—no other vehicles, only a handful of aimless zombies swaying under the pale daylight.
"Clear them," Ethan ordered.
They fanned out with quick, practiced steps. Grace moved first, her sword slicing the air, severing heads cleanly. Spawn waded in with brutal efficiency, bone and steel crushing skulls. Luke, now wearing his protective garment, held his novice staff in one hand and the militia shield in the other, dispatching the shamblers that wandered too close. His movements were measured, controlled—wasting no effort.
Minutes later, the station was silent again, save for the sound of fuel pumping. They filled the bus's tank to the brim, watching the surrounding streets warily.
---
Once they were back on the road, Luna asked from the driver's seat, swerving around a burnt-out sedan, "Where to next?"
"Jin Hu Road. Garden District," Ethan replied without hesitation.
---
Jin Hu Road had always been one of the busiest arteries of the city. Now, it was a chokehold of the dead. The moment the bus rolled onto it, the horde reacted like stirred hornets—countless zombies turned toward them, eyes glowing faintly in the shadows, mouths opening in soundless hunger.
The bus hit the first wave at full speed. Bodies flew. Limbs bounced off the hood. The sickening crunch under the wheels was constant. But then—
Three cyan blurs shot from the mob.
They landed on the roof with metallic thuds, claws scraping against steel. The force cracked windows.
"S1 zombies," Ethan shouted, voice sharp with urgency. "Three of them!"
The next moment, glass exploded inward.
"Shadow Steps—activate!"
In the instant the first S1 zombie burst through, Ethan's body blurred. His foot slammed down, and for a split second, his shadow stretched unnaturally—fusing with the predator's. His blade appeared in motion before thought could catch up, and the zombie's head spun away, trailing black ichor.
The other two S1s lunged through shattered windows almost simultaneously.
One targeted Luna, who was still gripping the wheel. Grace was already moving. Her body seemed to vanish from her seat, only to reappear between Luna and death. Her sword cut in a graceful, spiraling arc—mysterious yet decisive. Flesh and bone parted cleanly; the zombie collapsed in two halves, spraying foul blood across the dashboard.
The third S1 landed in the middle of the girls.
Panic erupted instantly. Screams tore through the cramped space as the predator surged forward, its movements impossibly fast.
It seized a petite girl by the shoulders and sank its teeth deep into her neck. Her scream was ear-splitting, terror flooding her eyes. Blood gushed in dark rivulets down her shirt.
The others scattered, driven by instinct to flee, but the bus offered no escape.
The S1 released the dying girl and leapt again, this time toward a small, round-faced girl whose trembling hands pushed uselessly against the window.
"Help me! Please!" she cried, voice breaking.
Luke stepped forward. His face was calm—too calm for the chaos around him. Shield up, staff ready, he intercepted the monster's path.
The S1 shifted its focus immediately, dropping low and springing at Luke with the coiled speed of a hunting cat. Its claw sliced for his head, gleaming faintly in the light.
Luke was too slow. His level was too low. It should have been over—
A flicker of motion.
Ethan's blade, cold and silver, appeared like lightning. The strike was clean, perfect, unstoppable.
The S1's head separated from its shoulders mid-lunge, the momentum sending it rolling down the aisle.
Blood spattered against the ceiling. Silence fell—only the sound of the bus engine and the muffled sobs of the survivors filling the air.
Ethan lowered his sword, eyes scanning the broken windows, already calculating what would come next.
Because there was always a next.