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.
Ethan's boot connected with a sickening crunch, sending the last S1 zombie's body hurtling several meters down the aisle before it smashed against the side of the bus wall, leaving a dark smear.
The air was still thick with the copper tang of blood when the battered school bus plowed straight into the front of a clothing store.
The world shattered into sound—glass exploding in a thousand pieces, mannequins tumbling like broken corpses, and the metallic groan of steel bending under impact. The entire bus rocked violently before lurching to a dead stop.
When the second S1 had gone for Luna, she'd flinched—her hands jerking on the wheel. The panic was brief but enough to send the vehicle off course.
Everyone was thrown forward. Painful cries filled the bus as three of the girls slammed into seat frames, the impact knocking them unconscious. The others were left bruised, gripping whatever they could as the world stopped shaking.
"Drive, Luna! Now!" Ethan's voice roared over the chaos, the kind of command that left no room for hesitation.
Outside, the street was no longer empty. The sound of the crash had drawn them—dozens of zombies spilling from alleyways and doorways, the clatter of their steps echoing like an oncoming storm. If they were surrounded here, there would be no escape—just a metal coffin.
Luna, pale and shaken, forced herself to breathe through the pain in her ribs. Without a word, she shoved the gear into reverse. The bus screeched backward out of the ruined storefront, crushing two zombies under its wheels, before she slammed it into drive and sped toward the Garden District.
In the brief lull between waves of undead, Ethan was already moving. He pulled a length of thick rope from his pack and turned toward the girl whose neck now bore the crescent bite of an S1. Her skin was pale, her hands trembling.
Her eyes widened when the rope touched her wrists. "Ethan—what are you doing? I'm hurt! You should be helping me, not—"
Her voice broke into sobs, but the others had already seen the wound. Their gazes were heavy with pity, yet they kept their distance.
"Anyone bitten will turn," Ethan said, his tone measured, almost gentle—but carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "You have minutes left. There's no cure."
The words hit harder than any blow. Even for those who already knew the truth, hearing it aloud was a stone in the chest.
It was the rule of this new world: a single bite, even a scratch, was a death sentence. Fear of it kept people from even risking a touch in combat.
The girl's voice rose in desperation, her tears streaking down her cheeks. "No! Please! I don't want to die—I don't want to become one of them!"
Her cries pierced the air, raw and pleading. Some of the other girls turned away, unable to watch, but none moved closer.
"I'm sorry," Ethan said quietly, meeting her gaze without flinching while rubbing her head. "I can't help you."
She began to shake, her voice breaking into incoherent wails. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" The words tumbled over each other, drowning in terror.
Ethan turned from her to the corpses of the three S1 zombies, pushing the emotional weight aside. Survival left no room for lingering grief.
From the broken bodies, the spoils were meager but valuable—seven small white treasure boxes, three Survival Coins worth fifty each, and a single skill book.
Ethan picked up the book and information popped in his head.
[[Minor Injury Healing – Level 1]
Type: Active
Effect:
Channels restorative energy to rapidly mend light wounds such as medium cuts, scrapes, and medium bruising. This basic healing technique, first practiced by early battlefield medics, is ideal for quickly stabilizing injured allies or oneself during combat. While incapable of repairing deep lacerations, broken bones, or internal injuries, its swift application can stop minor bleeding and restore combat readiness in seconds.
Perfect for maintaining momentum in prolonged skirmishes, buying time until more advanced healing can be administered.
Activation Cost:
4 MP
Cooldown:
None – Can be cast repeatedly as long as sufficient mana is available.
Sell Value:
150 Survival Coins
Description:
A fundamental restoration spell preserved in countless survival manuals, this technique remains one of the first every healer learns. Though simple in nature, its reliability makes it indispensable in the field—capable of keeping wounded fighters alive just long enough to reach safety. In practiced hands, its speed and efficiency can mean the difference between a swift recovery and a slow, painful decline.]
It was a rare find. In a world where hospitals were graveyards and infection meant certain death, even the ability to stop a minor wound from festering could mean the difference between life and death.
He hesitated. Every skill book learned meant a path chosen—healing meant fewer kills, but more survivability. A frontline fighter might prefer raw power, but a healer kept the team alive long enough to reach victory.
Without looking up, he tossed the book to Grace. "You want it?"
Grace caught it, skimmed the information, then flicked it back without hesitation. "No need. You should keep it."
The others watched, silent but tense. They all knew a skill book wasn't just an object—it was a promise of strength, of a longer life. The people with abilities would carve a place in this new world. The rest would vanish into its graveyards.
Ethan slipped the book into his pack. He didn't explain his decision—he didn't need to. Trust was a currency more valuable than skill itself, and he wasn't ready to spend it on strangers.
With the same calm precision, he knelt and began opening the treasure boxes one by one, the soft click of their latches sounding unnaturally loud over the rumble of the bus's engine.
The white glow of the treasure boxes pulsed like miniature beacons before fading one by one. Five revealed nothing but empty—mocking reminders that luck was always scarce in this world. But the last two clicked open with a satisfying snap, revealing their prize: two sleek pairs of Enhanced Footwear – Level 1. The moment Ethan picked them up, the faint hum of enchantment buzzed through the soles—lightweight, perfectly fitted, and shimmering faintly in the low light.
+3 Agility. The kind of boost that could mean the difference between outrunning a zombie's lunge or becoming its next meal.
Without hesitation, Ethan tossed one pair to Luke and the other to Grace. "Speed is survival. Make them count."
The school bus rattled down cracked streets until the looming silhouette of the Garden District came into view—a cluster of mid-rise buildings that had once been a comfortable middle-class neighborhood. Now, the wind carried the stench of dust, blood, and the faint, ever-present rot.
Surprisingly, the streets weren't overrun. Most people who had survived here were barricaded inside, peeking from windows, too afraid to venture out. A few stray zombies shuffled aimlessly outside, their limbs jerking with that unnatural, mindless rhythm.
Ethan's eyes swept the area in one quick scan. "Luke, Grace—these strays are yours. Keep it clean." Without another word, he leapt from the bus, moving with the silent precision of someone who already had a destination in mind.
Luke cracked his knuckles, his new boots whispering against the pavement. "Let's dance." Grace followed, her beauty almost out of place in this rotting world—long hair tied high, tight jeans and t-shirt hugging her in just the right places for agility without sacrificing protection. In this grim setting, her poise and lethal grace made her look like a warrior from some other age.
The two worked in perfect sync. Luke's wood bat caved in skulls with brutal efficiency, each swing spraying the ground with blackened gore. Grace darted in and out like a shadow, her blade a silver flash that left heads rolling before the bodies had time to fall. Even the girl who had been bitten—their grim charge—was kept under control, dragged away from danger while the pair kept the street clear.
---
Inside, Ethan and Spawn tore through the dim, stale corridors. Seven zombies barred their way—each dispatched in seconds. Ethan's movements were all precision and economy: one thrust to the temple, one sweep of the leg, one kick to send a corpse tumbling down the stairs. He didn't waste a single motion.
They reached room 604. Ethan pounded on the door, his voice cutting through the silence: "Julia! Are you okay? It's me, Ethan!"
A pause. Then, muffled but trembling with relief: "I'm okay! Big brother Ethan—don't leave!"
Julia is Ethan's tutoring student. Although Julia is usually very mischievous, the two get along well overall. Julia's parents also look after Ethan and never owe him wages. Thanks to the good salary of a home tutor, Ethan can live a quiet college life and does not need to look for other jobs.
Something shifted inside. A moment later, the door swung open, and there she stood—Julia. Sixteen, with a cascade of deep long blonde hair tied into a long ponytail, her blue eyes glimmering like sunlit emeralds through a sheen of tears. Her features, still soft with youth, held a natural beauty that no hardship could dim. Even her casual jeans and t-shirt seemed almost too clean for this world, clinging just enough to hint at the graceful figure she was growing into.
She threw herself into his arms, clutching him as if he were the only solid thing left in her reality. "Big brother Ethan! I knew you'd come!"
He held her briefly, his hand steady on her shoulder. "Where are Aunt and Uncle Lu?"
Julia shook her head, lifting her face to meet his eyes. "I called and called… no answer. No one picked up."
The words carried the weight of what they didn't say.
Julia was so adorable; compared with the usual naughty little witch, now she was completely different.
Ethan studied her a moment longer. She had always been a mischievous little whirlwind during lessons, but now the spark was dimmed—replaced by fear and fragile hope. She'd been alone, watching the streets below as friends and strangers were dragged screaming into death. Phones had gone dead. The world outside had ended.
"You can't stay here," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Pack. We're leaving now."
Julia nodded quickly and disappeared into her room. When she returned, she was ready—baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung over one shoulder, sneakers laced tight.
"Let's go."
They moved fast. Down the stairs, through the blood-streaked lobby, out into the open air where Luke and Grace stood over the last twitching corpse. Without a word, they boarded the bus.
"Back to your apartment," Ethan told Luna.
The engine growled to life, and Luna drove with steel in her eyes—running over the undead without flinching.
---
Ethan glanced around the cabin. The bitten girl was gone. Whether she had turned and been quietly ended by Luke or Grace, he didn't ask. Some answers didn't matter.
The trip back was, for once, smooth. They reached Luna's apartment without incident—a rare and precious thing in these days.
Inside, they barely had time to settle before Olivia's voice rang out, bright with something they hadn't heard in far too long: hope.
"Good news! Long Hai City has set up a survivor enclave. People from nearby districts have already made it there!"
"Good," Ethan said, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
"Now we're saved!" someone else breathed.
The mood shifted instantly, the heavy shadow over their hearts lifting, even if only a little.
For all the years people had grumbled about the government—its inefficiency, its greed, its endless red tape—in this shattered world, hearing a voice of authority felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The thought of a strong, organized force capable of protecting civilians, enforcing order, and restoring some shred of normal life was intoxicating. It meant no more restless nights listening for the scrape of claws on concrete. No more gnawing uncertainty about whether they'd live to see morning.
After the announcement, a charged stillness settled over the room. Olivia's eyes sparkled as she turned to Ethan, clearly waiting for his reaction.
"How do you know this?" Ethan asked, voice calm but eyes sharp.
With an almost triumphant flourish, Olivia reached into her pack and pulled out a battered, black radio. "I've been tinkering with this since yesterday. Adjusted the frequency, boosted the antenna with some copper wiring from the apartment next door. And then—bam—I caught the signal. Broadcast was crystal clear."
Ethan's brows lifted slightly. Two days since the collapse… and Long Hai City has already organized an enclave? That spoke of leadership, coordination… capability. This mayor is no amateur.
He knew the kind of machinery it took to mobilize so quickly—logistics, defense, communications—all working in sync while the dead clawed at the walls. In his past life as Nate, he had learned to read people and systems quickly, and what he saw here was competence worth noting.
Olivia leaned forward eagerly. "Ethan, why don't we go there now? We could be safe by tomorrow!"
The room shifted. Every set of eyes landed on him, their silent questions heavy in the air. Ethan was their anchor, the one who got them this far alive. Without him, their odds of making it across the city—let alone through the countryside—were slim.
Ethan let the silence stretch before he answered, his gaze sweeping the room. "We'll go. But not now." His voice was low but unyielding. "We don't rush into the unknown without preparation. We need weapons, supplies, vehicles we can trust to make the journey. Without those, the first ambush or special-class zombie we meet will be our last. Anyone who wants to try it on foot, be my guest. But I'm not leading a suicide run."
Grace, leaning casually against the wall, let her eyes drift over the group. Even in her battered looks—tight clothes—she radiated a dangerous kind of elegance. "He's right," she said softly, but there was steel beneath it. "You think the roads will be clear? Even getting there will be like walking through a nest with a stick."
The truth of her words settled over them. The school bus, their only transport, was dented and groaning from the last few runs. Another collision might leave them stranded in the middle of a feeding ground.
Olivia gave a small, embarrassed laugh and shrugged. "Alright, alright. I was just putting it out there. We'll do it your way."
Ethan reached into his pack and pulled out the leather-bound Minor Injury Healing skill book, tossing it gently to Julia. "Learn this. Now."
Julia's emerald eyes lit with curiosity as she caught it. "Okay!" She placed both hands on the book and closed her eyes. A breath later, it dissolved into a pure white light, sinking into her sea of consciousness. She blinked rapidly, as though adjusting to a sudden clarity.
"How does it feel?" Ethan asked.
Her lips curved into a small smile. "Good. Really good."
"Then you're up. Maya—show her your leg."
Maya hesitated before rolling up her pant leg, revealing a calf swollen and bruised from the last fight. Julia knelt, her delicate fingers brushing over the injury as a warm glow spread from her hands. The white light seeped into the skin, and before their eyes the swelling receded, the angry discoloration fading away until her leg looked untouched.
The room was silent for a moment, watching something that felt almost holy in a world that had forgotten such things.
When it was done, Julia bounced to her feet, a faint flush on her cheeks. "All healed… but whew, that takes it out of me."
Ethan handed her a lollipop, the last one in his pack. "Candy."
Her smile turned playful again, a hint of the mischief she'd carried before the world fell apart. "You're amazing, big brother Ethan. Like that ad for Alaway—poof, no itch!"
A few chuckles broke the tension.
For Ethan, the sound was a reminder. Since losing his old life, pressure had been his constant companion. Fear was the shadow that never left his shoulder. Every skill, every advantage he gathered wasn't just about survival—it was about clawing back a shred of control over the chaos.
"How's the leg?" he asked Maya.
She stood, testing her weight before breaking into a grin. "Perfect. Like it never happened."
The faintest glimmer touched Ethan's eyes. The skill's effectiveness exceeded his expectations. It was more than just convenience—it was insurance. As battles grew deadlier, this could be the difference between keeping a fighter in the fight or losing them for good.
His gaze swept the room, lingering briefly on each of them—Luke, solid as a wall; Julia, their healer; Grace, their speed and blade; Spawn, the quiet but lethal wildcard. They were becoming something more than just survivors. They were becoming a unit.
Ethan's gaze found Grace across the room, her long legs crossed casually, Straightblade resting at her side like it belonged there. Even with her hair slightly tousled from their earlier skirmish, there was something about her—graceful, dangerous, and unshakably confident.
"Grace," he said, his tone more of an invitation than a question, "I'm heading to the police station for weapons. You in?"
They had worked side by side before, saving Luke's life in a fight that could have gone very differently. She didn't owe him a thing anymore—if anything, their partnership now was built on mutual respect, not debt.
Firearms were a necessity. Ethan knew blades and skill could take you far, but a gun—especially in the wrong hands—was a problem he couldn't ignore. Better to have them and never need them than watch an enemy point one at someone he cared about.
Grace didn't hesitate. "I'm going." She turned to Luna, her sharp eyes softening slightly. "You should come too."
Despite her delicate, almost porcelain features, Luna gave a firm nod. "Yes." There was a quiet strength behind it—no bravado, just resolve.
Ethan's voice cut in, crisp and decisive. "William, Julia, Luke—you're with us."
There was a pause before another voice broke in. "I want to go too!" Maya's hands were balled into fists, determination written on her face.
Ethan's eyes flicked to her, weighing it. In another world, he might have encouraged that courage. But here? This run was about speed, precision, and getting out alive. "Not this time," he said firmly. "No skills, no backup plan, and no second chances. You'd slow us down—and this trip can't afford dead weight."
The words hit hard. Maya's shoulders slumped, and she sank back into her seat without another word.
Minutes later, the team piled into the battered school bus, Luna sliding into the driver's seat. The engine growled to life, and they rolled out into the streets.
---
The late-afternoon sun painted the cracked asphalt in long shadows. The road ahead was eerily empty—no snarling undead, no wandering survivors. Just the wind carrying the faint scent of smoke from distant fires.
Then Ethan spotted movement ahead. A dozen riders, roaring toward them on modified motorcycles, burst into view. They looked like scavengers from some post-apocalyptic biker gang fantasy—patched leather jackets, spiked shoulder pads, steel chains clinking. Machetes and baseball bats gleamed in the sun, and their hair was dyed in unnatural yellows and reds, like predators announcing their colors.
They were loud, shouting obscenities as they spotted the bus. In seconds, their engines screamed closer, the sound bouncing off the walls of abandoned buildings.
The riders split, some flanking the bus, others racing ahead. A few pulled in front, cutting across the road to block their path.
One of them, grinning wide enough to show missing teeth, banged the side of the bus with a bat. Clang. Clang. "Stop! I said stop!" he bellowed, keeping pace alongside the bus.
Ethan saw Luna's hands tighten on the wheel as she instinctively eased off the gas. His frown was instant. "Don't stop. Hit them. They're not here to talk."
Her knuckles went white. "No! They're still alive! They're not zombies—I'm not a murderer!" She slammed her foot down on the brake, the bus lurching to a halt.
It had only been two days since the collapse. Luna's moral compass hadn't been stripped down to raw survival yet. She could crush a zombie without blinking, but to run over a living, breathing human being? That was still a line she wouldn't cross.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He didn't waste time arguing. "Fine," he muttered, already moving. With quick, precise movements, he pulled a heavy canvas tarp from under one of the seats and threw it over Spawn, hiding him completely from view.
Outside, the roar of engines faded as the bikes cut out. Gravel crunched under boots. Seven of them approached, weapons in hand, swagger in their steps. Their eyes glittered with the easy confidence of predators who thought they'd cornered prey.
Ethan's mind was already three steps ahead.