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.
It had only been two days since the fall of the world, and Luna's heart still clung stubbornly to the ideals of the old one. She could smash a zombie's skull without hesitation, because in her mind, they were no longer human. But when faced with living, breathing men—even these hyena-like scavengers—she froze. To her, running them down would make her a murderer. She hadn't yet learned that in this new world, the line between predator and prey was drawn not by law, but by will.
When the bus screeched to a halt, Ethan's expression hardened. He didn't waste time cursing Luna's naïveté. Instead, with surgical calm, he dragged a heavy canvas tarp over Spawn, hiding the creature from sight. His mind was already preparing the trap.
Outside, the motorcycles circled like jackals, their engines growling low as they boxed the bus in. One by one, the riders killed their engines, the sudden silence almost more threatening than the noise. Seven of them swaggered forward, boots crunching on asphalt, machetes gleaming in the dying light.
One of the younger punks—barely more than a boy with sun-bleached hair and cheap silver studs through his nose—let out a whistle when his eyes landed on the girls. Julia's soft, doll-like beauty, Grace's cold allure, Luna's radiant elegance—they looked like three jewels dropped in the dirt of a ruined world.
"Boss! These chicks are fine," the boy said with a leering grin, licking his lips as though he could already taste them.
Beside him, their leader stepped forward. A massive man, close to two meters tall, rolls of fat straining against his leather vest, a machete in each hand. His greasy hair clung to his forehead, his small eyes glinting with the hunger of a beast that thought the hunt was already over.
"I'm Duran," he declared in a deep, grating voice. "Eldest of the Steel Fang Bikers. Put your weapons down and get out of the bus. I've got business with you."
Ethan and Luke exchanged a glance. Wordless. Calculating. Then, in perfect sync, they slid their weapons into their packs. It was a show—meant to lower the wolves' guard—but their eyes never softened.
The six of them stepped out.
The moment they did, the circle tightened. Over a dozen more bikers revved their engines just enough to growl, the sound vibrating through the air like a promise of violence. The men's laughter rose, crude and wild.
"Ha! Fresh meat!"
"Look at these fine chicks—goddesses in the middle of the apocalypse."
"Last night's catch jumped off the roof before we even had deeper fun. This time, we'll make it last."
"That little one—delicate, soft, untouched… tight pure pu$$y are most satisfying to play with! I'll take her first."
Their words slithered through the air like poison. Julia shivered and pressed herself against Ethan's side, her small hands fisting in his shirt. Normally playful, her big eyes were now wide with fear, reflecting the gang's lewd stares. Grace's expression didn't flicker; she stood tall, hand resting on her sword, every line of her figure radiating untouchable danger. And Luna—beautiful Luna—her cheeks flushed red with rage and shame, her lips pressed tight, eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall.
Ethan and Luke stood like statues, their silence a wall. The lack of reaction was heavier than shouting, heavier than threats—it unsettled even some of the gang, though they covered it with louder jeers.
Finally, Luna broke. Her voice cracked against the pressure in her chest. "What do you want from us?!"
The answer came in the form of filthy laughter. One biker leaned on his machete, his grin wolfish. "What do I want? Easy. I want you on your knees, sweetheart, with your mouth full of my little brother."
Hahaha!
Hahaha!
The others roared with laughter, some pounding the hoods of their bikes, some miming obscene gestures.
"Scoundrels!" Luna shouted, her voice trembling with fury.
"Scoundrels?" The man sneered. "You're right. But we're scoundrels with machetes, and you… you're just pretty flowers waiting to be plucked. Don't worry—once you've tasted heaven, you'll beg for more."
"Yeah! One at a time, or maybe four of us together! Every hole filled, princess!"
The gang howled, the sound manic, feral, like the world's collapse had stripped them bare and revealed the beasts beneath.
Luna's eyes welled with tears. Ethan turned his gaze on her, cold as ice. "See? These are the people you wanted to protect."
The words cut deeper than a blade. Her breath hitched, and tears finally spilled, streaking down her cheeks like pearls falling onto broken glass.
Duran's face twisted into a leer, his machete rising as he barked, "Enough talk. You three—take off your clothes. Now!"
The mob erupted, chanting, voices overlapping into a maddening rhythm:
"Take it off!"
"Take it off!"
"Take it off!"
The sound beat against Julia's chest like a drum, suffocating her. She clung tighter to Ethan, trembling. Grace's eyes narrowed, a dangerous light flashing in their depths. And Ethan—Ethan's expression didn't change. But behind his silence, gears were turning. A plan was already in motion.
The wolves thought they had cornered prey. They hadn't noticed the trap waiting under the canvas.
And when it was sprung, they would learn that some prey bites back harder than any predator.
"Are you going to strip or not?!" The boy with crimson eyes spat, his voice warped by madness. His lips curled into a grin that was more snarl than smile, veins bulging in his neck. "If we're not satisfied, when we're done with you, we'll hack off your hands and feet and toss you to the zombies. Let's see how long you scream then!"
The words sank like poison into the night air.
The bikers shifted restlessly, their machetes and bats glinting under the light. These weren't boys playing at rebellion anymore; the collapse of law had ripped away every leash. They were predators now, drunk on blood and unchecked freedom, reveling in cruelty.
Julia whimpered and tugged at Ethan's shirt, her soft body trembling against him. Her wide, tear-filled eyes reflected the fire of motorcycle headlights, as if the world around her was burning. "B-Big brother Ethan… I'm scared."
Ethan placed a steady hand on her shoulder, his voice low but unshakable. "Don't be afraid. I'm here. They won't lay a finger on you."
Those words, calm and absolute, steadied Julia more than anything else could.
Luna, however, felt the crushing weight of guilt. Her face was pale, her beauty marred by tears spilling down her cheeks. She looked at Ethan, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Ethan… I was wrong! I should have listened—"
Ethan's gaze flicked to her, unreadable, then returned to the mob.
One thug, stockier than the rest, barked an order, his machete raised. "You three men! Throw your backpacks here, now! Do it, or I'll cut you down where you stand!"
At his shout, the bikers surged closer, circling like wolves, weapons brandished. The stench of sweat, gasoline, and blood radiated off them, pressing down like a storm. More than ten armed men against three—an overwhelming force to anyone else.
But Ethan wasn't "anyone else."
His eyes, cold and sharp as a drawn blade, cut through the tension. His voice was ice. "Put down your weapons. Walk away. Now."
The mob howled with laughter.
"Fuck this! Kill the three brats!" the thug roared, spittle flying from his lips. "When they're dead, we'll have our fun with the girls!"
The ground shook with the thunder of boots as Duran—thicker, meaner, faster than the rest—charged first, machete swinging in a deadly arc. Behind him, the pack followed, eyes bloodshot, mouths foaming like beasts let loose from hell.
Ethan sighed softly, as though disappointed. "I warned you."
In a blur of motion, his sword was in his hand. He surged forward with speed no human should possess. The blade flashed like a meteor streaking across the daylight—too fast for the eye to follow.
Duran didn't even have time to realize he was dead. His head soared skyward, eyes still wide with shock, before crashing to the ground. Blood fountained from his neck, spraying the pavement in a crimson arc. His body staggered forward two steps before crumpling lifelessly.
Time froze.
The bikers skidded to a halt, staring in disbelief. Duran—ruthless, fearless Duran, who had once torn through zombies with nothing but his blades—was gone in a single stroke. The man they had followed because he was the strongest, the one who had made them feel invincible, had been butchered like an animal before their eyes.
Ethan didn't stop. His blade whirled again, fluid and merciless. In a single step, he carved through two more thugs, severing their arms clean at the shoulder. They screamed as blood sprayed into the light, splattering across the blacktop.
And then—the ground trembled.
The canvas at the back of the bus ripped apart as Spawn thundered into the open, eyes glowing, his axe gleaming wickedly in the headlights. With a single swing, he cleaved through a thug's skull, the head bursting apart in a spray of gore.
The gang broke.
"Ahhh!"
"Run! He's a monster!"
"Get out of here!"
The young boy scrambled, fear overtaking bloodlust. But one with crimson eyes, consumed by madness, shrieked, "Don't run! Fight! Kill him for the boss!"
Ethan's gaze flicked to him. Cold steel flashed once. A head toppled from its shoulders, rolling across the asphalt as its body collapsed.
Silence fell—then chaos. The mob scattered like leaves in a storm, running from the butcher's blade and the demon at his side.
But not all fled.
Two of the bikers, loyal to their fallen leader, revved their engines and screamed toward the girls. Tires screeched, headlights cutting the night as they aimed their steel beasts at Luna and Grace.
Luna froze, terror rooting her feet to the ground. The roar of the motorcycles drowned out her thoughts, her body trembling, unable to move. The image of mangled flesh and bone flashed before her eyes, and all strength left her legs.
At the last moment, Grace moved.
"Move, Luna!" she shouted, shoving her aside with all her strength.
The first bike missed Luna by inches—but Grace had no escape from the second. The machine slammed into her with bone-crunching force. Blood sprayed from her lips as she was hurled to the ground, her beautiful form crumpling like a broken doll.
"Grace!!!" Luna screamed, her voice tearing through the air. She scrambled to her knees, crawling desperately toward her fallen friend, her hands shaking as she reached out. She didn't even know if Grace was alive.
On the far side of the battlefield, Spawn burst forward at Ethan's command. His swift form moved with terrifying speed for something his size, his axe glinting under the pale light. With a roar, he brought it down in a merciless arc.
The blade struck the biker squarely as the motorcycle roared beneath him. The machine shrieked, sparks flying, and in the next instant the man was split clean in half. Blood and entrails gushed onto the asphalt, steaming in the day air. His severed torso writhed on the ground for a heartbeat longer, lungs struggling, before he let out a final, gut-wrenching scream.
The sound froze the other bikers.
Every face, once twisted with madness, drained of color. If Ethan's cold, surgical strikes had shattered their courage, Spawn's brutal carnage annihilated it. Without hesitation, they scrambled onto their motorcycles, engines howling as they fled into the road. They no longer dared even to look back.
The street fell quiet but for the distant echo of retreating engines.
Julia stood trembling, her violet eyes wide with horror. Her pale face had lost all color, and when her gaze fell on the mangled corpse split by Spawn, her stomach rebelled. She gagged, stumbling to the side, and began to vomit.
Though she had always been known among them as the "little witch," she was still just a girl. She had seen zombies die, yes, and even that had sickened her—but this was different. These were people, humans, and the blood steaming on the ground smelled heavier, darker, than that of the undead.
Luke's face was pale as well. He stared at the gore, his jaw set, eyes reflecting the firelight. His grip on his weapon tightened, knuckles white. But unlike Julia, he swallowed the sickness clawing at his throat and forced himself to stand firm. His will was strong. He had always known the world was cruel—now he had simply seen it unveiled.
Ethan, calm as ever, turned away from the carnage. His eyes sought Grace.
Luna was crouched beside her, her beautiful face streaked with tears, clutching Grace's limp hand. When Ethan approached, she seized his arm, sobbing. "Ethan! Please, I beg you—help Grace! Don't let her die because of me! It's my fault… it's all my fault!" Her voice cracked into raw, broken sobs.
Ethan's sharp gaze narrowed. "Quiet."
The word cut through Luna's hysteria like a blade. She froze, slapped her own trembling hand over her mouth, and muffled her crying into her sleeve.
Ethan knelt beside Grace. Her body lay pale and still, her long lashes casting shadows across her face. He lowered his fingers to her nose, touching the soft skin of her beautiful face, as she exhaled softly. "She's not dead." His eyes flicked to Julia. "Julia. Minor Healing. Now."
Still pale, Julia stumbled forward, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. She dropped to her knees, pressed both hands gently over Grace's broken body, and whispered the incantation she didn't knew. A glow of soft white light bloomed between her fingers, flowing into Grace's form. The radiance spread across her chest and arms, seeping into shattered bone and torn muscle.
Minutes dragged on like hours. Then Grace's lashes fluttered. Slowly, her beautiful emerald eyes opened. Her lips parted weakly, but no sound came out.
Relief flooded Luna's face. She threw her arms around her best friend, her tears now those of joy. "Grace! You're alive! Thank the heavens, you're alive!"
For the first time since the battle began, Grace's eyes softened. She leaned slightly into Luna's embrace, though pain etched every line of her face.
Ethan watched quietly. Then, his brow furrowed. "Luna," he said. His voice carried weight, drawing her eyes at once. "Be silent. I need to speak to Grace."
Luna stilled immediately, biting her lip, though she still held Grace close.
As Ethan studied Grace's pale, trembling figure, doubt flickered through his mind. He thought back to earlier, when he had given Luna the Small Fireball skill. He had done it for Grace's sake, because the two were inseparable. Grace had helped him before, and this was his way of honoring that bond. But now…
Now he wondered if it had been a mistake. Olivia would have been the better choice—sharper, more disciplined. Yet Olivia avoided the fight whenever possible. She lacked the hunger to grow stronger. Ethan exhaled slowly, shaking the thought away. What was done was done. Regret wouldn't change anything.
His voice dropped, steady and deep. "Grace. Julia's spell held you together, but your injuries are severe. You can't fight, can you?"
Grace closed her eyes briefly, testing her limbs. Pain lanced through her body, and her delicate brows knitted together. Her voice, soft and faint, carried the weight of truth. "My ribs are fractured… several bones, maybe. Without a doctor, I won't be able to fight for weeks. At least a month."
The words struck Luna like a blade. Terror rippled through her heart. If Grace couldn't fight, if her protector was taken from her, then what chance did she have in this cruel, collapsing world? Images of Duran's machete, of snarling zombies, clawed through her mind.
Grace knew it too. Her beautiful eyes lingered on Ethan's face, searching him carefully. She knew what most men would do in this world—abandon burdens. A weak link could drag an entire group to their deaths.
Before Ethan could speak, Luna pressed herself to his side, her face set with fierce resolve. "I'll fight in her place! I'll cook, I'll drive, I'll do anything. I'll obey your every word—just don't abandon us! Please!" Her voice trembled, but her eyes blazed with determination.
Ethan looked at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "Who said anything about abandoning you?" He frowned and adjusted his grip, then bent down and carefully scooped Grace into his arms. He lifted her in a bridal carry, his movements firm but gentle, and laid her inside the bus with care.
Luna's breath hitched with relief. She wiped her tears quickly and hurried to the driver's seat, her hands tightening on the wheel.
Ethan's voice came low and commanding. "Drive. We're heading to the police station."
The engine roared to life. The bus rumbled forward into the night, its headlights cutting through the road. Behind them, the street lay littered with blood and broken bodies—another grim reminder of the new world they lived in.
And ahead, only uncertainty waited.
---
"Luke," Ethan's voice cut through the silence, calm but commanding. "Stay here and protect her, protect them. If anything goes wrong, you signal me immediately."
Luke nodded sharply, determination flashing in his eyes. He had picked up Grace's fallen sword, its weight unfamiliar in his hand yet strangely comforting. "Don't worry," he said firmly. "I'll hold this ground. You can count on me."
Ethan's gaze lingered on Grace, lying weakly inside the bus, her pale face framed by disheveled dark strands. She should have been beside him, her sword carving through the undead as she always did. But Luna's recklessness had left her battered, possibly with broken bones. She was too fragile to fight now—and that meant Ethan had no choice but to entrust her safety to Luke.
After a brief nod, Ethan turned. "Let's move."
Spawn rose beside him, his skeletal form moved. The bus door hissed open, and the three of them stepped into the night.
Immediately, the groans came. From the alleys and the broken cars, shadows stirred. The dead, drawn to the sound of life, lurched forward with jaws open and arms outstretched.
Ethan moved first. His blade whistled through the air, clean and precise, carving through rotting necks. Heads rolled onto the pavement, eyes still twitching with hunger. Spawn followed, his axe crashing down with monstrous force, splitting skulls like melons and sending gore splattering across the cracked concrete.
One, two, five, ten…
The fight was swift but brutal. Rotten blood sprayed the air, the metallic stench clinging to Ethan's skin. By the time the last corpse fell twitching at their feet, a dozen bodies lay piled outside the bus. Ethan barely broke stride.
"Forward," he ordered.
The police station loomed ahead, its broken windows glinting in the moonlight. Once a beacon of order, now it was just another fortress fallen to ruin. Ethan pushed the heavy doors open. The air inside was damp, reeking of mildew and old blood.
Almost immediately, shadows moved. Five figures staggered from the corridor, their uniforms tattered but still identifiable—the remains of police officers. Their once-proud badges hung crooked on decaying chests. Their eyes glowed faintly, their jaws snapping as they rushed toward Ethan and Spawn.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He surged forward, his sword flashing silver. In one fluid motion, he spun and cleaved through three necks, severing heads in a shower of blackened blood.
Spawn's axe thundered down, crushing the remaining two into the ground, bone fragments scattering across the station floor.
The echo of the clash faded, leaving only silence and the faint dripping of water. Ethan knelt beside the corpses, stripping their belts with practiced efficiency. Three pistols—a Type 54 model, the steel cold to the touch—along with fifteen rounds of ammunition.
Not much, but better than nothing.
He tucked the weapons into his pack. Guns were useful, but his blade was still his truest ally. He knew his limits—his aim couldn't yet match the surety of steel.
He rose and pressed deeper into the building. Spawn followed, his skeletal frame looming like a shadow of death.
At last, they reached it: the armory. The door was massive, built from thick steel, its electronic lock long dead but still daunting. Even in ruins, it stood as the police station's last fortress.
Ethan studied it briefly, then nodded. "Spawn. Open it."
Without hesitation, Spawn raised his axe.
BOOM.
The first strike dented the door inward, a screech of metal filling the hallway.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each blow landed like thunder, the steel groaning and splitting under his relentless strength. Spawn, now at level nine, was monstrously powerful—eighty percent stronger than an ordinary man. Every swing of his weapon left the door trembling, deep gashes marking its surface.
On the eighth strike, the hinges gave way. With a final shove, the steel slab screamed open.
But before Ethan could step inside, a sharp, delicate voice rang out from the darkness.
"Don't move. Hands where I can see them."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. He raised his gaze—and froze.
Standing in the armory was a woman. Not a corpse. Not a zombie. A survivor.
She was breathtaking. Her long, black hair was tied into a neat bun, though loose strands framed her striking face. Her police uniform clung to her figure, the dark fabric outlining her curves—the swell of her chest, the firm line of her waist, the roundness of her hips. Her beauty was sharp, commanding, yet there was a vulnerability in the way her chest rose and fell quickly, her pistol trembling just slightly in her grip. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
For a heartbeat, Ethan's mind registered only one thought: She's alive. And she's gorgeous.
The woman's eyes, however, were not filled with awe. They widened when they flicked to Spawn, disbelief flashing across her face. A walking skeleton—something torn straight out of a nightmare—was impossible. Yet here it stood.
Ethan reacted instantly. "Spawn—seize her."
Spawn surged forward, his hand moving faster than a mortal eye could follow.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The gunshots cracked like lightning, the muzzle flash illuminating her beautiful, determined face. But the bullets passed through Spawn harmlessly, lodging in walls or ricocheting into the concrete floor. His bones rattled from the impact, but he didn't falter.
With one massive swing, Spawn's bony hand clamped around the policewoman's wrist. Her pistol clattered to the ground as he wrenched it free and forced her down, pinning her to the floor with inhuman strength.
The sharp echo of gunfire faded, leaving only her ragged breathing.
Ethan stepped through the doorway at last, his shadow falling across her restrained form. His sword gleamed faintly at his side.
The policewoman glared up at him, her chest heaving against her uniform, her dark eyes blazing with fury and pride. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice steady despite her position. "This is a police firearms storage room. You've trespassed into a restricted zone. By law, you've committed a serious crime."
Ethan's lips curled in the faintest of smiles. "Law?" he said softly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Tell me, officer… do you really think the law still matters in this world?"