"Great…" she whispered, her courage rekindled.
But when she looked at Ethan again, her cheeks flushed pink. "I-I have to change into this. Can you… turn around?" Her voice was small, almost pleading, her big eyes shimmering like a puppy's.
Ethan's gaze did not waver. His face remained serious, his tone hard.
"You understand it's dangerous, right? If I turn away—even for a second—you could be attacked while you're changing. We don't know what kind of abilities evolved zombies might have. If one appeared now, you wouldn't stand a chance. Are you really going to risk that for modesty? Why not wear it over your clothes?"
His words were sharp, logical, cutting through her embarrassment with brutal truth.
Julia froze, lips parting, her cheeks crimson. The silence between them held the weight of her shame and his unshakable reason.
And all around them, the groans of mutilated zombies still echoed, a reminder that in this world, even beauty and innocence had no protection—except strength.
Julia glanced at Ethan, her lips curling into a pout that made her look almost mischievous despite the tension in the air. "Big brother Ethan, you really don't understand a girl's mind. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend."
Ethan raised an eyebrow, voice dry with sarcasm. "Of course. And you—what? Juggling a lineup of boyfriends behind my back? Honestly, Julia, it's not worth explaining myself to you."
Her cheeks flushed, but she quickly looked away. With a tiny huff, she obeyed, slipping the protective garment on over her clothes. The gear was plain and heavy, but even then she looked striking—her youthful figure accentuated beneath the armored fabric, her delicate face framed by strands of chestnut hair.
Sword in hand, Julia forced herself to step toward the zombies Spawn had crippled. Their mangled bodies writhed on the asphalt, gnashing teeth clicking, milky eyes rolling toward her. One, its arms torn away, dragged itself forward with its jaw alone, leaving streaks of black blood smeared across the cracked concrete.
The moment the nearest one sensed her, it convulsed violently, jaws snapping open and shut with rabid hunger.
Julia's heart stuttered. She froze, panic flooding her chest. Her pale face blanched further as she stumbled backward, boots scraping the ground. The image burned into her mind—rotting flesh, teeth eager to shred her apart, the knowledge that one bite would damn her forever.
She wasn't alone in her fear. In this broken world, the very thought of being touched by those creatures was enough to send shivers through anyone's spine. The infection was a death sentence—becoming the very thing you feared most. It was why so few dared to face zombies in close quarters. Guns offered distance, safety… but ammunition was finite. In a true apocalypse, the sword had become more valuable than the rifle.
Ethan had known that. He had walked into death's embrace more times than he could count. The original Ethan—the boy who once wore this face—never could have done this. Only Nate, forced into this body and pushed to the edge of survival, had carved the courage to stand so close to death.
Julia trembled as the crippled zombie clawed its way closer. For a long, breathless moment, she was on the verge of breaking. Then, her eyes darted to the protective gear hugging her body, and a flicker of memory surfaced—the system's notification, promising resistance against infection. A fragile thread of courage wound its way into her chest.
Her knuckles tightened on the hilt.
With a shaky breath, Julia stepped forward and swung.
The blade fell in a clean arc—yet fear guided her hand, and instead of the skull, the sword bit deep into the zombie's shoulder. Bone crunched. The undead creature shrieked with a guttural wail, thrashing violently beneath her grip.
Julia's blood ran cold. She wanted to scream, wanted to drop the weapon and flee. Her hands trembled so violently that the blade rattled in her grasp.
But the zombie didn't chase her. It couldn't. And slowly, the paralyzing fear receded.
This was the girl who had never killed anything—not even a chicken in her life. And now she was drenched in gore, facing down monsters straight out of nightmares.
Her breaths came sharp and quick. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, her lashes wet with tears.
"Do it," she whispered to herself. "Do it… or die."
With a strangled cry, Julia raised the sword again and hacked downward. Once. Twice. Again. Six wild, desperate strikes rained down, blood splattering across her clothes, her cheeks, the edge of her lips. Until finally—crack. The skull split. The head rolled, severed from its body.
The zombie stilled.
A small orb of white light lifted from the corpse, drifting toward her like a whisper from heaven. It sank into her chest, flooding her body with warmth that fought against the chill in her soul.
Julia dropped the blade, gasping, chest heaving. Then her lips trembled into a smile, soft and weak but radiant. "Big brother Ethan! I—I killed one!"
Her face was pale, streaked with blood, her body trembling. And yet in her wide eyes burned a light of pride and innocence, fragile and beautiful.
"That's great, Jul. Well done." Ethan stepped forward, rubbing her hair softly. His praise was rare, but it struck her deeper than any reward could.
"Hehe…" Julia giggled faintly, leaning into his touch, her fear dissolving in the warmth of his approval.
But then she blinked, tilting her head. "Why didn't I… get promoted?"
Ethan's gaze sharpened. "Keep going. Kill more. It takes more than one."
Julia nodded, determination straightening her back. Sword once more in hand, she turned back to the writhing undead. Fear still lingered in her chest, but now it burned with something else—resolve.
Her blade rose and fell, over and over. Each swing was cleaner, each strike more confident. Black blood sprayed across the asphalt, splattering her sleeves and staining her cheeks. Her breaths grew ragged, sweat dampening her hair, but she didn't falter.
By the twelfth kill, she was drenched in gore, her hands trembling from exhaustion. And then—it happened.
A sharp glimmer flashed before her eyes, a system message pulsing in her mind. Her breath caught.
"Big brother Ethan!" she cried out, voice breaking into joyous disbelief. "I—I leveled up! I got stat points!"
Her eyes shone brighter than ever, wide with wonder, her lips parted in amazement. She looked at her blood-soaked hands gripping the sword, the veins in her arms straining with adrenaline. To her, this wasn't just survival—it was proof that she wasn't helpless anymore. Proof that she could grow stronger with her own hands.
Ethan leaned against a half-broken lamppost, arms crossed. He had been silent the whole time, eyes narrowed, analyzing every detail of her fight.
At her announcement, his expression didn't soften. If anything, it grew darker, contemplative.
'So it's true,' he thought grimly. 'When someone kills with help, the system punishes them. Four times the effort for half the reward. Another brilliant plan crushed.'
He sighed softly, running a hand through his tangled hair. His mind turned quickly, dissecting possibilities.
'I wanted to make it safer for them. Cripple the zombies, let them practice, gain strength without risk. But no… the system doesn't allow shortcuts. It wants suffering. It wants blood. It wants them to kill or die.'
His jaw clenched. 'Then why… why is it different with Grace? With Luke? When we fight together, our experience isn't divided. Is it because they're already strong? Because we cover each other's backs, instead of crippling the enemy beforehand? What does this damn system count as "help"?'
His eyes flickered, calculating. Already, he was reformulating, reshaping strategies in the shadows of his mind.
The world was merciless, and the system cruel. But if he could understand its rules, bend them, exploit them—then maybe, just maybe, he could keep the people he cared for alive.
Was it interference in the kill itself? Was it about how much risk the individual took on during combat? Or maybe it depended on the degree of danger they faced while engaging?
Ethan's thoughts spiraled as he leaned against the bus. The faint stench of rot still lingered in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. He exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting back to Julia. Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes wide and shimmering with pride as she basked in the glow of her first level-up.
She had earned it. There was no denying that. Yet if his hypothesis was correct, she had paid for it with more blood and danger than should have been necessary. That troubled him more than he let on.
'I need to test this more,' Ethan mused, his quick mind already drawing invisible charts and theories. 'Was it the act of crippling zombies that counted as "help," reducing the EXP gain? Or was it the fact she had me watching her back the whole time? If I want to build a team that can actually survive… I have to know. I need to know what this cursed system counts as "assistance."'
The system wasn't simply rewarding survival—it was punishing safety. It forced them to bleed alone, to struggle alone, to risk death if they wanted to grow stronger.
And Ethan hated that.
Still, complaints were wasted breath. This wasn't the old world anymore. Fairness and logic had been buried with the dead. Here, strength was paid for in blood and fear.
Julia approached him timidly, still glowing with the pride of victory. "Big brother Ethan," she asked softly, "what stats should I increase?"
Ethan didn't hesitate. His voice was firm, decisive. "Spirit. You're not meant to be in the front lines. That's my job. You'll be our support—the healer, the one who keeps the rest of us alive. Think of yourself as the little doctor of our group."
Her eyes lit up at that, relief softening her smile. She didn't want to face those creatures head-on again if she could help it. "Okay!" she chirped, nodding quickly before assigning her points.
Ethan hid his thoughts behind a neutral expression. Julia wasn't built for combat—her fear was too raw, her body too delicate. But a healer… a healer was invaluable in this hell. Doctors had been rare even before society collapsed. Medicine, antibiotics, even painkillers—most of it would expire within a few years. In a world swarming with disease-ridden corpses, infection and injury would be just as deadly as zombies. A healer could tip the scales of survival.
"You've done enough for today," Ethan told her gently. "You're tired. Go rest. Give the sword to William and send him out."
Julia nodded obediently and hurried toward the rusting yellow school bus that served as their shelter.
As she climbed aboard, Olivia immediately appeared, her sharp eyes scanning Julia up and down. "Did you level up?" she asked quickly, almost breathlessly.
Julia's lips curved into a proud smile. "Yep!"
Envy flickered across Olivia's features, and not just hers. Maya, Ava, even William—all of them felt it in their bones. Without leveling, they were weaker, slower, dependent. Inferior. In this broken world, inferiority was just another word for expendable.
Only Luna seemed calm, her slender fingers occasionally twitching as she wanted to conjure sparks of flame. She had already learned her first skill, [Small Fireball]. Even if it was weak, it was power, and in their world, power meant freedom.
"William," Julia said sweetly, holding out the bloodied sword. "Ethan wants you outside."
William's eyes lit up instantly. He snatched the sword with eagerness, his knuckles white around the hilt. For him, leveling up wasn't just strength—it was validation. He wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with Ethan, not cower behind him. Without a word, he leapt down from the bus.
Olivia's gaze, however, lingered on Julia. More precisely, on the protective garment wrapped snugly around her slim figure. Desire burned in her chest. "Julia," she said smoothly, "we should talk. Can you lend me that protective gear for a moment?"
Julia hesitated, glancing down at herself. She knew what the armor meant—it was Ethan's. It was safety. But Olivia's stare was unwavering, and Julia's nature was too soft to refuse. Slowly, she removed the protective garment and handed it over.
The moment Olivia slipped into it, her expression shifted. Her body felt lighter, her steps surer. It was more than cloth—it was life. Two extra chances against the jaws of death. Olivia's lips curved faintly, but her thoughts soured as her eyes darted back to Julia.
'So this is why he values her so much,' she thought bitterly. 'She has his trust… his protection. Who is she to Ethan?'
"Let us try it too," Ava said quickly, her voice tinged with excitement. Maya nodded beside her, both of them eager.
Olivia froze. The memory of their frantic escape flickered in her mind—her choices, her hesitation, the guilt that lingered. Her conscience pricked her heart, and after a beat, she removed the garment and passed it along.
Ava and Maya gasped softly as they wore it in turn. "This is amazing… Ethan really must value Julia," Ava murmured, her eyes narrowing in thought. Maya's expression mirrored hers.
While envy brewed on the bus, William was already outside, hacking into the limbless zombies Ethan had prepared. The kills weren't difficult—the real battle was in the mind, forcing himself to bring down what had once been human. Still, with Ethan's steady gaze behind him, William pushed through. One corpse, two, then ten. By the twelfth head severed, the familiar glimmer of light surged into his body.
His eyes widened in triumph. "I… I leveled up!" He almost shouted, turning to Ethan. "What stats should I choose?"
"Agility," Ethan replied immediately, his tone clipped, matter-of-fact. "Put everything into agility. Once it passes thirteen, split between stamina and strength. Against zombies, reaction time is everything. As long as they can't touch you, they can't kill you. Outpace them, and they're no match."
William nodded eagerly, almost reverently. He had played enough RPGs to recognize sound logic when he heard it. Ethan wasn't just strong—he was sharp, quick, always two steps ahead. That was why they followed him, even when jealousy and doubts gnawed at their hearts.
Yet as Ethan turned away, his expression darkened again. His team was pitifully weak. For now, only Grace, Luke, and himself could truly fight. The others were liabilities, unpolished stones waiting to be shaped. And until they grew sharper, every battle was a gamble with death.
His quick mind raced with possibilities, plans, contingencies. He had no luxury of peace, no space for despair. But in the corners of his chest, the weight of their fragile hopes pressed down. Every decision he made carried their lives. Every mistake would carve another gravestone.
And in this world, gravestones were running out of space.
William's stamina far surpassed Julia's fragile endurance. With Ethan's steady hand guiding him, he pressed on against the shambling corpses long after his muscles screamed for rest. Again and again, his blade rose and fell, hacking through rancid flesh and brittle bone until blood spattered his face and arms like war paint.
Ethan fought beside him, keeping the swarm manageable, letting William face the terror directly. But this path wasn't mercy—it was trial by fire. If William wanted strength, he had to carve it from the rotting flesh of the dead.
By the time he finally reached Level 3, William's arms trembled violently, his shoulders stiff from strain. The sharp edge of the sword was caked in gore. He stumbled back, chest heaving, his face pale with exhaustion and triumph. Without a word, he staggered toward the bus, his sweat-streaked hair clinging to his brow. He didn't even have the strength to smile.
Beheading zombies was no game. It was brutal, bloody labor. And for William, who had to kill dozens more than Julia before the system acknowledged him, it was a rite of passage.
While he collapsed onto his seat, Maya, Ava, and Olivia stepped forward, their gazes hard but tinged with envy. One by one, they advanced too far, pushing themselves until each reached Level 2. Ethan insisted, his tone sharp and unyielding, that they assign their points to Agility and Stamina.
"Speed first, survival second," he told them firmly. "Beauty and pride won't save you when their claws are at your throat."
They obeyed, though Olivia's eyes lingered on him with an unreadable expression—half gratitude, half hunger for his approval.
Luna, who became a little quiet from the last incident, also advanced to Level 2. Unlike the others, Ethan told her to pour her points into Spirit. She already carried the spark of magic in her, her fingertips. A [Small Fireball] was weak, but it was still fire—still light. Ethan knew better than to interfere when destiny had already begun shaping her. She was a focus for him, an investment in power that was beyond blades.
By the time the last system notification faded, night had begun its slow descent. Darkness spread like a living thing across the ruined city, swallowing dark skyscrapers and silent streets. The moans of distant zombies carried on the wind, haunting, endless.
Ethan knew better than to fight blind. The dead were dangerous enough in daylight. In the shadows, with their senses sharpened and his dulled, it would be suicide.
"Spawn," he commanded quietly.
The skeletal servant bowed, its empty eyesockets burning faintly as it slithered off into the night. When it returned, three living zombies trailed behind it like broken dogs on a leash. Their jaws snapped wildly, their arms clawed at the air, but Spawn's grip was iron.
Ethan's expression hardened. One by one, he stepped forward, his boots crunching against gravel. With calm precision, he went to work. Bones cracked under his strikes—their jaws shattered, their fingers splintered, their limbs bent grotesquely until they were useless. The sound of grinding bone echoed in the night, chilling the others to their cores.
He didn't kill them. Not yet. He bound their arms, legs, and heads with rope until they were nothing more than snarling bundles of flesh. When he was done, Spawn lifted the incapacitated creatures effortlessly and tossed them into the bus trunk, locking it shut.
The group stared at Ethan in silence, their faces pale. Fear mixed with awe—what kind of man thought to capture zombies instead of destroying them? Grace and Luke, however, said nothing. They had already learned the truth: Ethan's mind was their salvation. Every decision he made, no matter how cruel, brought results.
They were dying to know what he planned to do with the zombies, but even the strongest among them—Grace and Luke— always remained silent and just followed his plans and their survival growth rate was proof that it works.
"Let's go home," Ethan said simply, brushing gore from his hands.
No one argued.
---
Back at the apartment, warmth greeted them. "You're back! Come and eat!" Nina's cheerful voice rang out, too bright for such a broken world. Daisy stood beside her, smiling faintly, relief softening her pretty features.
The table was laid out with the simplest of luxuries—steaming bowls of white rice, stir-fried vegetables glistening with oil, beef and potatoes simmered until tender, ham cooked with tomato and scrambled eggs. In the old world it would have been nothing. Now, it was a feast.
The girls crowded around, their hunger plain in their eyes. They ate quickly, almost desperately, each bite a reminder that they were still alive. Even so, their beauty hadn't dulled—if anything, it sharpened in the dim apartment light. The sweat and exhaustion from battle only gave their cheeks a flushed, glowing allure. Yet their laughter, brief and brittle, carried an undercurrent of despair.
Daisy and Nina devoured three bowls each before setting their chopsticks down. Their bodies were still recovering from being trapped and starved for days in the dorms. It had only been a handful of days since the world ended, yet for them, it felt like years.
After the meal, Daisy quietly gathered the dishes. Nina and Jessica hesitated before rising to help, their smiles shy, as though embarrassed to still cling to old-world manners. The rest followed quickly, desperate to show their worth.
Grace, ever the composed one, spoke lightly. "Take turns. Daisy, Nina, and Jessica first. Then we rotate."
The others nodded, grateful for direction. Still, curiosity was stronger than courtesy. Julia and Olivia were soon surrounded, bombarded with questions about the leveling process. Their bright eyes made them seem more like students gossiping at school than survivors of the apocalypse. For a fleeting moment, it felt almost normal.
On the couch, Luke twisted open a bottle of sports drink, his broad shoulders relaxing only slightly. He turned to Ethan, his voice low and steady. "You're not going out in the dark, are you?"
Ethan looked up. Their eyes met. Luke knew him too well. Ethan was the type to never waste a second, to take risks when no one else dared.
Ethan clasped his hands together, fingers interlaced, and was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was grave. "It's too dangerous. I don't know what the world has become. If there are night hunters… if animals have turned… if something waits for us in the dark, we won't see it coming. One mistake, and we're dead."
His stamina was already far beyond an ordinary man's, his body hardened by battles and leveling. But even so, he wasn't invincible. The thought of an S1 zombie leaping from the shadows, catching him off guard, filled even him with unease.
Luke sipped his drink and leaned back. "Then don't chase them. Let them come to you. Lure them where you want. Set the field yourself."
Ethan blinked. Then a slow smile spread across his lips. "Luke… that's brilliant."
In the silence between them, a bond pulsed stronger than words. They weren't just comrades—they were brothers now, forged in blood and fire.
"Wear the protective gear," Ethan said, rising to his feet, his eyes gleaming with new resolve. "We set out now."
Ethan didn't want to waste a single second. The early days of this new world were priceless—zombies were weak now, sluggish, their evolution incomplete. A few weeks from now, when their bodies hardened and strange mutations spread, killing them would be far riskier. For Ethan, hesitation meant death.
Luke understood without words. With his jaw set and his eyes steady, he silently slipped into the thick protective jacket, fastening the straps across his chest.
"Where are you going?" Luna's voice broke the silence. She stepped forward, her red hair catching the faint glow of the apartment light. Her eyes were wide, shining with both admiration and fear.
The other girls turned too, their beauty sharpened in the dim glow like fragile glass sculptures—Maya's long lashes fluttering, Ava biting her lip, Olivia's hands twisting nervously against her waist. They all stared at Ethan and Luke, the two men who stood at the heart of their survival. The thought of losing either of them sent an unspoken dread through the room.
Ethan's expression was calm but unyielding. "We're going out to hunt. Shut the door behind us. Do not leave. And most importantly—no one comes inside unless it's us. Understand?"
Luna's frown deepened, her voice rising in protest. "At this hour? Ethan, it's suicide! What if you run into another S1? Or worse—a P1?"
Her words struck a nerve. The memory of the P1's monstrous strength still lingered in their minds. Without Ethan and Grace that day, half of them would already be corpses.
Maya quickly added, her dark eyes brimming with worry, "She's right. Wait until morning. Please, Ethan. Just one night of patience!"
But Ethan shook his head. His voice was low, steady, but final. "The world doesn't wait for us. Every hour we hide, the dead grow stronger. If we want to survive, we have to act first. We adapt—or we die."
His tone cut through the room like steel. The girls lowered their eyes, realizing his decision was set in stone. No plea could sway him now.
Soon after, Ethan and Luke left the safety of the apartment. The heavy door shut behind them with a hollow thud, sealing the women inside.
---
The night had swallowed the city whole. Streetlamps stood unlit, apartment windows were empty and black, as though no human soul remained. Yet the power grid still hummed faintly in the distance, a cruel reminder of the world that had died while its systems lingered on.
The silence pressed in on them, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. Overhead, the moon hung bright and cold, bathing the ruined streets in pale silver.
Ethan tilted his head back, gazing at its glow. For a moment, he wasn't a necromancer or a leader. He was just a man remembering what he had lost. "Luke… how long has it been since we fought side by side like this?"
Luke gave a quiet grunt. "Two years."
Ethan's lips curled into a bitter smile. Two years since high school. Two years since everything had changed. Back then, after the heartbreak, OG Ethan had buried himself in study, clawing his way toward a future he thought still mattered. He was no longer that naïve boy, and yet, staring at the moon, the wound opened again.
"Two years already…" he muttered, his voice trailing.
Those memories of OG Ethan came rushing back: the girl he loved, leaving him for another man, because wealth outweighed loyalty. He had worked himself raw for weeks, scraping together money for her birthday gift, only to see her smile at someone else's luxury. The memory still ached like an old scar.
Luke's brow furrowed. His voice was sharp, protective. "Forget her, Ethan. She wasn't worth you. She never was. Gold-digging trash like that doesn't deserve a man who'd bleed for her."
For a heartbeat, silence hung between them. Then Ethan chuckled—low, humorless. "Don't worry. I've already forgotten. Right now, there's only one thing that matters: survival. I know what's important now."
Luke studied him quietly, then nodded once. He didn't need to say more. Their bond went deeper than words—brothers forged by blood, loyalty, and now, blood.
---
They reached the edge of the community. Ethan's sharp eyes scanned the streets before settling on the sales office—its walls of glass gleaming faintly under the moonlight. Perfect bait.
He pointed. "Spawn. Break it."
At once, his skeletal servant marched forward, its axe raised high. With a deafening crash, the blade shattered the glass, sending shards skittering across the pavement. The sound rang out in the dead silence of the city like a gunshot.
The response was immediate.
From alleys, parking lots, and broken apartments, the moans began. Low at first, then swelling into a hideous chorus. One by one, the shadows stirred. Dozens of zombies staggered into the streets, drawn by the sound. Their movements quickened as they locked onto the scent of the living.
Soon, there were more than a hundred. A sea of rotting bodies, their eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight, their jaws snapping as they pressed together in a suffocating wave.
"Shit," Ethan muttered, his jaw tightening. "This is big trouble."
Crowds of zombies were the deadliest. Scattered ones could be lured, picked off one at a time. But this? This was a living tide. One slip, one stumble, and they'd be swallowed whole.
"Up the steps!" Ethan barked.
Without hesitation, he and Luke dashed toward the sales office stairs, boots pounding against stone as the first zombies lunged for them. Ethan's mind was already racing—calculating distances, escape routes, choke points. His quick thinking was the only thing keeping them alive now.
Behind them, the horde surged like a flood, crashing against the building, hands slamming against glass and steel, teeth gnashing, hungry for blood.
And so the real battle began.