Rosalia — POV
If I were ever asked about the worst nightmare I had endured, I would not speak of death, nor of grief, nor even of betrayal.
I would say these words: nothing—nothing whatever could match the madness of throwing myself over a tall iron gate while a mob of the dead came pounding at it, their foul bodies scraping, clawing, twisting, and groaning in unison.
Their screams were not screams of hunger alone; they were the wracked cries of something much more basic. It was as if hell itself had yawned open and released the screams of its most tortured damned.
Some of them were amputees, spasmodic and stumbling in their gait as they pushed themselves forward on stumps and elbows. Others were ripped and shattered by great gaping, hollow-sounding holes in their middle, their organs swinging with each halting step like macabre pendulums. Others crawled along, their bowels streaming behind them like dirty ribbons, slick and shiny against splintered pavement.
And yet, in all their grotesque diversity, they shared something in common: blood. Sticky, dried, heavy blood covered their bodies from head to toe. It dripped from them in strings, splattered in patches, and clotted into welts so thick the air stank of rust, iron, and rot. It was a smell so heavy, so thick, it clung to my lungs like an evil benediction.
Even my own death—the initial death which had brought me here—had not filled me with such paralyzing fear.
But of course, that was different.
This—this world—was far crueler.
And Death, in the end, had been merciful.
Quiet.
Absolute.
And for me it was... Sweet.
No matter how much I wanted to deny it, the truth gnawed at me: my existence in my first life had been nothing but a burden. I had been an unwanted weight on my family, an object of ridicule to my peers, a ghost drifting through life with no purpose but to endure pain.
I never had a good life—not in childhood, nor in adulthood.
The idea of suicide had come to me more times than I could count, whispering seductively in the quiet hours of the night. I first thought of it before I even turned fifteen. I remember sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling, tears drying on my cheeks as the voices of bullies still echoed in my ears. I remember thinking: Why should I endure this? Why not end it now?
But I hadn't.
Because I was weak. A coward.
Because even as I stood on the brink, there had been a single spark that kept me tethered to life. Hope.
The hope that my mother would one day look at me and see a daughter worth loving. The hope that I might stumble upon a kind of love that wasn't cruel, conditional, or mocking. The hope that perhaps—just perhaps—life would one day turn in my favor.
But years passed. That hope grew thinner.
By the time I was grown, I realized that no one—neither family, nor friends, nor strangers—would ever truly offer me love.
Tch.
Thinking about it now, even animals never seemed to like me. Stray cats would hiss. Dogs would bark and lunge at their leashes. Birds scattered when I walked by. As if nature itself rejected my presence.
"What a cruel joke of fate," I whispered bitterly as my steps carried me down the empty road, the air thick with decay.
When I had climbed over the university gate, none of the zombies had noticed me. Even when my foot slipped and I crashed onto the ground right before their eyeless gazes, they didn't lunge. Not one of them moved.
It was as though they couldn't even see me.
That was how I escaped that cursed campus alive.
Luck? Or something else entirely?
I couldn't tell.
But as I raised my eyes to glance back, I froze. There, looming above the tallest building, its shadow cutting sharply against the dying light of dusk, was a massive sign.
Ghoul University – City A.
My heart gave a jolt.
"Oh… so this is where I've landed."
A smile spread across my lips—sharp, bitter, mocking. My footsteps did not slow, yet they no longer wandered aimlessly.
For the first time since I had opened my eyes in this broken world, I had direction.
Not because I merely recognized this place. No, it was far more than that.
I knew this place.
I knew its story.
I knew the fates written into every brick, every shadow.
This was where the "Great Heroine"—the girl later glorified as the Saintess for her miraculous healing powers—had once studied.
Her story was a tired one. A weak, poor, timid girl, bullied relentlessly, until the rich and powerful male lead swooped in to save her. A Cinderella with blood and gore painted over the glass slipper.
Pathetic. Predictable.
I never liked her.
What mattered, however, was not my distaste. What mattered was what I knew: during the first days of the outbreak, she would survive only because she happened to cling to a group of strong, clear-headed students who refused to sit idly and wait for rescue. They understood that waiting was suicide.
And thanks to her cursed "golden finger"—or let's call it what it was: blind luck—she crossed paths with the male lead, who conveniently saved her again and again in this very university.
That pitiful, revolting excuse for a man… Cassel's illegitimate half-brother.
Why, of all possible characters, had the author chosen him to be the male lead? A disgrace. A parasite.
He had no talent, no drive, no wit. He hadn't earned his place at Ghoul University. The heroine had fought for hers with blood and sweat, earning a scholarship through sheer willpower. But him? He was lazy, stupid, and entitled. His father's money was the only key he possessed. Funds poured into the construction of new dorms and buildings, and in return, the brat was welcomed through the back door of prestige.
When the outbreak struck, it was a weekend. He was at home, spared by coincidence.
And when chaos reigned, when death swept across the land, it was Cassel—my Cassel—who had already foreseen, already prepared, already acted. He mobilized his forces, brought his men to City A, and fortified their ground.
That—only that—was the reason the useless father and son lived long enough to play at being heroes.
If not for Cassel, neither they, nor the heroine, nor her gaggle of lucky companions would have drawn breath beyond those first weeks.
He saved them. He protected them. He saved so many. And for what?
Betrayal.
Ridicule.
The cursed title of "villain."
My fists clenched until my nails dug crescents into my palms.
"When I find you again, Cassel," I whispered, my voice trembling between devotion and rage, "I will make them understand. I will make them taste the weight of the word villain. I will carve its meaning into their very souls."
I am not strong. I know that. I was bullied as a child. I lacked the courage to end my own life. But weak? No.
Not anymore.
In a world without law, without punishment… weakness is a choice.
And I—
A flash of heat burned in my chest, and my vision blurred as a memory forced its way to the surface. I saw myself as a little girl again, small and trembling, clutching a stone in my hand. The stone was ordinary. The blood soaking it was not. Human blood. Warm. Vivid. The scent of iron had filled my nostrils then, just as it did now.
My breath caught. The memory slipped away, leaving me standing once more in the present.
I turned a corner and froze.
An alley stretched before me, broad and shadowed, leading directly to the highway. But instead of stepping forward, I pressed myself flat against the wall.
Because I heard them.
Voices. Human voices.
Low whispers, weaving through the air.
Students, by the sound of it. Young. Eager. Fearful.
Their backpacks sagged against their shoulders. Their shoes scuffed softly against the cracked pavement.
"Don't make too much noise," one of them murmured. His voice was steady, authoritative. I peeked out just enough to glimpse him: broad shoulders, a firearm gripped tightly in his hand. "The road looks clear, but zombies appear when you least expect them."
No one questioned him. No one cared about where the gun had come from, or whether he had once been an officer. In this world, survival justified everything. Weapons were no longer luxuries—they were the only law left standing.
My gaze drifted, and then it locked onto her.
She stood among them, wearing a short white skirt that fluttered faintly in the stale night air. Her face was pale, porcelain-like. Her lips glowed a soft, inviting red. Even from a distance, I could feel it—the warmth, the radiant aura, the subtle pull that marked her as different.
I felt like i know her.
Something in me recoiled instantly.
And then, one of the boys spoke. His voice rang with earnestness, almost desperation:
"Mary, stay close to us. We'll protect you, don't worry."
"Hehe…"
My teeth clenched. I bit down until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. A bitter laugh slipped past my lips, sharp and venomous.
"Well, well, look who's here?" I whispered, eyes narrowing, "So we finally meet… beloved heroine."