Ajmer—once a city of vibrant colors, festivals, and ceaseless noise—had fallen into an eerie silence broken only by the guttural moans of the undead. Streets where Ajay once walked freely now seemed alien, painted in shades of blood, smoke, and ash.
Ajay crouched on the rooftop of a half-burnt building, rifle resting loosely against his shoulder, eyes glinting sharp beneath his hood. His breathing was steady, unnaturally calm compared to the chaos echoing through the ruined city. Below, shadows moved—zombies staggering across debris, chasing the faintest sound of life.
"Noise is death. Movement is death. Hunger is death."
He repeated the mantra under his breath, not for comfort, but to hammer survival into his bones.
The system's faint blue interface flickered at the edge of his vision, unchanged since the first kill:
[Temporary System Initiated]
Requirement: 10 Confirmed Zombie Hunts to Unlock True Level Progression.
Zombies Hunted: 2 / 10
Rewards: +1 Stat Point per Confirmed Hunt.
Current Level: Locked.
Ajay's jaw tightened. Two down. Eight to go. Until then, he was nothing but a shadow wearing borrowed flesh—stat points granted, but no class, no skills, no gifts. Just a leash around his neck.
"Ten kills before I'm recognized… like an initiation," he muttered, voice flat and low. His eyes narrowed. "One free point. Testing time."
He shifted the stat into Dexterity. The change was immediate—threads of invisible tension pulled tight through his muscles, fine-tuning every micro-movement. His fingers flexed on the dagger hilt at his waist, faster, steadier. He spun the blade once, listening to the faint whistle of air on steel.
"Dexterity sharpens control. Agility makes me quicker. Strength without precision is wasted." His voice was a murmur swallowed by the night.
The bell above the door of Daily Needs was silent, its glass shattered inward. The interior was a tomb of ransacked shelves and spilled goods, the air thick with copper and spoiled milk. Ajay paused at the threshold, senses mapping the room with predator's clarity. Two movements.
The first loomed near the counter: a large man in a clerk's vest, twisted arm dragging like dead weight, but body surging with grotesque strength. Its milky eyes snapped to Ajay and it growled, deeper and hungrier than the others.
The second flickered in the shadows of the aisle—a young woman in a torn school uniform, crouched low. When her head snapped up, her fingers ended in jagged bone talons, scraping the linoleum with a shrill scrape.
A pincer. Textbook. But Ajay had written the textbooks.
The Brute charged first, a bull of rotting flesh, scattering a display of chips. Predictable. Ajay moved in instead of back, ducking under a sweeping arm that would have caved his skull. He smashed the pommel of his kukri into its knee. A wet crack. The Brute roared, staggering. A distraction. The flicker was the true threat.
The Stalker skittered across shelves in jerking bursts of speed, talons flashing toward his throat. Ajay dropped into a spin, the claws slicing air inches above him. Rising, he snapped his left hand forward—not with steel, but with a heavy can of tomatoes.
The impact cracked across the Stalker's face. Not a kill. An interrupt. Enough. She reeled back, hissing. Ajay closed the gap, parrying her swipe with the flat of his kukri, sparks shrieking off bone, then drove his combat knife up under her jaw. She went limp.
[Zombie Hunted: 3/10]
+1 Stat Point Earned.
Current Level: Locked.
The ripple of energy sharpened his reflexes, an edge he could feel in the rhythm of his breath. No time to savor.
The Brute lunged again. Ajay rolled beneath it, came up behind, and brought his kukri down in a brutal chop. Steel met spine. The monster crumpled, still at last.
[Zombie Hunted: 4/10]
+1 Stat Point Earned.
Current Level: Locked.
Ajay distributed one point into Strength, another into Agility. His body surged—raw power flooding his limbs, movements lighter, sharper. The kukri felt weightless. The system was forging him kill by kill, stripping him down, rebuilding him into something inhuman.
Amidst the carnage, he scanned the store. No loot. No cores. Just silence. The temporary system gave him only what he needed, nothing more.
He found a backpack near the counter and filled it with precision: bottled water, protein bars, rice, beans, a first-aid kit. Efficient. Behind the counter lay a faded photo of the clerk with his family. Ajay stared at it for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he packed the bag and moved on.
A sound froze him. Not a groan. Not a scream. A child's crying, muffled, from the storeroom.
His hand fell on the Beretta. Rules were simple: minimize contact, eliminate liabilities. Noise was a lure, a death sentence. He stood, a statue in the quiet, as the sobbing continued.
Then, without a word, Ajay turned away. He stepped silently over the Brute's corpse and into the burning night. The crying wasn't his problem. Survival was.
Back on the rooftop, he pulled his battered logbook and recorded:
Supplies
Water: 5 packs
Rice: 1.5 kg
Beans: 2 cans
Protein Bars: 3
First Aid Kit: 1
Ammo: 14 bullets
Knives: 2
Backpack: Acquired
Kills: 4/10
System: Still Locked.
He closed the book. In the fractured glass of a nearby window, his reflection stared back—hooded, cold, eyes burning faintly red.
The streets of Ajmer burned below. The city screamed. The sky cracked with violet lightning.
Ajay whispered, voice like a vow:
"Six more. Then the leash comes off."