Viktor was twelve the first time his father drowned him.
Viktor Hale's lungs burned, his small fists thrashing against the water as the river swallowed him whole. Above, a hand like iron pressed against his chest, holding him under. The world blurred, bubbles tearing from his lips, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears.
Just when blackness closed in, his father yanked him free, dragging him to the bank like a caught fish. Viktor coughed, vomited river water, his chest heaving.
"Pathetic," the man growled, tossing him aside. "A real soldier breathes water if he has to."
His father's name carried weight in another world — Navy SEAL, veteran of wars Viktor was too young to understand. But in this world, in this quiet corner of Georgia, he was just a ghost of violence, raising his son as though every day was a battlefield.
Meals were earned,Sleep was rationed,
and Failure meant fists.
By thirteen, Viktor's hands were calloused from live weapons drills By fourteen, his body bore the map of scars his father carved into him with punishment and "lessons." A jagged line down his back from a forced crawl through razor wire. A puckered scar on his shoulder where his father had pressed a burning cigarette, teaching him not to flinch under pain.
And still, Viktor endured.
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At night, when he lay bruised and aching, his father's voice echoed in his skull:
"Pain is the only teacher that doesn't lie. One day, the world will fall apart. And when it does, you will be ready. You will not just survive, you will rule."
Viktor believed him.
What choice did he have?
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The years sharpened him into something more than human, less than whole. He became disciplined, precise, deadly. But the price was carved into his flesh — a childhood stripped bare, innocence drowned in rivers and burned in scars.
When he looked into the mirror at eighteen, he didn't see a boy.
He saw a soldier.
A weapon.
His father's creation.
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But what Viktor Hale could not know — what neither of them could — was that twenty years later, when the world collapsed into ash and blood, everything his father drilled into him would finally make sense
And on that day, as the dead walked and the living fell to chaos, Viktor Hale would awaken something his father could never have imagined: Day Zero
It began quietly.
At first, the news spoke of riots, strange infections, bodies refusing to stay buried. Then came the videos: pale, staggering figures eating flesh in the streets, police gunfire doing nothing to stop them. By the time the broadcasts fell silent, the world was already ending.
Viktor Hale stood in the ruins of a supermarket, a tire iron slick with blood in his hand. His shirt clung to his chest, ripped and stained. Around him, half a dozen corpses sprawled in the aisles — not the dead, but men. Living men who had tried to corner him for supplies.
He'd cut them down without hesitation.
Because that's what his father had trained him for the code Survive, Conquer,Rule the code of harry.
As he pulled the tire iron free of a skull, something flickered at the edge of his vision.
A message. No — not in the world, but inside his mind.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]
Welcome, Viktor Hale.
Designation: Bandit King Candidate.
Objective: Thrive through Domination.
He froze, breathing hard. The words hung there, glowing faint gold, waiting for him to read them. His father's voice echoed in the back of his skull: "The world will fall apart. When it does, you will rule."
For the first time, Viktor wondered if the old bastard had been right.
[First Blood: Survivors killed – 6]
Reward: 60 Bandit Points
Skill Tree Unlocked.
A new screen flared before his eyes, no larger than a playing card but sharp as a knife. Rows of branching icons burned with possibility:
Weapons Mastery – Increases proficiency with all firearms and melee weapons.
Fearsome Presence – Weak-willed survivors are more easily intimidated.
Pack Instinct – Faction members under your command gain increased morale when you lead in person.
Territory Control – Captured camps and buildings produce more resources.
Viktor's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
He had killed before. His father had made sure of that. But now, killing made him stronger.
The store's automatic doors groaned. A ragged survivor stumbled in, clutching a baseball bat. He froze when he saw the bodies — and Viktor standing among them, eyes glowing faint gold with the reflection of his HUD.
"P-please," the man stammered. "I just need food. I don't want any trouble."
Viktor stepped forward. The tire iron dripped blood onto the tiles. The man trembled.
And then another notification flared:
[Passive Ability Acquired: Bandit King's Aura]
Weaker survivors instinctively fear your presence.
The man dropped his bat without a word. His knees buckled.
Viktor felt it — the pull of power, the weight of authority. His father's ghost whispered: "Pain is the only teacher. Fear is the only law."
He didn't kill the man.
Not yet.
Instead, Viktor placed his hand on the man's shoulder, grip like iron.
"You want to live?" he asked. His voice was calm, steady, terrifying.
The man nodded frantically.
"Then you live for me."
[First Follower Acquired]
+10 Bandit Points
Faction System Online.
Viktor smiled, scars pulling tight across his cheek.
The dead walked the earth. The living scrambled like prey. But he… he was something else entirely.
The apocalypse hadn't destroyed the world.
It had given him the throne his father promised.
And Viktor Hale would build his kingdom from blood and fire.