The streets stretched out like a graveyard, silent.
The kind of silence that came only when life itself had been wrung out of a place. Cars sat abandoned across the asphalt, doors hanging open, headlights still faintly glowing where batteries hadn't yet given out. Windows of nearby stores had shattered outward, glass scattered like salt across the sidewalks. The faint stink of smoke drifted on the wind, mixing with the reek of rot and something coppery that made Charles's throat burn.
Charles moved alone, Venomfang dagger in his hand, grip tight, boots crunching glass and gravel underfoot. The world felt different without Marco's commands or Selene's frightened breaths, quieter, heavier. Above, the crimson sky pulsed faintly, the glow bleeding into ruined skyscrapers like veins of fire.
Every step reminded him of his ribs, but the ache was muted now, dulled by the strange energy thrumming in his veins. His body felt Stronger, Faster, Sharper. He couldn't deny it.
A sound pulled him from his thoughts. Low. Wet. Shuffling.
The first one announced itself with a groan.
A figure staggered from the shadow of a convenience store, pale skin stretched tight against bone, eyes glazed white. Its mouth hung open, strings of spit dripping down its chin, teeth gnashing at nothing. A zombie.
Charles stopped, breath steadying, muscles loose. His heart still sped up, but the sheer, bone-deep terror that had gripped him when he fought the first Vinyling wasn't there.
The zombie seemed to notice him, and started to staggered towards him, it staggered slowly. Too slow, the zombie was slower than an average man before the mana arrived in their world and to Charles whose speed was more than four times that, it might as well as not had been moving at all.
Charles smirked faintly. "How nice"
The dagger was already moving before he finished the thought.
He closed the distance in a single step—faster than he expected, so fast his body startled itself—and the blade cut across the creature's head of in a clean arc. Flesh parted like wet paper. The zombie dropped in a heap, blood spilling, it twitched once, before.
A chime.
> [You have slain Zombie — Level 1]
And nothing else.
Charles frowned. No new points. No level up. Just… silence.
"Maybe it's too weak," he muttered, kicking the corpse aside.
Two more shambled into view minutes later, drawn by the sound. Their movements were clumsy, uneven—rotting muscles twitching without coordination. Compared to the corrupted rat, they were snails. Compared to the Vinyling, they were jokes.
Charles darted forward, speed carrying him faster than their sluggish eyes could follow. The first went down with a stab through the temple. The second tried to swing a broken arm at him, but he ducked under and slashed across its ribs, then finished with a thrust through the skull.
[You have slain Zombie — Level 2]
[You have slain Zombie — Level 2]
Still, no reward.
Charles stood over their bodies, chest rising and falling. His blade dripped black rot, sizzling faintly where it hit the ground.
So that was it. Too weak. The system didn't bother rewarding him for swatting flies.
It made sense. These things were too weak. Level one. Level two. Compared to him at seven, they barely counted as prey.
He clenched his fist. But still. To think I can cut through them this easily…
A strange feeling stirred in him at the thought. Not disappointment, though he was. I was something else.
Pride.
He was above them now.
The Vinilings came next.
Three of them, crawling into the open from an alleyway. They were grotesque looking spiders. Their red eyes glowed faintly in the gloom. He remembered the first one he fought, how it had nearly gutted him, how his arms had shaken as he raised his pipe.
Now, his grip tightened on the dagger, and his lips twisted into something dark.
"Perfect."
They screeched and charged.
Charles moved.
Speed surged through him—unnatural, intoxicating. The world slowed. The first Vinyling lunged, but he was already gone, a blur past its claws. His blade slid into its side, quick and precise, before he spun away.
The second came low, snapping jaws aimed for his leg. He vaulted over it with ease, the agility almost shocking, and drove the dagger down through the back of its skull as he landed. The blade sank in with a crunch, ichor spraying warm across his knuckles.
The third skittered sideways, tail whipping. Charles ducked, rolled, and came up under its chin, his strike ripping clean through its throat.
Three movements. Three corpses.
Silence again.
> [You have slain Vinyling — Level 1]
[You have slain Vinyling — Level 1]
[You have slain Vinyling — Level 2]
This time, a new line glowed faintly.
[Level Up!]
Charles exhaled hard, chest heaving, heart hammering with more than exertion. Adrenaline, triumph—power. He wiped ichor from his cheek with the back of his wrist, staring down at the twitching remains.
The first time he fought one of these things, it had almost killed him. He had bled, screamed, thought he was going to die in a filthy alley. Now? He had cut through three in minutes.
And it hadn't even been five hours since the sky turned red.
His lips curled into something between a grimace and a smile. "I'm not the same. Not anymore."
He glanced at his panel, glowing faintly beside him in the dark:
[Level: 8]
He was stronger.
And yet…
The thought cut short.
The hairs on his neck prickled.
The air shifted—heavier, oppressive, as though the very atmosphere was pressing down. He could feel it, it see his perception had increased along with his stats. From somewhere deep in the ruined streets, a sound rose. Not a groan. Not a screech. Something else. Something heavier.
A roar.
It rolled across the broken city like thunder, rattling glass in shattered windows, making the pavement seem to tremble beneath his boots.
Charles froze. His grip on the dagger tightened until his knuckles whitened. His chest throbbed, not just from fear, but anticipation, anticipation at how much stronger he would get if he killed it .
That wasn't a zombie. That wasn't a Vinyling.
That was something worse.
The sound echoed again, closer this time, shaking dust loose from a crumbling awning above. Charles's heartbeat matched its rhythm—slow, steady, terrifying.
He lifted his dagger, eyes narrowing into the darkness.
And whispered, almost to himself:
"…Guess the hunt starts now."