Zhao Tianyu never liked meetings, especially this one.
As the department manager droned on about numbers and performance metrics, he sat glassy-eyed, mentally flipping through the games he'd play after work. Maybe some RTS to blow off steam.
A sudden click—the sharp slap of a pen hitting the table—snapped him back to reality.
"Zhao Tianyu!" roared a middle-aged woman with lungs like a subwoofer. "What are you doing? Your performance hasn't met the target for the month. You keep this up, you're out. Understand?"
The room fell into dead silence. The rest of the staff looked down at their papers, as if hoping invisibility would save them.
Zhao Tianyu stared at her blankly. He didn't bother arguing. Of course I didn't meet the target, he muttered inwardly. It's the off-season. Even if I did, I'd still be stuck under you.
But he didn't say it. Not out loud. Not when his internship report still had to go through this place.
Just a few more months. Then I'm out of here.
Three thousand yuan a month. After rent, food, and incidentals, he was lucky if he didn't have to dig into his savings. But he grit his teeth and endured for now.
The manager—whom he mentally dubbed the lioness—glared a few seconds longer, then threw a few more biting remarks his way before moving on.
After the meeting, a colleague strolled over, grinning.
"Brother Zhao, you've got guts, staring her down like that."
"Cut the crap. You want me to write that report for you or not?"
"You know me too well," the guy said. "Come on, Zhao—tall, handsome, graceful. That report is child's play for you. Help a brother out?"
"A barbecue."
"Deal."
That night, stuffed with grilled meat and beer, Zhao Tianyu staggered home slightly tipsy. Instead of collapsing straight into bed, he powered on his PC.
Time to command some virtual armies.
As he waited for the game to load, a flicker caught his eye. Outside the window, meteors streaked across the sky in brilliant arcs.
"Damn... real meteor shower?"
He stood to get a better look—and immediately tripped over a tangled wire, crashing face-first into his monitor.
Everything went black.
The next morning, his phone alarm blared.
Zhao Tianyu groaned, eyes fluttering open. His head throbbed. The cracked screen of his 4K monitor stared back at him like a crime scene.
"Ah—dammit! My monitor!"
He shuffled to the bathroom, dabbed iodine on the small cut on his forehead, then stepped onto the balcony for air.
And froze.
Down on the street, corpses were scattered like trash. Cars abandoned mid-turn. People are staggering unnaturally. Others hunched over the dead, feasting.
His stomach turned cold.
He bolted back inside and fumbled for his phone. Tried his dad. Tried his mom. Nothing.
The number you have dialed is currently unavailable...
They had to be okay. His father was ex-military. If anyone could survive this, it was him.
Then—
Ding!Host awakening detected. Binding complete. Loading data... Welcome to the War Game System.
"What the—"
"Good morning, Commander," a synthesized male voice echoed in his mind.
"Commander? What the hell?"
"There is no need to search for me. I reside in your consciousness. I am the War Game System, adapted from your computer's strategy game. You may refer to me as Artificial Intelligence Alpha."
A holographic panel flickered to life in front of him—an RTS-style interface, but far more advanced. He tapped the Barracks tab—only one option: Infantry.
He clicked it.
Insufficient resource points.
"What the hell are resource points?"
"Commander, resource points are the core of your war system. All military units, structures, and supplies require them. They can be acquired by recycling materials."
He spun around. "Recycle… my stuff?"
"Affirmative."
He pointed to his monitor. "Recycle."
+5 resource points.
By the time he'd stripped his room bare—furniture, appliances, even his gaming chair—he had exactly 100 resource points.
He tapped Produce Infantryman.
Consume 100 Resource Points. Time: 1 minute. Confirm?
He confirmed. One minute later, a soldier materialized in front of him—Asian, armed, in digital camo.
"Commander! Infantryman No. 1 reporting!"
Tianyu blinked. "Are you a clone?"
"Yes, sir. We are genetically manufactured soldiers, pre-loaded with all necessary combat knowledge. Loyal. Obedient. Efficient."
The soldier wore the insignia of the Starfish Consortium, held a Type 81 rifle, and looked ready for war.
"Report status."
"Type 81 rifle. 7.62mm. Effective range: 600 meters. Magazine: 30 rounds. 150 in reserve. Equipped with a bayonet. Ready for combat."
Congratulations, Commander. You've unlocked: Officer's Uniform + Type 92 Pistol.
Tianyu glanced down. His clothes had changed. He now wears a Starfish uniform—his rank: Second Lieutenant.
He drew the 92 pistol from his hip holster. It was heavy, real. He popped the magazine. Full.
His apartment was now stripped bare. If he wanted more troops, he needed more resource points.
"Let's go, Number One."
They started from the top floor and worked their way down.
The building was eerily quiet—no zombies—yet.
When they reached the eighth floor, he eyed the apartment doors. Solid steel. Too strong to kick open. Blasting it open would cause a commotion—and zombies would swarm.
He needed a quieter solution.
He remembered: the first floor had a small hotel run by the landlord. Lots of turnover, constant guests. Maybe it had been hit first.
They descended. On the first floor, two zombies staggered near the stairwell.
Number One didn't hesitate. He drove his bayonet through the first one's skull. The second lunged, only to be kicked down and stabbed through the spine.
They approached the small hotel. Inside, several zombies feasted on a body.
"Commander, permission to open fire?"
Tianyu checked the iron gate near the building's entrance. It had been left open.
"Permission granted."
Number One raised his rifle and fired. The first burst shredded three zombies. The rest turned—too late.
He charged in, rifle swinging, bayonet stabbing.
The last one dropped with a wet thud.
Silence.