The moment Ash Leon hit the ground, it felt as if every bone in his body had shattered; pain radiated from every joint. Still, he had successfully broken through the zombie blockade and reached the end of the corridor.
Without hesitation, Ash rolled forward and tumbled out of the passage. Leaving the church corridor behind felt like entering another world. He looked up: all around him was a train station, and he lay sprawled across the platform, countless tracks stretching to either side.
Above him, an electronic sign blinked a single word in bright letters: Death!
"Ha ha ha…" Ash Leon laughed, a wild, victorious sound. "I knew I'd survive. I will survive!"
He shook off the pain and stood, moving forward. He knew for certain this was the platform for the Death Train—but where was the train itself?
He didn't rush. Reaching the platform already meant he was safe for the moment. After climbing over two overpasses, Ash finally spotted a black train at platform "13," its edges trimmed in red, exuding an almost supernatural aura.
"Welcome to the Death Train. Your number is 23."
Ash froze. Before him, 22 people had already reached the Death Train? The pause lasted only a second; numbers didn't mean much here—they were just sequential tags.
Ash approached the train, now it was time to choose a carriage number. Unlike the entry sequence, the carriage choice was critical. The carriages weren't interconnected—once you entered, that was your designated space, at least at first.
Different carriages brought different scenarios, and before boarding, no one could know who or what would occupy a given carriage. In the end, luck determined much.
"Number 7 it is, lucky number seven," Ash decided. He liked the number: he was born in a year ending in 7, on July 7th. Since he was a child, seven had always been his lucky number.
He strode confidently into carriage 7. Inside, he was not the first: three people were already there—two men and a woman.
Ash examined them. The first man wore a plain white tracksuit, spotless, with not a smudge of dust or zombie blood—either incredibly lucky or absurdly strong. Ash bet on the latter; the man's calm expression betrayed no fear.
The second man, roughly in his thirties, had a well-toned, practical physique—not the exaggerated muscles of a bodybuilder, but the lean, deadly power of a veteran accustomed to real combat. His muscles were functional, honed by experience, not for show.
The woman wore a professional suit. She was attractive but clearly terrified, constantly scanning her surroundings, her fear palpable.
"Lucky, but weak," Ash muttered. He wasn't prejudiced against women—he'd seen formidable women aboard the Death Train before—but this one clearly lacked the heart for survival. In a broken world, fear killed faster than anything else.
As he assessed them, the woman seemed to hesitate, perhaps wanting to speak but intimidated by the men. Ash smirked; it saved him the trouble of conversation.
He walked to the rear corner of the carriage, sat against the wall, and closed his eyes. The basic carriages had no seats.
Ash allowed himself a brief rest. There was no immediate danger; the men in tracksuit and veteran physique were alert, likely wary of zombies. He knew none could breach the Death Train platform. Even if someone aboard intended harm, fighting was forbidden.
Despite its name, the Death Train was humanity's last refuge, a rare pocket of safety. Ash closed his eyes, letting the world fade to black, his body exhausted from the relentless fighting. Soon, he drifted into sleep.
He awoke to commotion. Two new passengers had boarded: a girl in a judo uniform and a roguish man—an unmistakable street punk.
The punk was teasing the professional woman, causing her to scream and curse. Ash turned away, uninterested, and popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth.
"You've got food?" The punk's eyes lit up at the sound of chewing. He abandoned the woman and approached Ash. "Give it to me, all of it!"
Ash glanced up, unimpressed. "And what will you trade me?"
"Huh?" The punk froze for a moment, then his eyes gleamed. He grabbed Ash's shirt and pulled him up. "I'll trade with my fists. How about that?"
Ash chuckled coldly. "Idiot."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of me?" the punk demanded.
"Try me," Ash replied, calm.
The punk raised his fist, but paused mid-motion. Anyone else might have thought he hesitated out of fear. Ash knew better: the mysterious voice had likely intervened. No fighting aboard the Death Train was allowed.
"Goddamn, sneaky little bastard, let's see what you can do!" The punk raged, finally swinging at Ash's face.
But in that instant…
The punk's head dropped clean off