Alex stumbled backward and collapsed onto the sofa, the worn cushions groaning under his weight. Only then did he notice it—his hands were shaking violently, as if they no longer belonged to him. The adrenaline that had carried him this far finally crashed, leaving his limbs weak and unsteady.
He clenched his fists, but the tremors refused to stop.
"So this is fear…" he muttered under his breath.
Outside, faint echoes of dragging footsteps and guttural moans seeped through the walls, crawling into his ears like a reminder he couldn't escape. Zombies. Real ones. Not a movie screen, not a game—outside his window.
It was his first time ever facing one.
The thought made his throat dry.
Yet, strangely, Alex realized something else—he hadn't completely lost it. He hadn't screamed. He hadn't frozen. He had run, hidden, survived. Compared to how his heart was hammering now, his earlier calm almost felt unreal.
"I didn't do too bad…" he whispered, half convincing himself.
He leaned back, forcing his breathing to slow. Inhale. Exhale. Again. The beating in his chest gradually softened, though it never fully settled.
Once his fingers obeyed him again, Alex summoned the chat channel.
Moments ago, it had been a chaotic flood—messages overlapping, warnings screaming in capital letters, people panicking, begging, boasting, lying. Noise. Madness.
But now…
It was quiet.
Unnaturally so.
The sudden silence made his scalp prickle far more than the noise ever had.
"…Hello?" Alex murmured, eyes scanning the dim interface.
No response.
The quiet felt heavy, as if something—or someone—was holding its breath.
The chat channel wasn't empty—but it was no longer alive.
Messages still appeared, yet the frantic flood from earlier was gone. Each line of text now lingered on the screen for only three or four seconds before slowly fading away, like dying embers swallowed by darkness.
That alone was enough to make Alex's chest tighten.
People were disappearing.
Not logging off. Not going quiet.
Dying.
At the very start of the game.
Alex swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the vanishing messages. He couldn't reconcile it. When he had run through the streets earlier, every zombie he'd seen had been moving—how could people already be dead?
Unless…
His thoughts were interrupted as new messages popped up.
"Help! They're too fast—this isn't normal!"
"Why can they sprint?! I can't outrun them!"
"Is anyone safe inside a building? Please respond!"
"This is bullshit! I died in ten seconds!"
Voices overlapped in digital panic. Some shared their encounters in broken sentences, others begged for help without even knowing who they were asking. Complaints flooded in about the zombies—how they weren't slow, how they learned quickly, how, once they locked onto a target, escape became nearly impossible.
Alex's fingers hovered above the interface.
"So it's not just me…" he murmured.
Then his gaze shifted as the regional chat channel activated.
The interface changed instantly.
Unlike the global chaos, the regional channel displayed survivors within the same city. Beside every message floated a three-dimensional projection of the speaker—semi-transparent, eerily lifelike. Alongside it were cold, clinical details:
Name. Height. Weight. Age. Basic stats.
It felt less like a chat room and more like a catalogue.
Under normal circumstances, Alex knew exactly what would have happened next.
A frightened girl asking for protection would've been surrounded by eager volunteers within seconds—offers, promises, bravado.
But this wasn't normal.
This was a world where stepping outside meant death.
A soft female voice appeared with a trembling projection.
"I'm alone… is anyone nearby? Please… I don't want to die."
The message faded.
No one replied.
Not because they were heartless—but because no one dared to promise survival when they couldn't even guarantee their own.
Alex stared at the empty space where her image had vanished.
"…This game," he muttered quietly, "doesn't give anyone the luxury of being a hero."
In this world, survival came first.
Everyone was struggling just to stay alive. No one had the luxury—or the resources—to look after anyone else. Kindness was expensive here, and most people couldn't afford it.
Worse still, speaking too much in the chat channel was dangerous.
Every message was a signal.
Every signal was a trail.
Alex had already noticed it—some survivors weren't panicking or begging. They were watching. Lurking. Waiting for careless words, exposed locations, or desperate cries they could exploit. In a world where monsters roamed the streets, humans with ulterior motives were just as terrifying.
Silence is safer, Alex reminded himself.
Time passed slowly, each second stretching under the weight of tension. He kept his ears open, listening for the telltale scrape of claws or the heavy thud of bodies slamming against the door.
But it never came.
The zombies outside… weren't rushing in.
Only then did Alex finally move.
Keeping his steps light, he crossed the room and retrieved the Level 1 Supply Box he had noticed earlier. The box felt heavier than it looked, its cold surface grounding him in reality.
"Stay low. Stay alive," he whispered to himself.
He opened it.
Inside lay three items—simple, but invaluable.
A fire axe, its blade dull with age but solid in his grip.
A Primary Level Physique Potion, the liquid inside faintly glowing, like it held a promise—or a risk.
And a bottle of pure water, clear and untouched, more precious than gold in a dying city.
Alex exhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the axe.
These weren't gifts.
A sudden thought struck Alex.
"The spatial ring…"
He flexed his fingers, and a faint ripple shimmered around his hand. With a thought, the ring responded.
The storage interface unfolded before him.
Inside were twelve storage slots, neatly arranged. Each slot could hold only one type of item, but with unlimited stacking capacity. As long as the items were identical, they would occupy just a single slot.
In other words—space was precious, but efficiency was absolute.
Alex quickly tested it.
The items vanished one after another as he stored them away:
The explosion shield.
The steel helmet.
The fire axe.
The tear gas.
The bottle of pure water.
Six items. Six slots used.
Only six spaces remained.
However, the ring had a strict limitation—it could not store items inside other items. No loopholes. No cheating the system.
Alex nodded grimly. Fair enough.
His gaze then settled on the last item resting in his hand.
The Primary Level Physique Potion.
The liquid inside the vial was yellowish, faintly luminous, as if light itself had been trapped within. It pulsed softly, almost alive.
Alex's breathing slowed.
He knew exactly what this meant.
According to the system's rules, a survivor's physical strength was divided into five stages:
Weak.
Ordinary.
Strong.
Extremely Strong.
And finally—the absolute limit of the human body.
Right now, Alex was merely Ordinary.
But this potion…
It would push him directly to the Extremely Strong stage.
A leap most people would never achieve in their lifetime.
There was no drawback mentioned. No warning. No catch.
Alex laughed quietly, the sound sharp with resolve.
"Thinking about it would be stupid."
He uncorked the vial without hesitation.
"If I'm going to survive," he said coldly, "I won't do it as prey."
Tilting his head back, Alex drank the potion in one go.
Alex uncorked the vial and swallowed its contents in one gulp.
The moment the liquid slid down his throat, it burned.
It was as if molten metal had been poured straight into his stomach. The heat exploded outward, surging into his veins, racing through his bloodstream like wildfire. His muscles seized. His vision blurred.
Alex slammed a hand against his mouth.
"—!"
A scream clawed its way up his throat.
He bit down hard on his lip.
Pain flared as blood filled his mouth, metallic and hot, but he didn't dare make a sound. Not here. Not now. One careless noise could turn this place into a death trap.
His body felt like it was being torn apart and reforged at the same time.
Bones creaked. Muscles tightened. Every cell screamed.
Time dragged.
One second felt like a minute. A minute like an eternity.
Then—slowly—the burning began to fade.
Five minutes passed.
The agony vanished as suddenly as it had come, replaced by a powerful, electrifying sensation. Strength flooded his limbs. His heart beat steady and strong. His breathing was deep, controlled.
Alex straightened.
"…So this is Extremely Strong."
He picked up the fire axe he had found earlier.
It felt… light.
Too light.
He swung it once, the blade cutting cleanly through the air with a sharp whistle. His movements were smoother, faster, more precise. Even his senses had sharpened—the distant groans outside were clearer, more defined.
Then—
A voice.
"Is there anyone who can save me?!"
Alex froze.
The cry echoed faintly through the streets, raw with desperation. He could hear the strain in it, the hoarseness that came from screaming for too long.
Whoever it was… had been shouting for help for a while.
Alex tightened his grip on the axe.
Alex strained his ears, holding his breath as he tried to pinpoint the source of the voice.
There.
Outside.
Slowly—painfully slowly—he moved toward the window, each step deliberate, each breath controlled. His newly sharpened senses picked up faint shuffling sounds below, the wet drag of feet against concrete. Zombies were close. One careless move, one scrape of sound, and he'd announce himself to all of them.
He reached the window and carefully peered out.
What he saw made his brows knit together.
On a rooftop roughly a hundred meters away stood a woman, completely surrounded.
Zombies closed in from every side, their bodies jerking and swaying as they crept toward her. Yet what stunned Alex wasn't just her situation—it was her appearance.
A low-cut dinner gown clung to her figure, the fabric completely out of place in this nightmare. High heels dug uselessly into the rooftop, offering no balance, no speed, no chance of escape.
"What the hell were you thinking…?" Alex muttered under his breath.
And then she screamed again.
The sound cut through the air like a knife.
Alex winced. Foolish. That was the only word for it. In a world where silence meant survival, she was doing everything possible to paint a target on herself.
But as he watched more closely, something clicked.
The zombies weren't wandering.
They were fixated.
Every single one of them had their backs turned to him, their attention completely locked onto the woman. Their movements were clumsy, greedy, almost tunnel-visioned.
An opening.
Alex's grip tightened on the fire axe.
"If I move now…" he whispered.
But hesitation crept in just as quickly.
He didn't know enough.
These weren't movie zombies. He couldn't assume anything. Did they track humans by smell? By sound? By movement? Would one sudden motion draw them all to him? Or would they remain locked onto their prey no matter what?
One wrong guess—
—and he'd trade places with her.
Alex exhaled slowly, forcing his racing thoughts into order.
This isn't about bravery, he told himself. It's about certainty.
Outside, the woman screamed again—her voice cracking, desperation bleeding through every syllable.
Time was running out.
And whatever Alex chose next would decide whether he walked away stronger…
…or joined the dead..
Alex drew in a slow, steady breath.
He only had one life.
And in this world, wasting it on reckless heroics was the fastest way to die.
He forced himself to stay calm, eyes never leaving the rooftop across the street. Every scream, every shuffling corpse, every possible variable ran through his mind. If he acted, it had to be deliberate. Clean. Calculated.
Think first. Move second.
Just as his thoughts began to knot, a sharp chime echoed in his mind.
A notification appeared.
[System Tip]
Zombies are highly sensitive to sharp sounds.
Now is the optimal time to harvest them.
Alex's pupils contracted.
"…Perfect."
The message answered the question he'd been wrestling with. Sound—not smell, not movement—sound was the trigger.
And right now, all the noise was coming from the rooftop.
Their attention was completely elsewhere.
This was an opening too good to ignore.
Seven… maybe eight zombies were clustered together. If he handled it properly, he could wipe them out in one sweep—and earn an Energy Crystal, the very thing the system had already confirmed could push him even further beyond his limits.
Strength. Survival. Momentum.
Alex's hesitation vanished.
He moved quickly but silently, equipping himself with practiced efficiency. The steel helmet settled onto his head. The Explosion Shield locked into place on his arm. The familiar weight of the fire axe grounded him, steadying his nerves.
This wasn't a gamble.
This was an execution.
Without another glance at the screaming woman, Alex turned and headed for the back door of the real estate office, footsteps light, heartbeat steady.
"Time to hunt," he muttered.
And this time—
He wouldn't be the prey.
The front door of the real estate office faced the street—a wide sheet of glass that reflected light and danger in equal measure. Using it would be suicide.
The back door was different.
An old, heavy security door stood there, leading directly into the community behind the building. Its surface was scratched and worn, the hinges dulled by time.
Just as Alex reached for it, a familiar chime echoed in his mind.
[Warning]
The security door is old. Opening it too quickly will produce a sharp metal friction sound.
Alex froze.
"…Got it," he whispered.
Every movement slowed to a crawl. He wrapped his fingers around the cold doorknob, careful not to let his grip slip. Inch by inch, he twisted it and gently pushed.
—Screeeak.
The sound was faint, but in the stillness, it felt deafening.
Alex's muscles tensed instantly.
Outside, one of the zombies jerked to a halt, its head twitching as if it had caught something unusual. For a single terrifying second, it turned slightly—almost in his direction.
Alex didn't breathe.
Then—
"Help! Please—someone help me!"
The woman's scream rang out again, sharp and desperate.
The zombie shuddered, attention snapping back toward the rooftop. Its body lurched forward, joining the others once more, hunger overriding curiosity.
Alex exhaled silently.
"That was close…"
The door was open now.
And he had just slipped past the line between safety and slaughter.
The woman's cries were growing weaker, her voice rough and frayed, as if it might snap at any moment.
Then she saw him.
Her eyes widened, hope flooding her face like a sudden miracle.
"Hey! I'm here!" she shouted, her voice surging with renewed energy. "Hurry—save me!"
Alex's expression didn't change.
He raised a thumb in response—calm, controlled—but his body told a different story. The Explosion Shield was locked firmly in his left hand, the fire axe resting solidly in his right. Every muscle in his body was taut, ready.
Too loud, he thought grimly.
As he advanced, her excited shouts rang out again, sharp and uncontrolled. The zombies reacted instantly, several of them twitching and shifting toward the sound, their movements becoming restless and aggressive.
Alex didn't break stride.
Using the chaos she created, he slipped around the edge of the group, his steps light, precise. The zombies' attention was torn between hunger and noise, their senses overwhelmed.
One by one, their backs turned to him.
Alex moved in close, close enough to smell the rot clinging to their bodies.
He was behind them now.
Undetected.
The woman was still shouting—still alive.
But if Alex didn't end this quickly, that wouldn't last much longer.
Every instinct screamed at him: move fast, strike hard, survive.
One wrong move and a single bite would turn him into another mindless predator. One mistake—and all of his hard-won strength, his careful planning, would be meaningless.
Alex ignored the woman's desperate screams, forcing them out of his mind. They were irrelevant now. Life and death were measured in steps, swings, and reflexes—not in cheers or pleas.
He crouched slightly, letting the Explosion Shield cover his chest, the heavy metal absorbing any errant swipes or snapping jaws. His fire axe gleamed in his hand, light and deadly, as if eager for blood.
The nearest zombie lurched, a grotesque puppet jerking toward the rooftop above. Alex's eyes narrowed.
One clean strike.
He swung.
The axe cut down with precision, striking the back of the zombie's skull. Bone cracked audibly under the force, a sickening crunch that echoed faintly across the empty street. The creature collapsed instantly, twitching once before going still.
The other zombies barely reacted, too slow to adjust, too distracted by the screaming woman.
Alex didn't pause. Every movement was deliberate, measured, a deadly rhythm. The Explosion Shield shifted slightly, intercepting a snapping jaw as he swung again, each strike aimed to maximize damage while minimizing risk.
This was no practice. No hesitation allowed. One mistake, one exposed flank, and he'd join the throng of the undead outside.
But with careful precision—and a heart pounding like a war drum—Alex was turning the tide. One zombie at a time, he was clearing a path.