The first thing he noticed was that he was not dead anymore.
The second thing he noticed was that this was deeply inconvenient.
He opened one eye.
Cracked ceiling.
Water stain shaped suspiciously like a dragon.
No fan spinning.
No air conditioning.
No familiar hum of city life.
He closed his eye again.
"This is either a dream… or I have been reincarnated into poverty."
He opened both eyes this time.
Still cracked ceiling.
Still dragon stain.
Still no AC.
He sat up slowly.
Different body.
Different room.
Different everything.
"…Okay."
He rubbed his face.
He distinctly remembered:
Staying up too late.
Arguing online about optimal base defense strategy.
Ordering instant noodles.
A bright pair of headlights.
And then pain.
Which logically should have been the end.
Instead?
He was sitting in a dusty apartment that smelled like:
Burned plasticOld socksAnd despair
He swung his legs off the bed.
Stood up.
The floor creaked like it was considering retirement.
He walked to the window.
Outside—
A city.
Mid-sized.
Modern.
But quiet.
Too quiet.
Cars abandoned mid-street.
Traffic lights dead.
Smoke rising in thin lazy columns.
No normal traffic noise.
No sirens.
No birds.
No—
Wait.
There.
Movement.
He leaned closer.
Down below, on the street, a man shuffled sideways into a parked car.
Slow.
Jerky.
Uncoordinated.
The man's arm hung at an angle that violated several medical guidelines.
The man turned his head.
Too far.
Too far.
The man sniffed.
Then began chewing on something red.
He stared for a long, thoughtful moment.
"…Ah."
He closed the curtain.
Very gently.
He walked back to the bed.
Sat down.
Clapped once.
"Alright. So. Apocalypse."
A scream echoed somewhere far away.
Then it cut off.
He stared at the opposite wall.
"I would like to file a complaint."
His brain suddenly flooded with information.
Like someone downloaded a wiki page directly into his skull.
Location: Republic of Vathis.Status: Small border nation.Population before outbreak: Approximately 9 million.Current classification: Red Zone – Non-Recoverable.Global Response: Evacuation complete. Military withdrawal confirmed.
He blinked.
"…Non-recoverable?"
He stood back up.
Pulled the curtain again.
Looked at the zombie chewing on what used to be a neighbor.
"…They gave up already?"
He turned in a slow circle.
Small apartment.
Minimal supplies.
Broken kitchen cabinet.
A fridge.
He opened it.
Empty.
He stared inside for a few seconds like food might reappear out of guilt.
It did not.
He closed it.
Opened a cupboard.
Half a pack of crackers.
Expired.
He read the date.
Three years ago.
He nodded solemnly.
"Excellent. Vintage."
A loud bang echoed from somewhere below.
Multiple groans responded.
He froze.
"…Okay."
He walked to the apartment door.
Listened.
Silence.
Then—
Scratch.
Something scraped faintly against the stairwell wall outside.
He backed up slowly.
"Okay. Okay. Think."
He had no weapon.
No plan.
No explanation.
No warranty.
He checked his pockets.
Phone.
He pulled it out.
Cracked screen.
Battery: 11%.
No signal.
Of course.
He pressed the power button anyway.
The screen flickered.
Static.
Glitch.
Lines of blue code crawled across the display.
He squinted.
"If this is how I die again, I will be extremely annoyed."
The screen went black.
Then—
A new interface appeared.
Minimalist.
Military.
Blue.
Clean.
Suspiciously organized.
Text appeared.
Z.A.M.S – Zombie Apocalypse Military SystemDeployment Mode: ActiveCandidate Identified
He stared.
"…Oh no."
More text.
Survival Probability (Unassisted): 3.2%
He stared harder.
"Three point two? That's very specific."
The system responded instantly.
Statistical confidence: 87%.
"…Oh good. It's accurate."
Another line appeared.
Would you like to improve your survival odds?
He looked at the door.
Scratch.
He looked at the window.
Zombie chewing.
He looked back at the screen.
"…Yes."
The interface expanded.
MP: 0Command Level: CivilianSupply Capacity: 10Unit Summon: LockedStarter Package: Available
He blinked.
"…I got reincarnated with a management interface."
The system chimed politely.
Congratulations, Commander.
He frowned.
"Commander of what? The furniture?"
The system did not laugh.
Rude.
He tapped "Starter Package."
The screen flashed.
Starter Pack Unlocked.Reward: Tactical Knife (Basic)1x Reinforced Baton2x Energy Bars1x Water Bottle
There was a soft thud on the kitchen table behind him.
He turned slowly.
On the table:
A knife.
A baton.
Two energy bars.
A sealed water bottle.
He stared.
"…Okay. That's mildly concerning."
He poked the baton.
Solid.
Real.
He picked up the knife.
Sharp.
Very real.
He inhaled slowly.
"So I died… got transmigrated… into a dead country… and now I have a military management system."
The phone vibrated again.
First Objective: Survive 24 Hours.Reward: 100 Military Points.
He squinted.
"Military Points?"
Currency used for military development.
He pointed at himself.
"I don't have a military."
You will.
He paused.
He walked back to the window.
Counted zombies.
At least fifty in visible range.
One larger shape moved at the end of the street.
Too big.
Too heavy.
Something crashed.
More movement.
"…How many points do I get per zombie?"
Basic Infected: 2 MP.
He did quick math.
"…So I need to kill fifty just to afford—"
He checked shop menu.
Infantry – Militia (1 unit): 20 MP.
He stared.
"…You expect me to farm zombies?"
Yes.
He leaned against the wall.
"Ah. So this is that kind of world."
The stairwell door outside his apartment rattled violently.
He jumped.
Something slammed into it.
Once.
Twice.
Wood splintered slightly.
He tightened his grip on the baton.
"…Okay."
He inhaled.
Exhaled.
"New life. New country. Everyone abandoned. Zombie density high. Military system active."
He looked at the screen.
"Fine."
He grabbed the knife.
Picked up the baton.
A notification popped up.
Commander Attitude: StablePanic Level: LowPsychological Resilience: Above Average
He blinked.
"You're tracking my panic?"
Yes.
"…Stop that."
The door slammed again.
Crack.
He moved to the side of the door.
Raised the baton.
The wood split.
A gray hand burst through.
He stabbed downward.
The knife sank into rotting flesh.
The zombie shrieked.
He yanked the blade out and slammed the baton across its skull.
Crunch.
The body dropped.
He froze.
Waited.
Silence.
The system chimed.
Basic Infected Eliminated.+2 MP.
He stared at the screen.
"…That's it?"
Yes.
He looked at the corpse half-stuck in the broken door.
"…This is going to take a while."
He pulled the body fully inside.
Closed the door.
Blocked it with a chair.
He wiped the knife on a curtain.
Sat down heavily.
MP: 2.
He looked at the city again.
"…Stormhold."
The word surfaced in his mind.
Why?
No idea.
It just felt right.
He looked at the ruined skyline.
"They called this place non-recoverable."
He checked the map tab.
A holographic map expanded.
Red everywhere.
Deep red.
Marked:
Republic of Vathis – Grave Territory.
He whistled softly.
"…Grave Territory. That's branding failure."
He leaned back.
"Okay."
He opened the Shop tab.
Infantry.
Vehicles.
Buildings.
Defense.
All locked except Basic Militia.
Cost: 20 MP.
He looked at his total.
He sighed.
"…We are starting from scratch."
The system beeped.
Suggestion: Secure immediate structure.Establish Outpost Alpha.
He looked around the tiny apartment.
"…This building?"
Yes.
He nodded slowly.
"Alright."
He stood.
Cracked his neck.
Picked up the baton.
"If the world thinks this nation is dead…"
He glanced at the glowing interface.
"…Then let's make it very, very difficult to kill."
Outside, the horde shifted.
Far below, something large moved again.
Something heavier.
A deep, unnatural growl echoed faintly between buildings.
The system displayed a new warning.
Elevated Threat Detected Within 500m.
He stared at it.
"…Is that the tutorial boss?"
Possibly.
He sighed.
"Of course."
He walked toward the apartment door again.
"Fine."
He adjusted his grip.
"Let's go earn rent money."
The screen pulsed softly.
Welcome to Terra, Commander.
He smirked faintly.
"Yeah."
He opened the door.
"…Let's fix your management problem."