<< New mission is available: Save the students from zombies. HOTD Edition. You will be required to save the cast of Highschool of the Dead from zombies and help them survive for 1 year!
Reward on accepting mission: Perfect Biological Immunity – Carriers of this gene have enhanced immune systems which intelligently destroy invaders. They are totally immune to most normal illnesses. Carriers of this gene gain immunity to diseases considerably faster than normal. Your body will become immune to all mundane biological diseases and other biological ailments. This does not cover magical ailments. Note: This includes the zombie virus from the HOTD universe.
Rewards on zombie evolution: When the zombies will evolve, you will gain an increase in abilities similar to those given by the Super Soldier serum that gave Captain America his abilities.
Rewards on completing the mission: The HOTD solar system cleared of zombies. >>
For several long seconds, I simply stared at the translucent words hanging in front of me, feeling the strange mix of disbelief and inevitability that always followed one of these "offers."
A solar system.
Not a city. Not a continent. Not even a planet.
A solar system.
My first instinct was not excitement, nor even greed, but curiosity.
If the reward was an entire system similar to Earth's, then what about the rest of humanity in that universe? The cast of Highschool of the Dead could not possibly represent every remaining human on the planet. Even in fiction, the world had to be larger than a handful of teenagers and a busty nurse.
And if I received the solar system… what happened to the rest?
"What about the other humans?" I asked calmly, folding my arms as I leaned back in my chair. "And what about the other planets and systems in that universe?"
<< Inquiry detected by system: The specific HOTD universe would be set for recycling after all humans die. It's not a big universe, but that matter and energy is already allocated for the future. The specific universe already contains zombies that are more aggressive than what you have seen on the show, and the extinction of humanity is already set. Also those zombies will gain the ability to evolve further dooming that specific universe. The system will need the 1 year from the mission to synchronize with the Sol solar system and bring it to your universe. All surviving humans, besides those you decide to bring to your empire, will remain where they were in the HOTD Earth. All zombies and virus particles will be left behind in the transfer. All virus creation knowledge will be removed, as the virus was a human creation and deemed unsuitable for the task of creation. >>
I exhaled slowly.
So the universe was already doomed. Humanity's extinction was not a possibility; it was an inevitability already written into the scaffolding of that reality. What I would be doing was not altering fate, but extracting something from the ruins before the recycling process began.
In that case, there was little moral hesitation left.
"I see," I murmured. "Then I'll only bring specific individuals with me, if I feel like it."
There was no reason to import billions of traumatized survivors into my empire. I had no desire to suddenly manage democratic protests from people who had not signed up for an immortal monarch. I ruled alone, and I would continue to rule alone. If I wished to save other human worlds in the future, perhaps I could place them within that Sol system and allow them to develop separately. And perhaps, selfishly, I would keep one solar system untouched for myself — nostalgia preserved in orbit.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
"System," I continued, "will I transfer as myself? And when? What about legal identity before the outbreak, if I appear before the zombies?"
<< You will transfer one week before the outbreak. A new identity will be created for you. Through memory implantation, people will already know you, and you will gain new memories of your background. >>
That was acceptable.
I had already experienced implanted memories before. They never truly became mine. They felt more like watching a film in first person — vivid, detailed, but emotionally distant, as if my core self observed rather than merged.
As long as the background did not rewrite my personality, I would adapt.
"And time?" I asked. "Will a year pass in my universe? And can I take weapons with me?"
<< Depending on the mission, you may suspend time in your universe or allow it to continue. You may not take any items with you. However, you will be granted starting capital consistent with your background, and the week before the outbreak will allow you time to prepare. >>
I tapped my fingers against the desk thoughtfully.
Suspending time was tempting. But unnecessary. I intended to spawn the extracted solar system far from my empire's current territory; a year would not destabilize anything. In fact, letting time flow naturally would make the transition smoother later.
"I won't suspend time," I decided at last. "That would only complicate synchronization."
The choice made itself clear.
I pressed accept.
The moment I did, a strange drowsiness wrapped around me, heavy and soft, like velvet curtains drawing closed around consciousness. My thoughts dimmed, not abruptly but gently, as though someone had lowered the lights inside my skull.
When I opened my eyes again, it felt like surfacing from deep water.
My mind was sluggish at first, reluctant to let go of sleep. Shapes swam before me — ceiling, window, desk — familiar yet distant, as though seen through the lens of someone else's memory.
Gradually, clarity returned.
I was lying in my bed.
Not my imperial residence. Not my command chamber.
A modest room. Wooden desk. A wardrobe with sliding doors. A school uniform hanging neatly on a chair.
Ah.
The dream — no, not a dream — the memory implant was still settling.
Fragments replayed behind my eyes.
An orphaned European teenager. A modest but sustainable inheritance. Parents who had died years ago, leaving behind enough wealth to grant independence but not opulence. A decision to move to Japan out of boredom rather than necessity, seeking novelty in a culture far removed from the grey familiarity of Europe.
It did not feel like grief. It felt like archived footage.
According to these memories, I had been in Japan for over a year now. I had enrolled at Fujimi High School at the same time as Rei Miyamoto, Hisashi Igou, and Takashi Komuro. Rei had repeated a year, something I now understood in context.
The year was 2010.
In a strange way, I felt grateful for that detail. It allowed me to experience the world before the chaos of my original timeline's collapse — to witness a slice of Earth untouched by whatever future awaited it.
The system had been thorough. Japanese flowed through my mind with native ease. Cultural norms, social cues, unspoken expectations — all of it rested in my thoughts as comfortably as Romanian and English.
Three languages now.
A small advantage, but advantages accumulated.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling.
One week.
One week before the outbreak.
Assuming the timeline matched the show precisely — and there was no guarantee it would.
For all I knew, the virus had already been released somewhere in the world, simmering quietly in a remote region, waiting for its ignition moment. The show had depicted rapid spread once activation began. That implied prior incubation.
I sat up.
Preparation time had already begun the moment I arrived.
My laptop hummed quietly as I searched for items that could be justified within my new identity. Durable boots. Reinforced gloves. Tactical backpack. Tools that would not look absurd for a student with an eccentric streak and some disposable income.
No firearms. Japan would not allow that without complications.
Improvised weapons, however, were another matter.
As I added items to digital carts, I glanced at the clock.
School.
I had nearly forgotten.
The implanted memories aligned quickly: Fujimi High operated with strict punctuality. Being late would earn detention. Detention would waste preparation time. Waste was unacceptable.
I stood immediately.
The uniform fit comfortably. The body I inhabited was in peak physical condition — not exaggeratedly superhuman, but honed, optimized. My lungs felt clear, my muscles responsive, my centre of gravity stable.
The Perfect Biological Immunity reward would come upon mission acceptance — meaning the virus would not threaten me.
That alone shifted the balance enormously.
Between that immunity, my enhanced physical baseline, and my Starsector combat training, survival odds were far from bleak.
Though, admittedly, most of that training centred on spacecraft command and fleet tactics. Boarding manoeuvres had included close-quarters combat instruction, and I retained those reflexes, but I was not a lifelong martial artist.
Still, it was more than the average high school student possessed.
I left the apartment and began jogging toward school.
The air was crisp, early morning sunlight glinting off rooftops and bicycles. Students walked in small clusters, chatting about trivialities that would not matter in seven days. The world felt painfully ordinary.
My stride lengthened unconsciously as I tested my body's responsiveness. Each step felt efficient. No wasted motion. No strain.
Good.
If the outbreak mirrored the show, chaos would erupt within school grounds first, and from there the city would fall rapidly. The cast's early survival hinged on minutes, sometimes seconds.
This time, they would not be improvising alone.
As I approached the gates of Fujimi High, the building rose ahead of me in calm silence, windows reflecting the morning sky. Laughter drifted faintly from the courtyard.
In seven days, those same halls would be flooded with blood.
And I would be walking straight into it.
A small, steady smile settled on my face.
Let the mission begin.