Yuki's sword clanged against Red's bronze-coated fists. Though she parried the blow, the sheer force behind it sent her skidding backward across the cracked marble floor, leaving a screeching trail in her wake.
Red's eyes narrowed. "What are you?" he muttered, voice low, uncertain. He stared into the ghostly pale orbs that glowed faintly behind the vertical slits of her helm. No face. No breath. Only hollow blackness. The figure before him didn't breathe, didn't flinch. It didn't move like a person.
His skill, [Bronze Fist], wasn't a trivial one. His punches could dent concrete, rupture ribs, punch through steel sheets. But even with everything he had, he hadn't even scratched that armor.
"I do not speak with my food."
The words echoed like they were spoken from the bottom of a well.
Before he could react, Yuki sprang forward. Her sword screamed downward with crushing intent. Red gritted his teeth, bracing—arms crossed, veins bulging across his neck. The impact sent vibrations down his spine, but he held.
She didn't give him space to recover. A horizontal slash followed, precise and merciless. He blocked again, but the force drove him backward. His boots scraped desperately for footing.
Red's eyes darted to the wall at his right. Something was wrong there. A presence. Heavy and still. His instincts flared, warning of something waiting—something evil. But why hadn't it struck?
Yuki didn't give him time to think.
In a blink, she vanished—only to reappear in a ghosting blur, leaving behind afterimages that bled light like echoes of a soul.
And then—she was right in front of him.
Their eyes locked.
And Red saw.
He saw a battlefield drowned in blood. A figure, sword raised, standing alone among the corpses of the fallen. A woman's fury trapped in iron. A soul that refused to rest.
His heart stuttered. His pupils trembled.
The next moment, agony bloomed in his gut. A blade had slipped clean through his abdomen.
Before he could fall, her armored hand closed around his throat and lifted him.
He dangled there—his full weight pulling down on her pauldron. The joints groaned under the strain, not built to bear human mass one-handed. But she didn't buckle. She didn't feel.
This wasn't flesh. This was a weapon animated by mire and will. Her stamina was unending. She needed no food, no rest. She could fight for eternity.
It was her heart's final wish.
"Wh… what are you?" Red gasped, blood frothing on his lips. His disbelief had matured into dread.
Yuki's gaze burned brighter.
"Where's my brother?"
That question struck deeper than her sword. Red's eyes turned to Merek, who now stepped from his hiding place like a shadow emerging into day.
"U-under the Boss's custody," Red coughed. "He owns the biggest camp in the whole district—cops, thugs, the wealthy are all under him. Even with… that," his eyes flicked to Yuki, "you're not getting him back."
He laughed—a broken, wet sound, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth.
Merek didn't blink. "Oh, I know," he said coolly. "But what about ten of her? Maybe a hundred?"
Red's eyes widened.
Merek stepped closer. "She's a light armor class. Ever heard of medium? Heavy? Would your bullets even make a dent?"
Red snarled through bloody teeth. "Then face me like a man!"
"I don't fight dying men," Merek said, gaze cold. "One last thing. Jorik sold my brother's location, didn't he?"
Red chuckled bitterly. "Of course. He was rewarded with a woman, a good room too—"
Bang!
The gunshot cut him off.
Smoke drifted from the barrel of Merek's revolver as he slowly lowered the weapon.
"Two bullets remaining," he whispered.
[Your wraith has risen to level 6!]
VROOM!
A roar tore through the air. Merek's head snapped up just in time to see a rusted vehicle—armored with makeshift plating and barbed wire—skid out of the compound, kicking up clouds of dust as it vanished into the streets.
"We missed one," said Tevin, stepping out from behind the fallen corpse he'd pummeled. His skin, once covered by a carapace, had returned to normal. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.
Merek's eyes drifted toward Mr. William's corpse, then back to Tevin. Tevin had lost his old man. Would he grieve now? Break down?
But Tevin walked past the body without a second glance.
"Can I join you?" he asked.
"No," Merek answered flatly.
Tevin wasn't deterred. "You can't make another one of… that." He nodded toward Yuki. "Not now. If you could, you already would have. There are thousands of zombies out there. You think you'll survive on your own?"
Merek said nothing at first. The truth bit at him—he was down to two bullets. Supplies were scarce. And he couldn't unleash Yuki on every threat.
"…Fine," he finally muttered. "Do you have food?"
Tevin didn't wait. He rushed back to the apartment, gathered what was left—mostly canned rations and sealed packets—shoved it all into a black backpack and returned.
Wordlessly, he offered Merek a bottle of water and two biscuits.
Then his gaze shifted cautiously to Yuki.
"Does… it eat?" he asked. His voice was quieter now. Slightly awed. Slightly afraid.
Yuki tilted her head. No reply came. Only silence—and the low creak of steel as she shifted slightly in place.
Merek stared at her for a long moment.
"No," he said at last. "She doesn't need to."
And beneath the hollow slits of her helm, the pale orbs glowed quietly in agreement.
Merek twisted open the water bottle and drank with greedy gulps, his throat rising and falling with each swallow. The liquid coursed down like a flood through a cracked dam, quenching a thirst he hadn't realized had settled deep within him. When the last drop was gone, he let the bottle slip from his fingers. It hit the concrete with a hollow thud and rolled into the dust.
He stepped out of the complex.
For the first time since the world had fallen apart, Merek walked with purpose—shoulders squared, back straight. No more ducking behind rusted husks of vehicles, no more counting his breaths to silence. He strode past overturned bins and abandoned cars slanted awkwardly along the street like forgotten toys.
But the illusion of control shattered the moment his boots touched the asphalt.
He froze.
To his right, maybe two hundred meters down the road, the reinforced car lay surrounded—engulfed—by a swarm of zombies. Their limbs scratched and slammed against the metal like a tide battering a lone rock. But what caught Merek's breath was the monster standing at the front of the vehicle.
A towering figure—easily 2.5 meters tall—its skin entirely gone, stripped down to raw, red muscle and exposed bone. Veins pulsed like cords over its sinewy frame, each movement slow but brimming with terrible power. It was strength incarnate, dressed in a grotesque anatomy chart.
Merek watched as it lumbered to the driver's side. With a casual grunt, the giant zombie gripped the door and tore it from its hinges like paper. Metal shrieked in protest. Then came the scream—high and agonizing—as the horde surged inward.
The driver's cries didn't last long.
The feeding began.
Merek's breath caught. His eyes flicked back toward the apartment complex. Tevin was already retreating, inching back with widened eyes, steps hesitant and uncertain.
A sudden stillness fell.
Then—one by one—the heads of the horde turned. The feeding stopped. The scent of life had reached them.
Merek's heart thundered as a hundred rotting faces locked onto them.
With guttural growls and snarls rising like a wave, the zombies charged.