The System timer in Liam's vision finally clicked zero.
```
Quest Completed: Survive
Objective: Endure the next hour in your current location.
Reward: 100 XP, Basic Survival Kit, Potential Skill Unlock.
Failure: [FATAL]
[XP Gained: 100]
[Basic Survival Kit added to Inventory]
[Potential Skill Unlock: Evaluating...]
```
The clinical text overlayed the oppressive darkness of the basement. 100 XP. A Basic Survival Kit. Potential Skill Unlock. The System delivered its rewards with the same cold indifference it had shown the ticking clock or the 'FATAL' consequence of failure. It didn't offer congratulations, just data.
He should feel relief. He had survived the first hour in this new, horrific existence. He hadn't died again. But the 'completion' felt hollow, overshadowed by the grim reality of his situation. He was still hiding in a dusty basement, covered in grime and the lingering smell of decay, a changed, monstrous thing.
He blinked the System interface away, though the faint visual imprint lingered. He was alone. The silence in the basement was thick, punctuated only by the faint, muffled sounds of the dying city above. Distant roars, the occasional tearing shriek of a Screecher, the rumble of collapsing structures – they filtered through the concrete like echoes from a nightmare.
His body still felt wrong. The strange, coiled tension in his muscles, the unnerving sharpness of his senses, the low, constant thrum of Demonic Energy beneath his skin. He brought his hands up, examining them in the near-total darkness his enhanced vision now made almost as clear as day. They looked mostly normal in shape, but felt harder, the nails thicker and darker at the cuticles. He clenched his fists, feeling the unnatural strength ripple through his forearms. It wasn't just physical power; it was tied to that internal energy, a disturbing fusion of flesh and something alien.
He was Level 1, with 100 XP. The System hadn't granted a level up yet (it likely required more XP), nor had it unlocked a new skill. It was 'Evaluating'. More cold, digital bureaucracy in the face of utter annihilation.
What was in the 'Basic Survival Kit'? He focused mentally on the System interface, a new tab opening labeled [Inventory].
```
[Inventory]
- Basic Survival Kit (x1)
```
He thought about opening it. An idea formed – a mental command directed at the System.
```
[Open Item: Basic Survival Kit]
```
The text flickered, and then, seemingly from thin air, a small, heavy package materialized on the dusty concrete floor beside him. It wasn't large, maybe the size of a brick, wrapped in thick, sealed grey plastic. It looked utterly out of place in the grime-filled basement, pristine and sterile.
He picked it up. It was dense, cold to the touch. He tore at the plastic seal with his unnaturally strong fingers – they didn't just tear; they snagged and sliced through the material with ease, leaving small nicks on his fingertips that immediately began to visibly mend. The regeneration. It wasn't just for major wounds. Small cuts, scrapes – they vanished almost instantly. It was useful, yes, but deeply unsettling. His body was no longer just flesh and bone; it was something fluid, adaptable, wrong.
He pulled the plastic away, revealing the contents: a few sealed pouches of nutrient paste, a coil of thin but strong synthetic rope, a basic first-aid wrap (though he suspected his regeneration made this less useful), a sealed water purification straw, and a small, heavy object wrapped in cloth.
He unwrapped the last item. It was a knife. Not a military combat knife, but a solid, functional hunting knife with a fixed blade and a non-reflective surface. The balance felt good in his hand, surprisingly natural. His fingers curled around the hilt, the steel cold and reassuringly solid compared to his own strange, shifting body. It was a tool. A weapon. Something tangible in a world of intangible horrors and digital overlays.
He tucked the knife into the waistband of his torn jeans. The nutrient paste and water straw went into his pockets. The rope and first-aid wrap he left for now; his pockets wouldn't hold much more, and the System hadn't provided a backpack or storage solution beyond the Inventory itself.
The System. What now? The Quest was complete. Did it have a new one for him? He focused on the interface again.
```
[New Quest Issued!]
```
There it was. No rest, no time to process. Just the next objective.
```
Quest: Seek Understanding
Objective: Reach the abandoned Police Precinct located at [Coordinates Redacted]. Investigate potential information sources.
Proximity Alert: Objective location is approx. 2.3 Kilometers East of your current position.
Reward: 200 XP, System Information Unlock (Level 2), Potential Skill Unlock.
Failure: [Severe Penalty - Outcome Uncertain]
```
Seek Understanding. Reach the police precinct. 2.3 kilometers East. Not exactly around the corner. That meant leaving the relative safety of this basement and venturing further into the city's heart. The System wanted him to move, to explore, to find information. Why? What information? About what? Himself? The apocalypse? The System itself?
And the failure penalty: [Severe Penalty - Outcome Uncertain]. More ominous than [FATAL]. What could be worse than death? A fate the System deemed more undesirable than being ripped apart by demons? The thought sent a fresh wave of dread through him.
He couldn't stay in the basement forever, anyway. Resources were minimal, and even here, he wasn't truly safe if something determined enough found him. He had to move. The System gave him direction, even if he didn't trust its motives.
He pushed himself to his feet. The basement air was stagnant, heavy with dust. He scanned the room with his enhanced vision. Beyond the cluttered main area was the closed door leading further into the building. Risk going through the building? Or go back out the window he came through?
Going through the building meant potentially encountering whatever had been living in it or drawn to it. Going back out the window meant being immediately exposed on the street. Neither option was appealing.
He listened intently. Nothing from behind the closed door. The muffled sounds from outside were constant but distant. He decided against the unknown variables inside the brownstone. The street was a known hell, but at least he could see it (with his enhanced vision) and try to navigate it cautiously.
He approached the small basement window he had come through. He could still hear the rats scurrying in the shadows. He reached the opening, peering out. The alley was dark, silent. The sickly red sky was still visible above the building tops.
He squeezed back through the opening, the wood scraping against his clothes and skin. Minor scrapes appeared, fading even as the dust settled. He dropped silently onto the alley floor.
He was out. Exposed again. The Demonic Presence Suppression activated instinctively, a familiar draining sensation of Demonic Energy: 43 / 50. It seemed surviving the hour had passively increased his energy pool, or perhaps it regenerated slowly. The System hadn't explained this resource, only that he now possessed it and used it.
He crept towards the alley entrance, the knife a solid weight against his hip. The street was as he had left it – ruined cars, debris, dark stains on the asphalt. He peered around the corner, scanning. No immediate threats. The distant shrieks and roars sounded further away now.
He began moving East, following the direction the System had indicated, using the wrecked cars and rubble as cover. Each step was cautious, his enhanced senses on high alert. He saw details no human eye could – the subtle difference in air currents, the almost imperceptible trails left by passing creatures, the faint, lingering heat on surfaces touched by something unnatural.
The environment itself seemed to conspire against him. A section of sidewalk was warped, the concrete bubbling and cracking, emitting a faint, noxious vapor that stung his eyes. He detoured, holding his breath. Was this the environmental hazard the outline mentioned? Places corrupted by ambient demonic energy or the passage of powerful entities?
Further on, he passed a patch of ground where the weeds had grown into thick, thorny vines, black as coal, that pulsed with a faint, sickly purple light. He gave them a wide berth, the air around them feeling heavy and wrong. These were not normal plants. They were part of the world's infection.
His journey was slow, a grinding process of moving from cover to cover, listening, observing, suppressing his presence. The psychological toll was constant. Every wrecked car, every scattered shoe, every dark stain on the ground was a reminder of the lives lost, of the world that was. He saw corpses, some human, some demonic, in varying states of decay or dismemberment. The gore was just… part of the landscape now. He had to force himself to look past it, to focus only on threats and routes. The grim normalization was perhaps the most disturbing change of all. He was becoming desensitized. Or maybe just numbed.
He reached a major intersection. A bus lay on its side, forming a barricade. Twisted metal and concrete blocked several routes. Getting through would require climbing over the wreckage.
He approached the bus cautiously, listening. Silence. Too much silence. The air here felt heavy again, like in the bank.
```
Ambient Demonic Energy detected. Concentration: Moderate.
```
The System confirmed the feeling. Moderate concentration. What did that mean? More potent effects? More dangerous entities drawn here?
He needed to cross. He began to climb over the bus, finding purchase on the twisted frame. His new strength and agility made the climb possible, faster and more secure than it would have been before. He scrambled over the top, dropping down onto the other side.
As his feet hit the ground, the silence shattered.
A piercing shriek erupted from behind a pile of concrete rubble nearby. Not one. Several. The distinct, high-pitched calls of Screechers.
He spun, his enhanced senses pinpointing their locations instantly. Three of them, darting from cover, small, hunched forms with disproportionately large heads, moving with impossible speed and jerky, erratic movements. They were fast. Much faster than Shamblers.
He didn't have time to draw the knife. Evasion. That was the System's guidance for faster threats. His Demonic Presence Suppression was active, but the climb over the bus must have drawn their attention. Or perhaps the moderate Demonic Energy concentration here attracted more sensitive creatures.
They shrieked again, and the sound hit him like a physical blow, a painful vibration that made his teeth ache and his vision blur for a split second. A sonic attack.
He dodged, scrambling away as one of the Screechers darted towards him, claws extended. Its movement was a sickening blur, twisting and contorting in ways no natural creature could.
He needed cover. He bolted towards a partially collapsed building nearby, ignoring the throbbing pain in his skull from the sonic attack. His legs pumped with unnatural speed, fueled by that panicked energy under his skin. Was this using Demonic Energy for speed? The System didn't say, but it felt tied to that internal thrum.
He reached the doorway of the building, diving inside just as another shriek hit him. He stumbled into the darkness, the air thick with dust and the smell of decay.
The Screechers didn't immediately follow. He could hear their frustrated shrieks and the rapid clicks of their movements just outside the entrance. They seemed hesitant to enter the dark, confined space. Maybe they preferred open areas? Or maybe his suppression was working better now that he was out of sight.
He leaned against the wall, gasping, the throbbing in his head slowly subsiding. That was a close call. He hadn't been hit, but the sonic attack was disorienting and painful. Fighting them head-on would have been suicide. Evasion and stealth were his best weapons for now.
As he stood there, trembling but safe for the moment, he felt a sharp pain in his side. He looked down. In his rush to get inside, he must have snagged himself on a piece of rebar or broken concrete sticking out of the wall. There was a deep gash across his ribs, bleeding freely, staining his already torn t-shirt a fresh crimson.
He pressed a hand against it, the pain intense. But even as he watched, in the dim light filtering from the street, the edges of the wound seemed to darken, the bleeding slowed, and the tearing sensation lessened, replaced by a strange, itching warmth under his skin.
His Limited Regeneration. Working noticeably this time. It wasn't closing the wound instantly – it was still open, still bleeding, but the rate of healing was impossible. Faster than stitches, faster than any human body could manage. The torn flesh looked... different. Darker, less raw. The itching sensation grew, a disturbing feeling of internal work being done, of tissue knitting itself back together at an accelerated, unnatural pace.
It was horrifying and fascinating simultaneously. His body was fixing itself, a grotesque self-repair system. It didn't feel right. It felt alien, like watching something other than human flesh at work.
He focused on the System interface, wondering if it would comment on this.
```
Body Function: Limited Regeneration I in effect. Minor injury detected. Healing efficiency at 35%. Minimal Demonic Energy required.
```
Minimal Demonic Energy? So the regeneration used the energy too? It wasn't just passive. It was a function drawing on his monstrous resource. And 'Minor injury detected'? A deep gash across his ribs was 'minor'? What did it consider a major injury? Being ripped in half? The System's scale of severity was chillingly detached from human norms.
He watched the wound as the minutes passed. The bleeding almost stopped entirely within five minutes. The gash remained, deep and ugly, but the edges were visibly closer together, that dark, unsettling quality intensifying. The itching was constant, a physical manifestation of his body reshaping itself.
The Screechers outside seemed to have moved on, their shrieks fading into the distance. The immediate threat was gone. He was still in the ruined building, but at least he wasn't exposed on the street.
He needed to continue East, towards the police precinct. But he couldn't just walk through the city hoping his suppression and occasional bursts of speed would be enough. He needed to be smarter. The Screechers had required evasion, not brute force like the Shamblers. What other horrors lurked out there, requiring different tactics?
The System had mentioned unlocking 'Information' or 'Bestiary' entries after encounters. Had it happened for the Shamblers? For the Screechers? He checked the interface again.
A new tab was available: [Bestiary].
```
[Bestiary]
- Lesser Demon: Shambler
- Lesser Demon: Screecher
```
He focused on 'Lesser Demon: Shambler'. A new window appeared.
```
[Bestiary Entry: Lesser Demon - Shambler]
Designation: Shambler
Threat Level: Low-Medium (Individual), Medium (Group)
Common Attributes: Necrotic flesh, slow movement, high physical resilience, blunt force attacks (claws, warped limbs). Poor senses (Sight: Low, Hearing: Moderate, Smell: Moderate). Drawn to noise and biological heat signatures.
Weaknesses: Vulnerable to significant blunt trauma to head/limbs. Slow speed allows for evasion in open areas.
Notes: Formed from heavily corrupted human remains. Base intelligence is non-existent; driven by primal hunger/aggression.
```
Necrotic flesh, slow, drawn to noise/heat, poor sight, moderate hearing/smell, vulnerable to blunt trauma. That fit. His brute force attack with the arm against the second Shambler's head was blunt trauma. His suppression probably hid his heat signature/smell somewhat, explaining why the Shambler in the bank hadn't seen him. Clinical data, devoid of the horror of facing them, but undeniably useful.
He then selected 'Lesser Demon: Screecher'.
```
[Bestiary Entry: Lesser Demon - Screecher]
Designation: Screecher
Threat Level: Medium
Common Attributes: Small, agile, rapid movement, disproportionately large head, limited physical attack (claws). Acute senses (Sight: High, Hearing: High, Smell: High). Primary attack is high-frequency sonic shriek (causes disorientation, pain).
Weaknesses: Relatively fragile physically. Sonic attack requires vocal cords; vulnerable during/immediately after shrieking. Sensitive to direct light/sudden flashes.
Notes: Often hunts in small packs. Appears to possess basic pack coordination. Formed from corrupted smaller creatures or humanoids.
```
Agile, rapid movement, high senses, sonic shriek, fragile. Hunt in packs. That also fit. Their speed and acute senses explained why evasion was necessary and why his suppression wasn't a guarantee against them. Vulnerable during shrieking? Sensitive to light? Useful information. If he encountered them again, he might be able to use the environment or find a way to exploit these weaknesses.
The Bestiary entries were terrifying in their cold, objective nature. They reduced the monsters tearing the world apart into data points. And the System just… knew this. It had categorized the horrors.
He checked his Demonic Energy: 40 / 50. Maintaining suppression cost energy. The regeneration cost minimal energy. He had gained some passively. How else could he gain it? Killing demons? Being in areas of high concentration? The System didn't explain, just tracked the number. This new resource, tied to his demonic nature, was clearly central to his abilities. He felt the 40 units within him now, a tangible presence, a latent power waiting to be used.
He looked at his hands again, flexing them. He caught sight of his reflection in a small, broken shard of glass on the floor. He knelt, peering into it.
His face stared back, grimy and pale, streaked with dirt and dried blood. His eyes… they were different. In the dim light, they didn't look brown anymore. They were a strange, unsettling shade of gold, with faint, almost imperceptible vertical slits for pupils. Like a cat's, or worse. They pulsed faintly with the crimson light from the sky, reflecting the hell outside.
He scrambled back from the glass shard as if it had burned him, his heart leaping into his throat. His eyes were gold? Slitted? This wasn't subtle. This was overtly monstrous. Was this permanent? Did they look like this all the time now? He rubbed at them furiously, as if he could wipe away the wrongness.
The psychological horror intensified, raw and visceral. It wasn't just a feeling of being wrong anymore; it was a visible confirmation. He *looked* like a monster. How could he ever face anyone, any potential survivor, looking like this? If they saw his eyes…
Panic threatened to overwhelm him again. He curled up against the wall, burying his face in his arms, trembling. The grief for Aunt Carol, the terror of the apocalypse, the gut-wrenching horror of his transformation – it all crashed down. He was alone, hideously changed, hunted by monsters and becoming one himself. The System's quests, the skills, the Demonic Energy – it was all just facilitating this horrifying process. It wasn't saving him; it was building him into something else. Something alien and terrible.
Minutes ticked by on the System timer (he could still see its faint outline even with his eyes closed). He couldn't stay like this. Not here. Not paralyzed by despair. The System demanded he move. Survive. Seek Understanding.
He forced himself to breathe, ragged gasps filling the dusty air. He was a monster with a quest. A creature hiding from other creatures, guided by a cryptic interface. What a life. What a mockery of life.
But that grim defiance, the same one that had driven him in the basement, stirred again. He was changed. He was wrong. But he wasn't dead. Not yet. And the System's failure penalty… it was uncertain, severe. What if 'failure' meant losing even this twisted semblance of self? Becoming a mindless Shambler? That thought, more than anything, spurred him. He wouldn't let that happen. If he was a monster, he would be a monster who chose his path, not one who was simply created or controlled.
He pushed himself up, the movement stiff, but imbued with that strange energy. The gash in his side still ached and itched, a constant reminder of his body's unnatural state. His eyes felt normal now, the golden slit pupils perhaps only visible under certain conditions or when using certain abilities? He didn't know. Just another terrifying mystery about himself.
He had a quest. He had to reach the police precinct. He had a knife, some paste, a straw. He had his enhanced senses, his suppression, his unnatural strength and speed, his impossible regeneration. He had 40 points of Demonic Energy and a growing Bestiary of the things trying to kill him.
He was a scavenger, yes. But he was also something more. A product of this hell, armed with its own dark tools.
He moved cautiously towards the back of the ruined building he'd ducked into, looking for another way out. The air was thick with dust, the shadows deep. His enhanced vision made navigation possible. He needed to stay hidden, move unseen. The Screechers had shown him the danger of being exposed. Stealth was key.
He found a back door, jammed shut but not locked. With a surge of his new strength, he forced it open, the wood groaning but not breaking. He stepped out into a narrow, rubble-strewn alley behind the building. It seemed empty.
System timer: He ignored it for now. The clock wasn't his immediate concern; the next step, the next threat, the next kilometer East was.
He was two kilometers away from his objective. Two kilometers of urban hellscape, filled with unknown dangers and environmental hazards. Two kilometers as a creature that was rapidly losing its human semblance, guided by a digital master he didn't trust.
He adjusted the knife at his hip, its solid weight a strange comfort. He scanned the alley, then the street beyond. The sickly crimson sky still hung overhead, a silent witness to the city's agony and his own transformation.
He was Liam. The Monster in the Mirror with golden, slitted eyes he couldn't bear to see. He was wrong. But he was moving. He was surviving.
He started walking East, deeper into the ruins, one cautious step after another. The weight of being wrong was immense, a crushing psychological burden, but it was paired now with a nascent, terrible power, and the cold, relentless directive of the System. He was on his way. Whatever awaited him at the police precinct, whatever understanding the System promised, it was the next stage. And failure was unacceptable. Not while he could still choose not to be a mindless thing.
The city waited. And he, the monstrous scavenger, moved within its shadowed ruins, driven by a quest and the desperate need to keep being *him*, even if 'him' was rapidly becoming unrecognizable.
The journey East had just begun. And the minutes were ticking.
System timer: 20:55... 20:54... He had survived the hour, but the weight of the world, and of what he had become, settled heavier with every passing moment.