Moments later, Merek stepped out of the gym, flanked by Felicity, Tevin, Nero, Fred, and the three student drivers Professor David had selected.
Though none of the students had ever driven a bus before, they each had decent driving experience—just enough skill and confidence to adapt if things went south.
The group moved in a loose formation, boots crunching against the pavement and broken glass. The sharp metallic clinks of armored footsteps followed close behind—an eerie, rhythmic sound that echoed off the deserted campus buildings. Merek's wraiths.
They passed the rotting corpses of zombies, their mangled bodies silent testimony to the group's earlier path through the chaos.
Blood stained the ground, already drying into dark crusts. Fred, walking with his baseball bat slung lazily over one shoulder, glanced sideways at the armored figures behind Merek.
A flash of envy sparked in his chest.
He wished, quietly, fiercely, that he too had such terrifying warriors at his command. They didn't just look strong… they were also terrifying. And it hadn't gone unnoticed that their numbers were growing.
When Fred had first seen Merek, the man had three of them.
Now he had five.
Four of the wraiths were massive and jet black, their armor shaped like the bones of monsters. Ribcage-shaped breastplates, heavy pauldrons, thick limbs clad in layered plates. Each bore a double-bladed greatsword, and long chains hung from their waists and swords, clinking faintly with every step. Their helms were shaped like curved beaks, a twisted cross between a raven and a plague mask, and from each helm spilled a crimson plume—thick and wet-looking, like hair dipped in fresh blood.
They moved in perfect silence, exuding an aura that chilled the air around them. Watching them march in step, side by side, was like staring into the depths of some forgotten nightmare.
Yet even among them, one stood out.
Yuki.
Unlike the others, her armor was a dull, muted gray, sculpted with an elegance that made her form unmistakably feminine.
The curves of the plating flowed like liquid metal, and her helm's plume was fuller, cascading down the back of her head in a graceful sweep. But any softness ended there.
Her helm bore six vertical slits that ran from top to bottom of the face.
Behind them burned strange, flame-like orbs of white, flickering like ghost fire. Whatever those were, Fred wanted nothing to do with them.
He couldn't take it anymore.
"What are those?" Fred asked, his voice sharp and blunt, eyes locked on Merek. "Those knights of yours… what are they?"
The group slowed. The air seemed to tighten.
Felicity turned her head slightly, glancing at Fred with narrowed eyes before shifting her gaze to Merek. Tevin raised an eyebrow. Even Nero looked over, his expression, curious. All of them had wondered the same thing.
What were these terrifying, silent warriors that obeyed only Merek? They didn't speak. They didn't eat. They didn't rest. And somehow, they were growing stronger—just like them.
Merek met Fred's gaze with a cool, unreadable expression. Then, with a quiet sigh, he said, "Tell me all your skills. Current level. Title perks. Inventory. Everything. And I'll tell you."
Fred stopped in his tracks.
His face twisted with a mix of disbelief and anger. His grip on the bat tightened until his knuckles turned white.
Tevin gave a short, dry laugh. "I had a feeling he'd say something like that."
Felicity rolled her eyes and resumed walking, her interest in the subject clearly evaporating. Nero followed suit, expression still pensive.
Merek didn't elaborate. He simply kept walking, his hands in his pockets, the clinking of his wraiths following close behind.
But inside, his thoughts stirred like storm clouds.
'What would they do if I told them the truth?' he wondered. 'That these aren't just summoned beings or constructs... they're souls. The souls of the dead, bound to my will and shall serve me even in death.'
His eyes narrowed, the thought lingering.
Would they recoil? Despise him? Maybe even hate him?
Probably.
In a world like this—where life had crumbled into ruin, where humanity clawed and bled just to survive—would morality even matter anymore? Or would it become another casualty?
'They'd think I'd do the same to them if they died,' he realized grimly. 'Make their souls fight for me too.'
And then, a sudden thought rooted itself in his mind.
Could he?
Could he truly take souls?
He stopped walking for half a heartbeat as the idea took shape, something tantalizing curling in his chest. He wasn't sure.
But he knew his next evolution—reaching Level 20, completing his Job Evolution Mission, and becoming a Stage-1 Human—would unlock new job skills.
'What if one of those skills… allowed me to claim souls?'
The thought was like cold fire in his veins.
It terrified him.
And thrilled him.
All at once.
There were stronger people out there.
Highbloods. Purebloods. Even the elusive Trueblood humans.
Monsters in human skin—people who weren't at the beginning stages anymore with strength that eclipsed anything Merek could yet dream of. What would he do when he faced one of them? Not if, but when.
And then there was the ice.
That creeping omen he couldn't ignore. One year left. Whatever that meant, it wasn't good.
He had to grow.
Not for pride. Not even for power.
Because this world demanded it. Because stagnation meant slavery to someone else's will. Or worse… death. A permanent, quiet end—buried under snow and failure.
So deep was Merek in this silent storm of resolve, he didn't realize they had arrived where he fought the Giant Type One zombie. The group stood before the crumbling ruins where the Stage-1 zombie had fallen.
When Nero finally saw it, his eyes widened in disbelief.
The monster lay still, limbs sprawled, lifeless, but its presence lingered like a curse in the air. It towered more than twice the height of a grown man, its grotesque frame coiled in thick bone armor and muscle, even in death an image of unstoppable force.
Tevin blinked several times, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Fred, however, froze mid-step, his jaw slack.
Even dead, the thing was overwhelming. Its massive bulk, and cracked jaw painted the picture of a battlefield no average human could have survived.
Felicity turned her eyes toward Merek.
Her gaze lingered on him, troubled—half awe, half caution.
He killed that?
She said nothing, but the realization sank deep.
'I wouldn't survive a fight like that. Not without crawling away with bad wounds.'
Running, yes—she could always run. But a direct clash? That was suicide. The creature would break her in two and toss her like garbage.
Merek, as if the corpse meant nothing, walked past the Stage-1's body. But he paused when Fred stepped forward.
The young man approached the dead beast, eyes locked on it. Then, without a word, he raised his bat high overhead.
Curiosity sparked in Merek's eyes. He turned and watched in silence.
Fred roared and brought the bat crashing down with everything he had.
The impact was sharp—but useless.
The moment the bat struck the thick bone armor, it bounced off with a jarring clang. The shockwave traveled down Fred's arms, and he staggered backward with a pained hiss, fingers trembling. He nearly dropped the bat.
"What in the world…?" he muttered, staring at the weapon in disbelief. "I used my Herculean Strength skill…"
Skills were everything in this new world—shaping a person's combat path, defining their growth.
Fred had the warrior job, leaning into raw strength. Herculean Strength was a passive skill, always enhancing his might.
Common-grade job or not, this job's key skill granted him the strength of seven average men.
Seven!
And it wasn't even enough to scratch the zombie's bone armor. If anything, the recoil had nearly fractured his fingers.
Nero stared at the corpse in silence, expression tight.
'Even Fred's strength does nothing… he thought. And my flames... they wouldn't even leave a burn mark.'
His fists clenched, jaw grinding.
He had always been the best—the best. The student everyone admired. Valedictorian. Vice president. The top of every chart, the model of success.
So how, just how, had someone like Merek, quiet and distant, pulled so far ahead of him?
Where had he come from?
The oppressive silence was broken at last by Merek's calm voice, snapping everyone back to the present.
"We're close to the buses."
His words were plain, but they cut through the heavy tension like a blade. The three student drivers stiffened, visibly shaken but eager to get moving. They nodded quickly.
….
Two boys lingered at a safe distance from the chaos, watching the cafeteria fill with groaning, mindless bodies. It was like watching a dam break in slow motion—zombies flooding in through every broken window.
Inside, the horde was likely packed to the brim, and the source of it all?
A girl.
The same girl they had tied up and left behind.
Her panicked, piercing screams had acted like a siren song, drawing every zombie within range like moths to flame.
Dozens had turned to scores, and now over a hundred clawed and stumbled their way into the cafeteria, turning it into a grotesque, flesh-hungry mosh pit.
Ben and Landon, once cronies of the now-dead Riven, watched the chaos unfold with sick amusement.
"Heh... Did you open the fridge and pour her blood in there?" Landon asked, glancing sideways at Ben, who stood half a head taller than him.
Ben snorted, eyes gleaming with malice. "Of course. No food for those bastards. They'll cry when they return."
His laugh came out sharp, almost animalistic—like a hyena reveling in another's misfortune.
Landon's expression twisted into something darker. "That woman... She killed Riven. And the rest of our friends. All of it is Carla's fault!"
A flicker of murderous intent bled from his eyes, thick and venomous.
Ben turned his back to the carnage, completely unfazed. "Doesn't matter. Their food stash will run dry soon. Hunger does crazy things. They'll turn on each other."
He smirked. "The gym's our next target."
Just then, after leaving the scene, they spotted something lying still near a tree—its sleek black cat soaked in its own blood.
A mutant cat, the size of a leopard.
It must've been caught in the frenzy of the zombie horde. Deep gashes tore through its flanks, and its breathing came in slow, shallow hitches. Despite its injuries, its glowing eyes still glared upward—feral, defiant.
Ben's eyes lit up. "Well, look what the dead dragged in."
Without hesitation, he darted toward the dying creature and towered over it. The beast gave a weak hiss, a final snarl.
Ben drove his blade straight into its throat.
The cat let out one last shudder and fell limp, its life extinguished.
Meanwhile, Landon got to work, moving around the area to harvest essence cores from the nearby corpses—zombies the mutant cat must've torn apart before it fell. The air reeked of rot and blood, but the scent of power kept them moving.
Ben knelt beside the mutant and pulled free its essence core pulsing with residual life. Without hesitation, he swallowed it down. Heat rushed through his veins, but something else caught his attention.
Lying just beside the cat's blood-soaked head were two orbs.
One glowed red, they knew whatever was in it would be either a weapon or something else but not a skill.
However, the second orb, which was orange, caught his attention.
Ben's brows furrowed. "Orange?" he muttered, picking it up. When he gave it a squeeze, instead of vanishing like the others, a glowing screen appeared before his eyes:
[Your race will change into an undead species—Ghoul. Squeeze if you accept.]
He hesitated for a heartbeat. Then grinned.
He squeezed.
The orb shattered like fragile glass, and almost instantly, agony tore through his body.
Ben dropped to all fours, screaming—raw, guttural, and inhuman.
Bones cracked. Skin tore. Muscles rippled and reshaped.
Landon spun around, alarmed by the scream. "Ben?!"
But he stopped in his tracks as he watched the transformation unfold.
Ben's spine arched unnaturally. His skin lost all color, draining to a deathly, corpse-like white. Veins pulsed black beneath the surface. His frame grew taller and broader, muscles bulging grotesquely as his body mutated beyond recognition. His mouth widened into a razor-lined grin, and his eyes—his eyes turned a deep crimson glowing with hunger and madness.
Then came the laugh.
It was soft at first.
A trembling chuckle, laced with hysteria.
Then it grew louder. Deeper.
Landon stood frozen, every hair on his body standing upright.
A notification flickered before Ben's blood-red gaze:
[Your race has changed into the Flesh-Eating Ghoul.]