No zombie could stand in front of him.
Swinging the Frostmourne in his hand, flesh and blood fell off, silvery white and pristine as it returned to its sheath.
Carrying the bundle of tied-up books, he walked leisurely.
...
...
A certain supermarket.
Several survivors were gingerly picking up supplies, their expressions alert and panicked. In today's chaotic world, finding supplies was truly difficult, and the dangers one needed to confront were unimaginable.
All these survivors were male.
The youngest were in their twenties, and the oldest were just over forty.
A car waited silently outside the supermarket.
They were a team of survivors, where those who drove were typically the ones with status in the team, while those scavenging for supplies were the tool people, or bait, so to speak.
At this moment.
Inside the supermarket, a middle-aged man gasped for breath, picking up one item after another. When he saw a box of biscuits, they were his daughter's favorite kind.
