John was studying the stats of a zombie husky with great focus when he suddenly felt a sharp pain in both legs. Two zombie dogs had ambushed him, one biting his left leg and the other sinking its teeth into his right.
"It's a husky," John muttered through gritted teeth. "No wonder it's so wild—it went straight for the neck!" He quickly reacted, grabbing the husky zombie's jaws with his hands. His right hand clamped down on the lower jaw and, with a sharp snap, shattered it. With his left hand, he twisted the upper jaw and broke the zombie's neck with ease. Tossing its limp body aside, he heard a faint chime in his mind.
[You've killed a Level 1, one-star monster: 'Zombie Husky (Normal)'. Soul points +3.]
"Only three soul points?" John mused, frowning. "So that's the standard for normal zombies. Then why was the goblin merchant worth 30 points? Must be because it was an elite."
His thoughts were interrupted as he lifted the husky's corpse and swung it like a sledgehammer at the other two dogs biting his legs. The husky's lifeless body slammed into the Labrador on his left and the Golden Retriever on his right, sending them flying. Both slammed into the nearby walls, leaving gruesome, blood-splattered imprints on the otherwise white surfaces.
[You've killed a Level 1, one-star monster: 'Zombie Labrador (Normal)'. Soul points +3.]
[You've killed a Level 1, one-star monster: 'Zombie Golden Retriever (Normal)'. Soul points +3.]
"So it really is tied to quality," John muttered, considering the situation. "All these zombies are classified as 'Normal,' which must explain their low soul point value. I wonder if stronger ones have specific titles or ranks."
Before he could dwell on it, a tiny teacup Chihuahua zombie appeared, yipping and barking aggressively as it ran toward him. Its tiny jaws snapped futilely at his combat boots. Because of its small size, it couldn't reach his legs like the larger dogs had. Instead, it latched onto his boot with a pathetic growl.
John's response was swift. Without hesitation, he kicked the Chihuahua zombie with a forceful sweep of his leg, sending it soaring across the room.
Thwack!
The Chihuahua smacked into the wall, crumpling into a grotesque pile of flesh and bone.
His reaction this time was quicker than before. Why? Because while zombie bites couldn't hurt him—his earth-based aura offered protection against attacks—he was particularly protective of his combat boots.
"I worked too hard to get these from that treasure chest," he grumbled. "They're low on defense, but they're comfortable, and they'll help me complete my armor set later. I can't have them ruined by some ankle-biter."
Even though the Chihuahua zombie was barely the size of his hand, it was still a threat. A zombie is a zombie, after all, no matter how small.
With all the zombie dogs defeated, John turned his attention to the room's far corner, where a grotesque sight awaited him. An elderly zombie missing its lower body and right hand was dragging itself toward him, emitting a ghastly, wet growl. The sound reminded him of phlegm stuck in someone's throat.
"Is this their owner?" John wondered aloud, eyeing the old lady zombie. "She must've been normal once, but those dogs probably turned on her. Huskies, Labradors, and Golden Retrievers chewed off her legs and hand, and maybe those tiny Chihuahua zombies finished her off. Still, zombie dogs eating zombies? Isn't that behavior more like lickers? No use thinking about it."
As he scanned the room, his eyes landed on a white-glowing treasure chest beside the security door.
"Finally!" he exclaimed. "Time to head back. I'm filthy. I need a bath."
Pulling off his blood-soaked shirt, he tossed it to the floor with a grimace. The sticky, slimy texture of dried zombie blood clung to his skin, making him feel disgusting.
"In the Ashes World, no one's alive to care if I walk around shirtless," he thought. "Honestly, if it weren't for basic decency, I wouldn't even wear these pants. They're drenched in blood too."
No matter how careful John tried to be, it seemed impossible to avoid zombie blood. Often, a zombie would grab him, and in his struggle to break free, their bodies would explode or tear apart, showering him in gore. Over time, he'd grown numb to the smell, though the sticky sensation of wet clothes still annoyed him.
"It's crazy what humans can get used to," he muttered, shaking his head.
Back in Room 301 of the Happiness Grove Apartments, John avoided sitting on the worn wooden bed. He didn't want to ruin it with the zombie blood covering him. Instead, he stood in the center of the room, contemplating his next move.
"Should I take a bath?" he wondered. "I've got enough bottled water for a quick rinse, and there's more in the supermarket nearby."
But then another idea struck him. "Wait, I have alchemy! Can I use that to clean myself?"
Focusing his thoughts, he activated his alchemy skill. A glowing pentagram with intricate runes appeared on his right hand. Carefully, he swept the alchemy circle over his chest. The dried zombie blood and grime began to peel away, condensing into a small, dark red ball of filth in his palm. His skin underneath returned to its natural clean state.