The data was linked to every soldier who had been implanted with a chip. Scott could monitor their movements, analyze their behavior, and, if necessary, activate the chip's self-destruct function with a mere thought. "This… this is terrifying," Scott muttered, his heart pounding. Only now did he fully grasp the power of the microchips. Even with secondary control, the authority to wield this kind of power chilled him to the core.
"I'll manage the Capital base diligently, Sir! I swear there will be no second thoughts!" Scott dropped to one knee, his tone resolute.
"Get up. Stop kneeling," Zack replied, waving his hand dismissively. He could see the fear in Scott's eyes—fear that stemmed from realizing just how little control he truly had. After a pause, Zack's gaze sharpened. "Wait… weren't there more than 1,300 soldiers who survived? Why didn't you gather them all?"
"Yes, Sir," Scott began, nodding. "Most of the 1,300 are survivors who joined the fight. Less than 300 were part of the original city defense force or the security team. The rest... well, they're deserters."
"Ah, I see. They ran while others fought," Zack said coldly, his eyes narrowing.
"That's right. These deserters may still be called soldiers, but they're nothing compared to the survivors who stood their ground. Injecting them would've been a waste of chips," Scott admitted bluntly.
Zack smirked faintly. "I remember them. A group of them tried defying my orders when I commanded the battlefield cleanup. That didn't last long after I dealt with their leader. How many of them are there?" Zack asked, his tone icy.
"More than 1,500," Scott replied, clenching his fists. The contrast was stark—only 1 in 10 soldiers had the courage to fight the tide of corpses, yet nearly all the deserters had survived.
"Leader, I don't believe implanting chips will fix them. Their cowardice and lack of loyalty run too deep," Scott added.
"You're right. Chips alone won't work," Zack said, a chilling smile creeping across his face. "But I have another idea. Gather them all." It took over an hour for Scott to round up the 1,500 deserters. They didn't make it easy. Many outright refused to follow his orders, relying on their numbers to defy him. Without ammunition, even the threat of firearms held little sway. The conflict devolved into brawls, with sticks and fists as the primary weapons.
The deserters gathered reluctantly on the runway of the Capital base, herded there by mechanical dogs. Most of them didn't take the situation seriously—until one of the dogs executed their leader with cold precision, firing without hesitation. Only then did the thousand-strong crowd comply, though their demeanor was anything but disciplined. Some sat, others squatted, and a few nervously chattered among themselves, creating a scene more chaotic than a bustling market. "Nate, this new guy isn't playing around," one man whispered.
"No kidding," Nate replied, lowering his voice. "That dog didn't even flinch. Let's not become the next example."
Others had different concerns.
"Do you think he's here to settle accounts? For real?"
"He wouldn't kill all of us, would he?"
Still, there were the shameless ones: "We didn't sign up to fight a million zombies. Better alive and useless than dead and noble, right?"
The runway buzzed with uneasy chatter until a sound silenced them all—heavy, deliberate footsteps. Zack approached slowly, his imposing figure flanked by the remaining four Fearless Warriors. The warriors, clad in battle-scarred power armor dented and groaning with every movement, exuded an air of mechanical menace. At nearly four meters tall, they looked more like monstrous steel Goliath than humans.
The crowd instinctively parted, fear written on their faces. No one wanted to be in the way of those armored giants. Zack stopped a few feet from the gathered deserters, his sharp gaze sweeping across the disorganized assembly. His voice, though calm, carried an unmistakable edge. "Have you ever been trained?" The question hung in the air, met with nervous fidgeting. Someone in the crowd, sharp enough to sense the weight behind Zack's tone, shouted, "Stand up! Quickly! Let's show some order!"
The rest followed in a panic, scrambling to form rows and columns. It took more than ten minutes for the group to arrange themselves into a semblance of order, and even then, their crooked lines looked more like the aftermath of chaos than discipline. "Enough," Zack said, shaking his head. "Don't bother." He raised a hand, signaling into the distance.
The deserters turned to see what he was gesturing at—and froze. Lined up were mechanical spiders armed with heavy machine guns, their black barrels gleaming menacingly under the sun. The silence broke with a panicked scream: "He's going to kill us!" Before anyone could act, the machine guns roared to life.
Click, click, click… Bullets rained down—not on the crowd, but just inches from their feet. The ground erupted with craters, dirt flying in every direction. "Run!" someone shouted, and the crowd erupted in chaos. The gunfire abruptly stopped.
Frozen mid-flight, the deserters turned back to see Zack smiling faintly, his gaze as cold as ice. "Run. Why don't you?" he asked, his voice dripping with mockery.
A trembling voice from the crowd dared to speak. "M-Mr Zack, there are so many of us… you can't possibly—"
"Yes, I can," Zack interrupted, his smile sharpening. "I can kill you all." The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the thought of fighting back died in their throats as Zack's piercing gaze scanned the crowd. "But…" Zack continued, letting the tension linger, "…I'll give you a choice."
The deserters collectively held their breath. "Become Fearless Warriors under me—or die." Zack gestured to the four towering warriors beside him. The words hung heavy, and for a moment, no one moved. Then, realization dawned, and chaos erupted once more—this time, in the form of desperate enthusiasm.
"Sir, I choose to become a Fearless Warrior!"
"Me too!"
"Count me in!"
The crowd clamored, each man shouting to ensure their voice was heard, their earlier fear replaced by a feverish desire for power. To become a Fearless Warrior meant trading their cowardice for strength, their insignificance for greatness. Zack observed the scene with a faint smirk, his expression unreadable. "It seems you're all quite eager," he said dryly. "But let me warn you—once you join, there's no turning back. Regret isn't an option."
His words were lost in the noise of the desperate crowd, who had already convinced themselves this was their path to salvation. "Then get on the planes," Zack ordered.
From a nearby open space, more than twenty Avalons lifted off in unison and hovered over the crowd before landing. Without hesitation, the deserters surged forward, fighting for spots on the aircraft. Their earlier sluggishness was replaced with frantic energy, fueled by a mix of fear and ambition. "Ego?" Zack called out.
"Yes, sir. The injection chamber factory is operational, and the Fearless Warrior serum is in mass production. The facility in NYC is prepared to process this batch," Ego replied.
Zack's smirk grew colder. "Perfect. Let's see if cowards can be reforged into warriors."