Blood splattered everywhere!
It was like a watermelon bursting in mid-air—black blood and yellowed brain matter shot out, but none of it touched Novak.
A dark light, a black sheen, seemed to envelop his body, forming a viral shroud that protected him from the gore. This eerie glow, combined with the blood of the corpses covering him, made Novak appear even more savage and terrifying.
He was a tyrant.
In Daphne's eyes, the only word to describe the figure that had just kicked a terrifying zombie to death was 'tyrant'. Novak, in this moment, embodied the raw aesthetics of violence.
His movements lacked the formality of any martial art or known combat technique, because those arts were designed for fighting humans—and humans had weaknesses. A well-placed strike could end a fight. But Novak wasn't facing humans.
These creatures, even if reduced to a limbless torso, could still crawl toward you and bite, spreading the deadly virus.
His strikes were precise and efficient, with no wasted effort. Novak's style wasn't refined by traditional combat training but forged from decades of zombie hunting experience. Each movement was honed to kill as quickly and effectively as possible.
His expression remained calm, the powerful strike that had just obliterated a zombie barely registering on his face.
Meanwhile, the zombies, driven by mindless bloodlust, weren't fazed by the death of their kin. Clawed hands reached for Novak, and their charging forms made the onlookers gasp in terror. If anyone still believed that zombies were slow, they'd want to punch whoever told them that.
These zombies sprinted like athletes, able to maintain a 100-meter dash speed for over half an hour—and their sense of smell and hearing was sharper than a dog's.
But to Novak, they were fragile, like babies in front of him. Not because the zombies were weak, but because he was too strong.
'Kill!'
Novak's pupils darkened, stained by the black-red viral shroud enveloping him. The black light virus inside him filled him with a bloodthirsty desire to engage his enemies head-on.
Thankfully, Novak's mind was too strong to be consumed by the virus. His agility and constitution were his greatest assets at the dawn of the apocalypse. For anyone without special abilities, these were the most important attributes to invest in. Novak had clearly done just that, and now his agility was on full display.
'Kill!'
To the zombies, Novak was a predator among prey. They were like antelopes, and he was a cheetah—only he had ten times the endurance.
The zombies' heads popped like balloons, one after another, under his relentless assault. Their hardened skin and skulls, designed to protect them, were nothing against Novak's lethal strikes. They shattered like brittle shells.
"How is this possible?!"
Nicole's eyes widened in shock. She had already witnessed Novak's superhuman reflexes and his ability to dodge bullets earlier that morning. Yet she had never believed anyone could maintain such explosive power and speed for long.
Now, the scene unfolding before her defied everything she thought she knew. Novak's every punch splattered corpse blood, filling the air with a mist of black and red.
Daphne, too, was trembling. Her palms were sweaty, her legs shaky. Novak wasn't using any visible superpowers—nothing beyond the realm of comprehension. And yet, what he was doing felt more terrifying than any supernatural feat. His blows were raw, visceral, and every one of them sent waves of blood spraying through the air.
It was a visual onslaught, an assault on the senses, tapping into the primal desire for violence that lay deep within the human psyche.
Adrenaline surged through the spectators, but none of them dared step into that cage of death like Novak.
By this point, Novak had forgotten about the onlookers entirely. In the heat of battle, the black light virus seemed to merge even more seamlessly with his body. Despite his precautions, his black jacket was now drenched in zombie blood, the same black-red sheen coating him as if he had become one with the carnage.
He looked less like a man and more like a terrifying figure of myth—a king of viral monsters.
Novak was intoxicated by the power coursing through him. It wasn't just the exhilarating physicality of the fight that consumed him, but also the constant stream of notifications in his mind, like a drumbeat of victory.
'[Killed a low-level evolved virus-mutant! Gained experience: 1*10 = 10 points. Earned currency: 1*10 = 10 copper coins.]'
'[Killed a low-level evolved virus-mutant! Gained experience: 1*10 = 10 points.]'
And the reminders kept coming, sparking dopamine in his brain. The thrill of the fight, the surge of strength—he didn't want to stop until he'd burned through every last bit of energy.
'Bang!'
'Bang!'
In the vast basement hall, the sound of Novak's blows echoed one after another. The spectators, once filled with terror, were now numb with disbelief. Each sound marked the death of another zombie, each one dying in the most brutal fashion imaginable.
The roars of the undead grew quieter, their numbers dwindling.
The onlookers could only stare in awe at Novak—his entire body now encased in a strange mix of black and red, his hair drenched in the blood of the dead, his mask as menacing as it was grotesque. In some inexplicable way, it fit him perfectly.
But Novak wasn't focused on his appearance.
His mind was locked on the notifications, and two particular messages caught his attention.
"[Killed a low-level evolved virus-mutant! Gained experience: (1*10) 10 points. Maxed out Experience! Levelled up to Level 2. Gained 2 free attribute points!]"
"[Title 'Zombie Slayer' has met the advancement criteria. Title upgraded to 'Zombie Hunter'!]"