Chereads / The Chronicals of Mira: My System Unleashed / Chapter 3 - Fighting the Army of the Dead

Chapter 3 - Fighting the Army of the Dead

"This could work," Jayson muttered, the words barely escaping his tightening throat. He clenched his fists, syncing his mind with the beast essence. It wasn't a decision born of careful thought but of sheer desperation. The transformation surged through him like a tidal wave, consuming every fiber of his being. It felt disturbingly familiar, as if this monstrous power had always been waiting, dormant, within him.

The sound that tore from his throat was no longer human. It was guttural, primal—a growl that sent shivers even down his own spine. His body twisted unnaturally, muscles bulging, claws sprouting where hands had been. His senses sharpened to a razor's edge, colors growing vivid and movements around him painfully clear. He had become a predator, something far removed from the man he was moments ago.

Jayson advanced toward the nearest ghoul, his new form radiating an almost palpable energy. The air seemed to hum around him as his heavy footsteps carried him closer. His opponent faltered, its dead eyes flickering with what almost seemed like fear. For a moment, the mindless creature hesitated, sensing the dominance Jayson now exuded.

But Jayson didn't give it a chance to retreat. He lunged with terrifying speed, crossing the gap between them in an instant. His claws, now lethal and unyielding, slashed through the air with precision.

CRUNCH!

The ghoul's skull shattered beneath his grip, fragments of bone and brain matter spraying across the blood-soaked floor. The creature crumpled, lifeless, to the ground, and Jayson flicked the gore from his claws with a flick of his wrist. The rush of power was intoxicating—too intoxicating. He caught his reflection in the bar's cracked mirror, his glowing eyes and bloodied claws making him unrecognizable. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Disgusting," he muttered, though the thrill of destruction coursed through him. He flexed his claws, ready to deliver the same fate to every Undead creature in his path. But a cry pierced through the chaos, sharp and desperate, pulling his attention away.

Jayson's head whipped toward the sound, his heightened senses locking onto its source. The old man, the one he'd tried to protect earlier, was on his knees in the center of the bar. A shattered beer bottle trembled in his frail hands, the poor weapon hopeless against the six ghouls circling him. Their guttural growls filled the air, drowning out the man's pitiful pleas.

"Please," the old man begged, his voice breaking as he clutched the bottle. "Please... Someone, please help me..."

Jayson's heart twisted painfully, and without hesitation, he sprinted toward the scene, his claws slicing through the air. His movements blurred with inhuman speed, and for a moment, the old man's eyes lit with hope. But hope was fleeting.

The ghouls pounced, their claws and teeth tearing into the old man before Jayson could reach him. His scream was blood-curdling, filling the air with the sound of sheer agony. The ghouls ripped and shredded, their frenzied feeding reducing the man to little more than a mangled corpse in seconds.

"No! Get off him!" Jayson roared, his voice a mix of rage and anguish. His claws swiped at the closest ghoul, cleaving its head clean off its shoulders. But it was too late. The old man's lifeless body slumped to the ground, blood pooling around him in a thick, viscous tide.

Jayson froze, his claws trembling at his sides. He stared at the gruesome scene, the smell of iron and death thick in his nostrils. The ghouls turned toward him, their dead eyes locking onto his glowing ones.

And then, the old man twitched.

Jayson's breath caught in his throat as the corpse convulsed, its limbs jerking unnaturally. Bones cracked and twisted as the man rose to his feet, his milky eyes now empty of life.

"Damn it..." Jayson whispered, his voice barely audible. He had failed. The old man, like the others, was now part of the growing horde.

The bar was a slaughterhouse. Screams echoed from every corner, blending with the grotesque symphony of growls and wet, tearing flesh. Bodies writhed on the floor as newly bitten patrons succumbed to the infection, their joints snapping as they rose again to join the Undead ranks. Each reanimated corpse swelled the ghoul army, turning the once-chaotic bar into a death trap.

Jayson's chest tightened as he took in the carnage. "This is hell," he muttered, his voice shaking.

The ghouls turned toward him in unison, their bloodied jaws opening wide in a predatory snarl. They advanced as one, their guttural moans forming a chilling chorus. Jayson flexed his claws, his mind racing.

"I can't take them all," he muttered, his gaze darting toward the exit. It was his only hope. "Straight path," he told himself. "Focus on the heads."

The first ghoul lunged, its claws swiping for his throat. Jayson ducked low, his claws tearing upward in a clean slash that sent the creature sprawling. Another came at him, its teeth gnashing inches from his face. He spun away, slashing through its neck in one fluid motion.

He moved like a whirlwind, his claws cutting through flesh and bone with precision. Blood splattered across the walls and pooled on the floor as Jayson carved his way through the horde. His claws were relentless, each strike fueled by desperation and fury. The ghouls fell in droves, their bodies crumpling in his wake.

But the transformation was waning. Jayson could feel it, the raw power ebbing like a receding tide. His strikes became slower, his movements less fluid. Panic flared in his chest as he realized the cost of relying on the beast soul essence.

"Not yet," he growled, his claws rending another ghoul's skull. But the transformation abandoned him abruptly, the power dissipating as if it had never been there. His claws vanished, leaving bloodied hands in their place. His strength, his speed—all gone.

The ghouls pressed in, sensing his vulnerability. Jayson's heart thundered in his chest as he snatched up the bat he had used earlier. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but he forced it aside. Survival was all that mattered.

He swung the bat with desperate precision, each strike aimed at a ghoul's head. The weapon connected with a sickening crunch, sending skull fragments and gore flying. But for every ghoul he felled, two more seemed to take its place.

The exit loomed closer, just a few feet away. His muscles screamed in protest, but he didn't stop. Blood slicked the bat's handle, making it harder to grip, but he tightened his hold and kept swinging.

Finally, with one last burst of effort, Jayson shoved past the final ghoul and stumbled into the open air. He collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for breath, his body trembling from exertion. The cool night air was a welcome reprieve, though it did little to calm his racing heart.

When he finally managed to look around, the street was eerily silent. Cars were abandoned, their doors flung open as if the occupants had fled in haste. Papers and debris littered the ground, stirred by a faint breeze. Fires burned in the distance, casting eerie shadows that danced across the buildings.

"Where is everyone?" Jayson muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The stillness was oppressive, the silence deafening. "Did they all get turned? Or eaten?"

He shook his head, forcing the grim thoughts aside. "Focus," he told himself. "There's no time to wonder. I've got one priority." His voice steadied as he whispered, "Mom."

With trembling hands, he tightened his grip on the bat and took a shaky step forward. The battle in the bar had been a nightmare, but it was just the beginning. If this was the world now, he'd need to be ready for whatever came next.

And he would be ready. No matter what.