And then the cities began to fall.
Without warning, entire power grids shut down. The lights went out, plunging the cities into darkness. Emergency services were overwhelmed, their vehicles overturned or destroyed by the relentless plants. Hospitals were overrun, their halls filled with the dying and the terrified.
The government tried to do something. They deployed soldiers and tanks, bombarded the infected areas, even burned entire forests to the ground. But it was useless. The plants adapted too quickly, spreading faster than anyone could have imagined.
Within weeks, the cities were unrecognizable. Towering skyscrapers were draped in thick, thorn-covered vines, their windows shattered and their walls crumbling. Streets were littered with overturned cars and abandoned belongings, the air thick with the acrid smell of smoke and decay.
The screams of the dying faded, replaced by an eerie silence, broken only by the rustling of the plants.
The government was gone, society had collapsed, and humanity was left to fend for itself against an enemy it could barely comprehend.
And then there was nothing but survival.
Mercenary organizations began to emerge—groups like The Butcher, Ironfang, and The Crimson Vows—making their living by hunting and killing the infected plants.
Mercenaries were essentially hired guns, or in this case, hired blades, paid not just in money but in food, water, or anything else of value. Their job? To protect people from the horrors of the Black Bloom.
Among them, The Butcher was the most feared and renowned. Their skills were legendary, their efficiency unmatched. They didn't just kill plants—they obliterated them, carving through even the most aggressive and mutated specimens with surgical precision. Stories of their battles spread like wildfire, painting them as near-mythical warriors.
But at the end of the day, even The Butcher fell. Their downfall came during the infamous battle for the Lanxi region, a conflict so devastating it wiped out everything and everyone in its wake.
Some say a few members of The Butcher survived, but no one knows if the rumors are true.
It's been a year since anyone last heard their name whispered, and for most, The Butcher is now just a ghost of the past.
Jianyu's mind drifted back to the present, where the cavern's cool air wrapped around him like a suffocating reminder of what he'd lost.
He sat beside Zhenfeng, staring at the darkness beyond the cave's entrance.
The silence outside was deceptive. It was never truly silent.
The rustling of leaves, the faint creak of roots shifting beneath the soil—it all made his muscles tense, his instincts screaming at him to stay alert. He'd learned the hard way that the Black Bloom didn't rest, didn't stop hunting.
Zhenfeng, ever the stoic man, broke the silence first. "You're quiet now," he said, his voice low but carrying that same sharp edge it always did.
Jianyu didn't respond immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the void beyond, watching for movement, for the telltale shimmer of moonlight on an advancing vine. Finally, he muttered, "Just thinking about how it all started."
Zhenfeng huffed a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. "Still trying to make sense of it? Thought you plant nerds gave up on that years ago."
Jianyu turned to glare at him, but the fire in his eyes quickly dulled.
Zhenfeng wasn't wrong. The scientists had tried—oh, how they'd tried. Every theory, every hypothesis, every desperate attempt to understand the virus had crumbled under the relentless reality of its spread.
"It's not about making sense of it," Jianyu said softly. "It's about remembering. I can't… I can't let myself forget what it cost."
Zhenfeng leaned back against the rock wall, his eyes scanning the horizon. "We've all lost people, Jianyu. But if you keep carrying it like this, it'll break you."
"It already has," Jianyu whispered.
Zhenfeng didn't offer any platitudes—he wasn't the type. Instead, he reached into his pack and pulled out a small flask, offering it to Jianyu.
Jianyu hesitated before accepting it, taking a small sip. The burn of the alcohol was sharp, but it grounded him, if only for a moment. He handed it back silently.
"You're still here," Zhenfeng said after a long pause, his tone unusually soft. "That means something. Whether you like it or not."
Jianyu didn't respond. Instead, he turned his gaze back to the night, watching as the stars flickered like faint beacons of hope in the dark sky. He'd heard it said once that the stars were already dead, their light reaching Earth long after their destruction.
Somehow, that felt fitting.
"Where'd you get the alcohol from?" Jianyu asked suddenly, steering the conversation in a different direction.
"Stole it from the ruins of the place our group stayed at two days ago," Zhenfeng replied casually.
"You had the time to steal?"
"Well, I caught a whiff of it. Seemed like a waste to leave it there untouched."
Jianyu chuckled. "You know, it's been a while since we first met, hasn't it?"
Zhenfeng shivered at the sudden wave of nostalgia. "What's wrong with you? Are you dying or something, getting all sentimental out of nowhere?"
Jianyu laughed again. "Screw you."
Zhenfeng turned his gaze back to the outside. "Yeah, you're not wrong. It's been two months of gathering what's left of the survivors and hopping from one place to another. Lucky you found whatever seeds you planted and stumbled on this cavern."
"Mhm."
"You think we can stay here long?" Zhenfeng asked, his voice softer. He felt bad for the survivors—most of them were weak, constantly pushed to their limits by the endless moving. And every time they moved, there were always casualties.
"We should be able to stay here for a while," Jianyu said, determination in his voice. "I'll make sure of it."
"Alright," Zhenfeng said simply, leaning back with a resigned nod.
A faint rustling broke through their conversation, and both men stiffened. Zhenfeng's hand moved instinctively to his sword.
The sound grew louder, closer, until a shadow moved at the edge of their vision.
"Stay sharp," Zhenfeng muttered, his voice low but steady.
Jianyu didn't need the reminder. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared into the darkness, his mind racing through every possible outcome.
The plants didn't rest. They didn't stop. And neither could he.