The zombie fallen at my feet, its rotting skull split open where my knife had struck. A dark, oily liquid oozed from the wound, staining the grass beneath it. I wiped the blade on its tattered shirt, my grip tightening as another figure shambled toward me.
It was tempting to let my thoughts drift—tempting to think of the sheer absurdity of being back here, a thirteen-year-old with an adult's memories, facing down death yet again. But those kinds of thoughts got you killed. I had to focus.
System Notification:
"Zombie killed. 2 points awarded."
The popup flickered in my vision, as cold and emotionless as I remembered. I dismissed it with a thought and turned my attention to the rest of the park.
Screams echoed through the air, accompanied by the low, guttural groans of the undead. People scattered like ants, their panic palpable even from a distance. Most had no idea what they were doing—wielding their weapons like clubs, swinging wildly at the air.
Amateurs.
I crouched behind a bench, scanning the chaos. It wasn't just the zombies I was watching. The survivors were just as important—maybe more so. I needed to identify threats, allies, and opportunities.
Near the fountain, a group of three teenagers was surrounded. They fought with the desperation of cornered animals, their crude weapons glinting under the park's dim lights.
I shifted my gaze. To the west, a man in his twenties was sprinting for the tree line, a knife in hand. Smart. He knew when to run.
And then there was Jingsu.
The middle school bully, flailing wildly with his bat, his gang cowering behind him. His wide eyes and trembling hands gave him away. He wasn't a fighter. He was prey, pretending to be a predator.
"Help me!" he screamed, swinging his bat in a desperate arc.
I didn't move.
Jingsu wasn't worth my time. Whatever role he thought he'd play in this new world, it wouldn't matter. The Tower was merciless to fools like him.
Instead, I turned my attention to a smaller cluster of zombies near the park's edge. They were slow, their decayed limbs jerking unnaturally as they staggered forward. Easy targets.
I crept toward them, my movements silent. The first zombie didn't see me coming. I drove my knife into its skull with a quick, practiced motion, stepping aside as its body slumped to the ground.
The second zombie turned toward me, its cloudy eyes locking on mine. I sidestepped its sluggish swipe and plunged my knife into its temple.
System Notification:
"Zombie killed. 2 points awarded."
"Zombie killed. 2 points awarded."
I didn't stop. The third zombie fell just as easily, its body joining the growing pile at my feet.
When the last one was down, I took a moment to catch my breath. Killing zombies wasn't hard, but it was draining—mentally and physically. And this was only the beginning.
"Open stats," I muttered.
The translucent interface appeared before me, the numbers glowing faintly against the darkness.
Stats:
Level: 3
HP: 48/48
Strength: 9
Stamina: 20
Endurance: 10
Defense: 4
Agility: 10
Speed: 10
Luck: 1
Stat Points: 6
Six stat points. A decent start, but I wasn't about to spend them yet. That was a mistake I'd made in my first life—dumping points into random attributes without a plan. This time, I would bide my time, spending them only when it truly mattered.
As I closed the interface, I noticed movement to my left. A boy, maybe a year or two older than me, was holding his ground against a group of zombies. His blade moved with precision, slicing through decayed flesh with ease.
Unlike the others, he wasn't panicking. His movements were deliberate, calculated.
He could be useful.
I approached him cautiously, my knife at the ready.
"Need a hand?" I called out, keeping my voice neutral.
The boy turned, his dark eyes narrowing as he assessed me. For a moment, I thought he might tell me to leave. But then he nodded, stepping aside to give me space.
"Cover my flank," he said curtly.
I didn't argue.
We fought side by side, our attacks complementing each other's. He would strike high, and I would follow low. By the time the last zombie fell, we had settled into an unspoken rhythm.
The boy wiped his blade on his shirt and turned to me. "You're not like the others," he said, his tone even.
"Neither are you," I replied.
He studied me for a moment, then extended a hand. "Zeke."
"Dinl."
We didn't waste time with pleasantries. The horde was still growing, and staying in one place was a death sentence.
We made our way toward a nearby convenience store, cutting down zombies as we went. Inside, the air was stale, the shelves picked clean by looters. It wasn't much, but it was better than being out in the open.
Zeke leaned against the counter, his breathing steady despite the chaos we had just escaped.
"You've done this before," he said, his tone laced with suspicion.
I shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."
He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press the issue.
We spent the next few hours fortifying the store, blocking off entrances and setting up makeshift defenses. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough to buy us time.
As night fell, the sounds of the horde grew louder, their moans echoing through the empty streets.
"We can't stay here forever," Zeke said, sharpening his blade with a piece of broken glass.
"I know," I replied. "But the first night is always the worst. If we can survive until morning, we'll have a better chance."
Zeke nodded, though his expression remained grim.
I didn't tell him about the second wave. By the time it came, the weak would already be gone. The Tower had a way of weeding out the unworthy.
I stared out the cracked window, watching as shadows moved in the darkness. Zeke was strong, but strength wasn't enough in the Tower. He was still too trusting, too cooperative.
He would make a good ally—for now. But when the time came, I wouldn't hesitate to cut him loose.
This wasn't about loyalty or friendship.
This was about survival.