One by one, the invaluable hidden professions were recorded meticulously in Alexander's notebook. He was well aware of how each of these professions was acquired, for the individuals who possessed them would one day become true War Gods or Mage Gods. In the later stages of the apocalypse, to stabilize public morale and to showcase their power, factions would have their War Gods or Mage Gods recount their deeds, distributing pamphlets for the people to admire and learn from.
Alexander, however, hadn't experienced that kind of public adulation—after all, he had died on the very first day of becoming a War God. After pondering for a while, he finally decided to change his profession to "Phantom." There was no other reason—this was the path he knew best.
As for the other professions, who knew if those War Gods or Mage Gods had exaggerated or omitted details when recounting their experiences? Every hidden profession's quest was perilous to the extreme. Even the slightest misstep could doom you. Given Alexander's cautious nature, it was wiser to choose the career he excelled at and understood the most.
With that in mind, he allocated his free attribute points—3 points to Strength and 2 to Agility. His base attributes now read:• Strength: 16 • Spirit: 17 • Constitution: 11 • Agility: 17
A warm surge of energy flowed through him, and he felt considerably stronger. With his career direction decided, there was nothing left to do but plan his future in detail.
Alexander continued jotting down notes: "Let me see… where did I encounter that Holy Paladin? Oh, right…", "And don't forget that diamond-grade item… that one's really useful…" "Argh, I must remember the exact location of that sword… I can't recall it now…" As the saying goes, a good memory is no match for a worn-out notebook. His pen scratched furiously as page after page was filled. He intended to record every detail he remembered about important items and equipment from his previous life.
Night deepened. By 12:00, Alexander finally set down his pen and exhaled. He had documented everything he could recall. Anything else he might remember later could be added then. Stowing his notebook in his inventory, he stood, turned off the lights, and collapsed onto the bed—clothes still on. In the apocalypse, eating, dressing, and sleeping well are absolute essentials.
It wasn't long before he drifted into a deep, comfortable sleep—by far the best rest he'd had in ten years. With the Reconnaissance Eye guarding the area outside, and no trace of Carrie's oppressive shadow, nor those relentless pursuers, nor any nerve-wracking uncertainty about the future, Alexander finally found peace.
"Damn it! Damn it! Where the hell did that bitch go?"
In a lavish living room, a man was furiously roaring. He grabbed a vase and smashed it onto the back of a suited bodyguard. Nearby, a silver-haired butler interjected, "Young Master, please lower your voice. If you're too loud, the zombies outside the estate might be attracted."
The man—Derek—remembered how earlier the entire manor had been overrun by mutated zombies. With countless servants and bodyguards turned into the undead, the once nearly 4,000-strong estate was now down to barely over 400 survivors.
Derek finally bit his tongue. "Calm down—I can't calm down when I've planned such a perfect scheme only to have it ruined by that bitch, Carrie."
"Why didn't she come this afternoon? Why didn't she reply to my messages? Now my material wasn't prepared well enough, and I couldn't even send it to that worthless Alexander!" he fumed.
"Imagine the look on Alexander's face if he received that message—utter despair, haha!"
"If only I could drive him to death with anger, he'd finally get a taste of his disgusting father!"
"But all because of that bitch, and this damned Apocalypse Game, I couldn't send out my message on time."
"Damn, damn it—everything's doomed!" Derek ranted, his voice growing louder by the second.
The silver-haired butler sighed and admonished, "Young Master, please lower your voice. Our bodyguards have already suffered heavy losses. If any more zombies break in, your life might not be spared."
After a brief pause, Derek—perhaps out of respect for the butler or concern for his own skin—quieted down. But it wasn't long before he resumed muttering on the sofa:
"It's just a pity that worthless Alexander isn't here to witness me and that bitch Carrie having our fun together. Otherwise, how could I take revenge on him?"
"Damn, the more I think about it, the angrier I get." Derek spat out a mouthful of saliva onto the floor, then stormed over to the silver-haired butler, gritting his teeth:
"Zhao, I don't care—I'm getting angrier by the minute! Didn't my father mention a Hunter Mercenary Team was coming to get me a few days ago? They should be in Modu by now. Send them after those two scumbags!"
"I want to find Carrie—alive if possible, dead if not. And that worthless Alexander—I must drive him to mental collapse!"
"Understood. The Hunter Mercenary Team has been raised as our loyal death-soldiers since you were a child; they will execute your every command," the butler replied with a nod.
Derek's eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction as he imagined the scene.