The sun rose, bleeding weak warmth into the frozen city. Lu Qiu walked unflinching through its light, thanks to Vector Manipulation LV2—a System skill that bent photons around him, a shimmering lie of humanity. "Level 5 could stop the Earth's rotation," the System had taunted, "but that's 100 million Despair Points. Patience, little destroyer."
Patience. He had plenty.
Despair Points: 103,497.
Wenhan City, population 600,000, nestled between mountains—a forgotten hub reliant on its dam. Now, a fifth of it rotted: 120+ Level 2 Infected, zero Level 3. Yet.
The exorcist squad marched oblivious, Stein's sword singing through zombie necks, the captain's ice freezing others mid-lunge. "Divine power," they called it, blind to the horde gathering beyond their arrogance.
"Such tragedy," Stein smirked, decapitating a clawing corpse, azure holy power crackling on his blade, "but we'll cleanse this abomination."
Yuri trailed behind, pale, while Danna chattered of escape. Her brother, Mark, frowned at the empty streets—too quiet, a predator's intuition whispering of traps.
Lu Qiu played his part: "Please, protect us, Lord Stein! Your strength is our shield!"
Flattery worked. The squad quickened pace, ignoring the rising stench, the absence of birds, the silence before the storm.
Then, the corner.
A sea of rot stretched endless: sunken eyes, peeling flesh, mouths stretched in silent screams. 100,000+ zombies, a wave of decay, drawn by the scent of living blood.
"No…" Stein's smile shattered, sword slipping in his grip.
The captain reacted first, ice erupting from her palms to form a towering wall. But even her power faltered as the horde crashed into it, teeth gnawing frost, claws scoring cracks.
"RUN!" she barked, voice colder than her magic.
Panic broke the group. Danna stumbled, Mark dragging her toward ruins; Stein fled, holy power flickering; Yuri wept, tripping over debris. Lu Qiu ran too, but not from fear—from fascination.
This was the truth of zombies: not their strength, but their hunger. Endless, mindless, perfect. Let the exorcists tire, let their faith splinter. No holy sword, no ice, could stem a tide of hunger.
The ice wall groaned, cracked, collapsed. Moans became a roar, a tsunami of decay rolling forward.
Lu Qiu glanced back, scarlet eyes gleaming beneath human guise.
You fools, he thought, you walked into the lion's den and wondered why it roared.
The horde swallowed the street, tearing Stein's holy robes, freezing the captain's scream in her throat. Yuri clung to a rooftop, watching as his "heroes" became prey, the virus in his veins thrumming with approval.
Somewhere, a gunshot cracked. Somewhere, a child's cry cut off.
But Lu Qiu had already vanished, moving faster than human eyes could track, toward the safehouse—toward Yuri, the seed now sprouting, the first domino in a collapse of faith.
Let the world burn. Let the exorcists learn: in the end, even divine power drowns in the tide of what humanity created.
And beneath it all, the System hummed, Despair Points + 5,000.
The bud had broken. The storm was coming.