Many movies claim that a bad plan is better than no plan at all. But when that "bad plan" involves venturing into a sea of zombies—alongside magic-enhanced birds of prey that would love to add you to their diet—I'm pretty sure even movie protagonists would take a step back.
'Or maybe not, since they'd have "plot armor" 🙄.'
'Haaaaa!!!! 😮💨, my luck hasn't exactly been great when it comes to certain things.'
Actually, scratch that. If I hadn't been lucky up until now, I literally wouldn't be here... Wait, come to think of it—is the fact that I'm here right now actually a result of luck? 🤔
"Ready, Nando?"
My father asked from the corner—right by the wall that led straight out to the street, which was, naturally, swarming with zombies.
"As ready as I'll ever be. How about you?"
"Any second now," he replied, hoisting a 5-kilogram sledgehammer, ready to smash the wall. No joke—that was exactly what he was about to do.
Using the mana he had left, he planned to demolish the wall—not just punch a hole in it, but bring the entire thing down.
The moment it collapsed, I was to hit the gas, taking advantage of the ensuing chaos among the zombies (If this happen)—and the other opportunistic creatures lurking nearby (slimes, mouses, rats, etc.)—to make a mad dash for it, spinning the tires to draw as much attention as possible.
At that exact moment, my mom would take flight, and my dad would leap into the car.
'If someone were reading my thoughts and had been following everything that's happened so far, they'd know my dad is nearly 2.5 meters tall and packed with muscle. So, how on earth is a 2004 Ford EcoSport supposed to handle something like this?'
The answer, of course, lies in my father's stats and his species.
[Name: Márcio Bezerra
Level: 8
Race: Giant-Dwarf
Job: Magic Artisan
SP: 0
AP: 0
HP: 85/105
MP: 30/90
Condition: Tired
Str: 22
Vit: 13
Agi: 4
Int: 10
Mag: 10
Res: 12
Cha: 5
Unique Skill: ??????
Skills: Iron Hand 2, Item Identification 3, Basic Magic Forging 1, Fire Magic 1, Pain Resistance 3, Wear Resistance 2, Material Break (3 MP), Heavy Impact (5 MP)
Racial Skill: Minimum-Maximum, Superhuman Strength 3, Heat Resistance 3, Alcohol Resistance 1, Strong Stomach 1]
The key to how he fits into the ecosystem lies in this racial skill: [Minimum-Maximum].
(Let's set aside the fact that he has a "Charm" stat while I don't—especially since his is *quite* low. I'm not bitter about it at all, okay!!!!)
[Minimum-Maximum: A special racial skill possessed by a select number of creatures with a lineage of both giants and fey beings. It allows the individual to increase their size to that of a giant, or shrink down to the size corresponding to their fey heritage.
• Maximum Form: A 3x increase in Strength, Vitality, and Resistance. A proportional decrease in Intelligence, Agility, and Magic.
• Minimum Form: A 3x increase in Resistance, Magic, Charm, or Intelligence (which varies depending on the specific species). Proportional decrease in strength, vitality, and endurance (depending on the species).]
In other words, he can shrink down to the size of a dwarf—around 1.30 to 1.40 meters—or grow to the full size of a giant—about 4 or 5 meters.
(Since we're currently inside an office suspended above a gas station, surrounded by a sea of zombies, we figured it was best not to test that second option.)
I wonder if his weight changes too, or if it stays the same. Well, if his strength decreases in his smallest form, perhaps the weight—which might represent that strength—decreases as well? Or is it his vitality that determines his weight?
There's still a lot to be explained and explored regarding this system. But, as always, that'll have to wait for later.
*Tssssc, Vroom, Vrroomnn, Vrroomnn*
I gave my dad a signal. He nodded, raised his hammer—enveloping it in a faint, whitish aura that was barely perceptible—and struck the wall.
"[Heavy Impact]"
*BOOMMMM. Tiiiinngg.*
But one blow wasn't enough.
The wall was made of a fairly soft, pliable iron—the kind that would be easy to bend if you used a press (which, it seems, is the baseline for my dad's current strength). But "easy to bend" doesn't mean "easy to break"—unlike the thin layer of cement, which cracked and fell away in large chunks. The metal underneath deformed significantly, buckling inward, but it remained a single, unbroken sheet.
"And again!!!! [Heavy Impact]"
*BOOMMMM. TRRIIInnggg*
My mother made her wings appear once more. Through a small gap in the window, I could see the zombies swarming even more intensely toward the gas station, trying to reach the office. Some were finally doing something "clever," using the bodies of other zombies as a makeshift staircase.
"And to finish it off! [Heavy Impact]!!!!!"
*BOOMMMM. CRASHHH*
[Accelerated thinking activated]
With one final blow, he didn't just make a hole—he practically pulverized the entire wall. Only a few scraps of siding remained along the edges, where the exterior metal hadn't been bent outward—as if it had been blown apart from the inside... which, in fact, it had.
The moment the sledgehammer struck the wall for the last time, I already had my foot buried in the accelerator. The car's arrival at the wall and the wall's disappearance happened almost simultaneously.
For fleeting three seconds, I felt the car airborne, accompanied by a few pieces of debris from the wall.
*Wroooshhhhh. Crash. Tsssssss. Vrrrrroooo mm. Blamb, blamp blamp. Slopsh.*
In the half-second it took for the car to hit the ground—crushing a few zombies and other things in the process—I accelerated and swung the vehicle around, giving my father time to "hop aboard."
Shouldn't it be impossible to get a car moving amidst so many zombies? I'd say yes—it should be.
But, fortunately, we had an angel helping us.
*Baruuum, Baruuum, Baruuum*
Three lightning strikes were enough to clear a decent space for maneuvering. It was a pity there couldn't be any more; otherwise, my mother wouldn't have been able to keep flying.
One loop—passing through the blast zone and returning to where my father stood—left the windshield drenched in blood, along with the remains of a few slimes and various other things I'd rather not identify.
Seeing zombie organs scattered about in a movie is one thing; seeing them in real life is another. But it's something else entirely—and far worse—to be the one responsible for turning those organs into a pulpy mess of flesh smeared across your own windshield.
The fact that I could almost see the entire process of the zombies exploding and scattering its organs in great detail—thanks to [accelerated thought], certainly didn't help.
*Thump*
[Accelerated Thinking deactivated]
A "slight" dent appeared on the roof of the car, and a moment later, a much smaller—yet still quite burly—version of my father squeezed into the passenger seat through the door.
"GO, GO, GO, GO!!!!!!!!"
As if he even needed to say anything. I slammed it into gear and hit the gas, making the tires screech as we tore along the narrow trail I'd carved through a mess of rotting blood, flesh, death-slime, and ash.
*Croak, croak, croak*
*Caw-caw, caw-caw, caw-caw*
We'd barely cleared the gas station when a flock of vultures and a small group of caracaras—perhaps the same one I'd encountered earlier—came after us, drawn by the racket we were making and, more importantly, the bits of flesh stuck to the car. Some of that rotting meat even ended up flying in through the passenger-side window.
"This is absolutely disgusting."
To make matters worse, I made the mistake of turning on the windshield wipers to try and clear some of it away. It only made things worse.
The silver lining was that, since the entire area for nearly two kilometers around us was swarming with zombies, slimes, and various "smaller" creatures—rats, mice, and the like—we didn't have to worry about getting into a typical accident. Every death that occurred—and was currently occurring—along our path was, quite literally, a gain for us.
[Normal zombie eliminated]
[Experience gained.]
[Crawling zombie eliminated]
[Experience gained.]
[Acid slime eliminated]
[Experience gained.]
[Large rat eliminated]
[Experience gained.]
....
The elimination notifications didn't stop for the next minute. And then, finally—well, *finally*—it happened. [Rotten zombie eliminated]
[Experience gained]
[Congratulations on leveling up!
Level: 17 —> 18]
[Congratulations on increasing your job level!
Job: Fighter 8 —> 9]
"YES!!!!! Finally!!!!! But why did my job level go up? Can a car be a weapon, too? ...Actually, that makes sense."
"Oh! I just leveled up!"
'Hey! That's just freeloading.'
Not that I'm complaining, really. The stronger we get, the better. Especially since, as far as I can tell, Dad has the lowest level among us.
Two minutes after leaving the gas station, it was already clear that the number of zombies and other creatures was dwindling. We were almost out.
But, of course, nothing in my life could ever be that simple, could it?
*BOOOOOMMMMM!!!!*
*Caw-caw????!!!!*
*KKK-caw-caw!!!, CAW-CAW!!!!!!*
An explosion erupted out of nowhere. For the second time today—and in my entire life—I experienced what it's like for a car to lose contact with the ground; only this time, instead of heading toward the pavement, we were sent flying upward.
*Vvvvvvrrrrommmm. POW!, TTKSSA, CRASH!!!!*
We were airborne for six seconds—long enough for the vehicle to flip over under its own weight, leaving us to land upside down.
[-30 HP]
'Aaaaahhhh, come on! And right after I'd finally managed to reach full HP, too!!!!... Okay, that wasn't great. But it could've been worse.'
And then, naturally, it got worse.