Could it be that his brother's secret had been exposed because of Uncle Jorik?
From a different angle, it all made too much sense. Jorik had the access, the opportunity, and—most damningly—the motive. What would he really lose by betraying them?
The trust of two boys who might not survive another night? That was a small price to pay for a golden seat in the Howling Moon Gang's camp.
And their camp wasn't just a hideout—it was a goddamn palace by post-collapse standards. The biggest mall in the district turned fortress, stocked with bottled water, clothes both new and lost and found, canned food stacked to the ceiling.
Even a generator humming in the dark with enough fuel to last weeks if there was a blackout. For a man like Jorik, the offer to trade loyalty for comfort must've been irresistible.
If he had betrayed them, Merek realized with a sick drop in his gut, then his path had been marked the moment he pulled the trigger.
Three of the gang's thugs had died by his revolver. If they knew his location—if Jorik had told them—then every breath he took now might be his last.
They could be coming.
No, they were coming.
Time had become a predator.
He had two options: weave the armor for Yuki or wait for the gang to come knocking and end him.
The weight of that truth settled like ice in his spine. No more illusions. No more hoping Jorik had simply vanished or died.
Jaw clenched, Merek pulled down the barricades with trembling hands and stepped into apartment 308, his wooden chair raised like a crude weapon, a desperate shield, or perhaps, the last act of a cornered man.
No more than three steps into the apartment, Merek came face to face with the old woman.
Her form was grotesque—skin deathly pale, marbled with blackened veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Her eyes were clouded over, sunken, yet burning with something twisted and ravenous. Then she opened her mouth and released a guttural, feral snarl.
She charged.
Bam!
Merek swung the chair with both hands, slamming it into her face like a meteor. The impact sent her crumpling to the floor in a heap of twitching limbs. But he didn't stop. He brought the chair down again. And again. A wet crack echoed off the walls.
Then—footsteps.
Two more figures stumbled into the room: her son and granddaughter, both turned. The man wore a white, neatly pressed shirt and black pants, as if dressed for an office he'd never return to. The girl was no older than twelve, clad in a school uniform with crimson stains on the white parts.
It was January. The cruelest month for a tragedy like this.
Merek lunged toward them, chair raised—but before he could strike, a cold, claw-like grip clamped around his shin.
The old woman.
She wasn't dead.
She refused to die.
Merek crashed to the ground, his revolver skittering across the floor. The daughter and son closed in fast. He twisted his body away just in time, but the old zombie clung to his leg with the strength of desperation. If he didn't act, he'd be torn apart.
With a roar, he slammed his free foot into her face—once, twice—until she let go. He rolled, planted his feet, and surged up.
He rammed his shoulder into the girl, knocking her aside, then swung the chair into the man's head. Bone cracked. His neck twisted at an unnatural angle and he collapsed.
Merek's stomach turned, but he swallowed it down.
This wasn't the time for weakness. It was fight or die.
Retreating two paces, he lifted the chair high and drove one leg down like a stake, crushing the old woman's skull with a sickening crunch.
He froze.
A dull red glow shimmered above the corpse. His gaze snapped to it—an item orb.
His heart pounded. That was rare. Incredibly rare. Especially from a lowly level 1 zombie. Either the item was utterly useless… or he'd just been kissed by divine fortune.
No time to dwell.
The son groaned.
Still alive.
Merek dashed forward and slammed the chair into his abdomen. The daughter leapt at him—he twisted the chair up, driving one of its legs into her midsection. She jerked, limbs spasming, before slumping to the floor.
He was panting now, chest heaving. His arms ached.
But he reached for the glowing orb.
As his fingers brushed the light, it pulsed—and a sleek cylinder materialized in his palm. Silver. Laced with tiny black runes that shifted like ink in water.
Item type: [Weapon]
Item name: [Six Shot]
Item description: [A revolver's cylinder that magically reloads every 24 hours. The bullets can kill any stage one being as long as it hits a critical spot!]
A low growl pulled his attention back to the final zombie, which staggered toward him.
Merek reached for his revolver. The old cylinder clicked out on its own, and the new one slid in like it belonged.
With a raised eyebrow and the hint of a grin, Merek took aim.
Bang!
The shot rang out clean and sharp. A hole bloomed between the zombie's temples, and it dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Silence.
'Am I… blessed by the goddess of luck?' Merek thought, staring at the revolver, still warm in his grip. 'There's no way… no way I could've gained something this good, this perfect, right when I needed it—'
And then it struck him.
His eyes narrowed. A memory surfaced.
Lucas.
His younger brother had a skill—[Wish]. A job skill that came at a steep price. Each use rendered him unconscious for days, the strain depending on the magnitude of the wish.
The last time Lucas had used it, the result had been this very revolver… and two full days of unconsciousness.
And now, even in captivity, Lucas had managed to help him again. Had sacrificed something again.
Merek swallowed hard, heart twisting with guilt.
'I'm coming,' Merek whispered internally, more a promise than a statement, the words coarse with resolve.
He crouched by the crumpled corpse of the man and probed its bloodied skull, fingers searching with urgency until they brushed against something hard—small, bead-like.
The essence core.
A flicker of grim satisfaction crossed his face. These crystallized remnants held the residual life force of all beings—pure energy for those with a Job. They were the fuel of growth. The key to survival.
Without hesitation, Merek opened his mouth and threw it in.
[You have consumed a level 2 zombie essence core.]
It slid down with a bitter sting.
Next, he retrieved the granddaughter's core and swallowed.
[You have consumed a level 1 zombie essence core.]
[You have risen to level 1.]
The moment the notification faded, he felt it—an invisible shiver rushing through his limbs. Strength whispered into his muscles. His senses sharpened. It wasn't dramatic, but it was real.
Then a presence.
He turned to find Yuki standing in the doorway, narrow-eyed.
Her gaze flicked between the blood-slicked floor and the bodies, then up to him—still holding the faint glimmer of crimson on his jaw.
Merek looked down at his revolver. He didn't say a word, but he let her see it this time—let the threat, the protection, the warning linger openly at his side before sliding it back into place at his waist.
No one would touch him without a price.
Without a glance back, he stepped past her and returned to his room. The adrenaline was fading, replaced now with that low, cold burn of exhaustion.
He sat down and thought of the skill—[Veilwalk].
A soundless shift in the air followed. Behind him, the space quivered, and then—a tear appeared. A crack in the fabric of the world, subtle and dark, humming like a low chord.
Without ceremony, it pulled him in.
Yuki blinked—and Merek was gone.
Vanished into thin air.