The room hadn't changed. The old European apartment smelled the same—mild mildew, faded fabric, stale air sealed tight by drawn curtains. The bowl of cereal still sat on the floor beside the carpet, soggy and bloated, just like it had before the world ended.
And Elias Klein was alive.
He sat perfectly still, back against the couch, knees tucked into his chest, breathing like he hadn't done it in days. Maybe he hadn't. His eyes were wide, locked on the blank television screen where the last news broadcast had played before everything went dark. No sound came from it now. Just silence. Heavy. Tense. Too familiar.
He should've been dead. He had died.
He remembered the pain—every second of it. The bite. The heat flooding his system. The metallic taste in his mouth. The sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The stranger he'd tried to save, screaming behind him. And the moment his strength failed, when his body hit the floor, cold spreading across his skin like frostbite.
But now… he was back. Here. Before it happened.
The calendar on the wall still read March 4th.
Seven days before everything fell apart.
"No way," he whispered.
His voice cracked in his throat like it hadn't been used in a week. He reached for his side where the teeth had ripped into him. Nothing. Skin smooth. Shirt intact.
He stood up slowly, swaying like someone who hadn't walked in days. Every nerve in his body was stiff, like his muscles didn't believe he was back either.
Then it came again.
[Welcome, Survivor.]
There was no voice in the room. The sound wasn't heard—it was felt. Inside his head. Like a thought that didn't belong to him.
Elias staggered backward, bumping into the coffee table.
"No," he muttered. "No, this is wrong. This isn't real."
But it was. He could feel it. Smell it. He reached down and grabbed the cold bowl of cereal and threw it against the wall. Milk and mush exploded, splashing across peeling wallpaper. It didn't vanish. It didn't fade.
This was real.
And then, as if summoned by thought, something dropped into his lap.
A book.
Heavy, leather-bound, cracked at the spine, and wrapped in a texture that made his fingers recoil. The title burned itself into his brain the moment he saw it.
The Survivalist's Instructions Manual
He opened it, hands shaking. The pages flipped themselves.
Page 1: You will survive. Follow instructions. Complete quests. Earn rewards.
Page 2: You now have access to:
— Shop
— Inventory
— Skill Creation
Page 3: First Quest: Reinforce your shelter. Secure all entry points.
Reward: 100 Coins
Then the book disintegrated. Not burned. Not torn. It simply turned to ash and vanished through his fingers like dust.
Elias stood in the silence, blinking.
He wasn't hallucinating. He wasn't insane.
Something brought him back. Something unnatural. And whatever it was, it didn't come with answers. Only orders.
He could feel it humming in his skull like a machine warming up.
System.
The word sat in his mind like a seed, growing rapidly. There was no screen. No heads-up display. No fancy UI. Just the raw, alien presence of it breathing inside his thoughts.
"System," he said aloud.
No response. Just the faintest twitch of acknowledgment in his skull.
"I died. I remember it. I died."
His voice felt too loud in the stillness.
The weight of everything collapsed into him at once. His knees gave out and he sank onto the floor again, head in his hands.
He didn't cry. There were no tears left.
Only questions.
Why him? Why not someone stronger? Why not a soldier or a cop or anyone who didn't almost pass out when blood was mentioned in biology class?
And where was his mother?
The thought stabbed deep.
He reached for his phone. Battery full. Signal bars low but present.
He dialed her.
One ring.
Two.
Voicemail.
He tried again.
Nothing.
She was a nurse. She'd gone to work the morning before it all started. She hadn't come back. Even after everything fell apart, even after the power died and the streets turned into graveyards, Elias had kept watching the door, hoping she'd return. She never did.
He exhaled shakily, throat dry.
"She's still out there," he whispered. "She has to be."
The first quest floated in his mind like a whisper scratched on the inside of his skull.
Reinforce your shelter. Secure all entry points.
He didn't need the system to explain what would happen if he didn't.
He remembered what came. The hallway screams. The mutated ones. The way they tore through doors like wet cardboard.
He looked around the apartment. Thin wood. Hollow doors. No barricades. No locks worth anything when real things started hunting.
"I need tools," he said. "I need to start now."
He grabbed a pen and flipped his school notebook open.
Checklist:
Reinforce front door
Lock back window
Secure bathroom vent
Block fire escape
He didn't write "protect self." That was obvious now.
The apartment was small—two bedrooms, kitchen, a tiny bathroom with cracked tiles and a fan that buzzed like it had a demon inside. The windows were thin. There was a metal bar over one of them, but the screws had rusted through.
He scavenged fast.
A hammer in the hallway closet. A few rusty nails. Broken chair legs. A broom handle.
It wasn't much. But it was what he had.
He started with the front door. The lock was a joke. One twist and anyone with weight behind them could break it. He shoved the kitchen table against it, then jammed the broom under the knob and duct-taped it into place. It looked ridiculous. But maybe it'd buy him a few seconds if something slammed against it.
Then the windows. He nailed an old wooden board across the bottom edge of the living room frame. It barely held, the nails squealing as he drove them in with trembling hands.
He didn't stop.
He didn't sit. Didn't think.
He moved.
He remembered what was coming.
And he would not die again.
Three hours later, his shirt clung to his back, soaked through. His hands were raw. He had a splinter in his palm and a bruised knee from tripping over the laundry basket. But the apartment looked different.
Not safe.
But less exposed.
He sat down again, panting. The air smelled like sweat and dust and duct tape.
Then came the sound.
A mechanical click—not outside, not in the apartment.
Inside his head.
Like a switch being thrown.
[Quest Completed: Reinforce your shelter]
+100 Coins awarded
Shop unlocked
He blinked.
For a second, he didn't know what to do. No screen. No button. But instinct kicked in.
"Open shop," he said.
And something unfolded behind his eyelids.
He wasn't seeing it with his eyes. He was knowing it. As if the system poured knowledge directly into the folds of his brain.
A list. Categories. Items.
— Basic Food (10 Coins)
— Clean Water (5 Coins)
— Battery Pack (15 Coins)
— Wooden Plank (2 Coins)
— Lock Reinforcement Kit (20 Coins)
— First Aid (25 Coins)
— Knife (30 Coins)
— Steel Bat (50 Coins)
— Skill Book (???)
He exhaled through his teeth.
Real. It was all real.
Coins weren't metaphorical. This wasn't a dream.
It was a game. But one with real blood. Real death. Real consequences.
He had a hundred coins.
He needed to think.
"Don't panic," he muttered. "Don't waste it. Prioritize."
He needed water. Food. But those he could ration for now.
Defense was more urgent.
He purchased the Lock Reinforcement Kit and the Steel Bat.
Instantly, the items dropped from nowhere, clattering onto the floor beside him like they'd always been there.
He jumped.
Then slowly reached out, hand shaking.
He picked up the bat first. Black steel, perfectly balanced. Heavy, cold. Solid.
No dents. No markings. It looked new.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. This... this helps."
Then the kit—metal brackets, screws, even a little electric drill.
The front door was about to get serious.
By nightfall, the apartment felt tighter.
Safer.
The door had real reinforcement now. The windows were boarded. He made a bed from the couch cushions and dragged it to the farthest corner of the apartment, away from the door, away from the windows.
He turned the lights off.
He didn't trust them. Not anymore.
He sat in the dark, bat in his lap, eyes open.
Thinking.
Not just about survival.
About the system.
The book had mentioned it. Shop. Inventory. Skills.
Creation.
The word echoed in him like a bell.
He focused.
"Create skill," he said.
Nothing.
He tried again.
"System. Skill creation."
And then he felt it. A sensation like staring into a blank page. An invitation.
Create a skill: Name it. Define it. Imagine it.
His brain sparked.
This was real creation. Not selection.
Not "choose from preset list."
He had to make it.
He licked his lips.
"Skill name…" He hesitated.
Think, idiot. Something that matters. Something simple.
"Reinforced Focus," he said. "When I'm under stress, my reaction time increases. Heart rate slows. Breathing stabilizes. I think clearly when I'm afraid."
The system responded instantly.
Skill created: Reinforced Focus (Level 1)
Passive effect: Slight clarity under extreme stress. Will improve with use.
Elias leaned back against the wall, chest rising and falling.
It worked.
He didn't know how. He didn't understand the rules.
But it worked.
And now, sitting in the dark with a steel bat in his hand and a reinforced door between him and the monsters outside, he felt it settle in:
He was not the same Elias Klein who died screaming on the floor of this apartment.
He was the one who came back.
And this time, he was going to learn.