The 64th Protected Zone, a small town spanning just a few square kilometers, is located within an endless wasteland. To the northwest, towering mountain ranges stretch endlessly, while the east is cloaked by a dense, dark forest filled with towering trees of varying species.
The story begins on a cold, rainy autumn evening, within the depths of a mysterious cave nestled in the mountains.
Time seems irrelevant. In a container filled with liquid, a young boy's eyes suddenly snap open. He instinctively struggles, splashing water around as he flails helplessly. The walls around him are smooth, like glass. With great effort, he clumsily grabs the edge of the container and starts climbing out.
Soaked and disoriented, he emerges from the jar-like vessel and collapses to the ground. Gagging and coughing, he desperately tries to expel the bitter liquid from his throat. The container still holds a glowing, pale green liquid.
The room remains silent, save for the sound of the boy's ragged coughs.
Once the coughing subsides, he lies on the floor, his face contorted in pain as he takes deep breaths of air, as if he were a newborn taking its first breath.
As soon as he starts breathing, his mind is overwhelmed by a cacophony of images, sounds, formulas, and flashing visuals—like a torrent of knowledge being forcibly injected into his consciousness.
The intense flood of information causes excruciating pain in his head, as if sharp claws were tearing at his brain.
Grabbing his head, he curls up on the floor, gritting his teeth in spasms of pain.
The room around him is filled with machines emitting a soft, cold light, casting their eerie glow over the boy's frail body, making him appear even more isolated and pitiable. And curiously, the boy is completely naked.
"Where am I? Who am I?" he keeps asking himself.
But his name eludes him, and he cannot remember how he arrived in this strange world.
After a long while, the boy seems to find some relief. Slowly, he struggles to his feet. He stumbles toward the door, laboriously opening it. To the ordinary eye, beyond the door lies an abyss of darkness.
Yet, in the boy's eyes, a passageway materializes before him.
His pupils dilate to over twice their normal size, the dark sclera almost swallowing his entire iris. Such large pupils help him absorb every scrap of light. As his vision adjusts, he vaguely makes out the passage ahead and chooses a direction. With his body still drenched, he shakily walks forward.
He does not like this world of darkness. It makes him feel unbearably lonely, as if he is the last person left alive.
He yearns to leave as soon as possible, not wanting to remain here even for another minute.
The boy trudges down the passage for what feels like an eternity until he finally sees a glimmer of light. With the light, the passage must have an exit.
Joy fills him, and he begins to run. But as he runs, he discovers that his speed is extraordinary—swift like a hunting leopard.
Reaching the entrance, he leans against the wall of the passage, panting heavily. Silently, he gazes out at the world beyond. However, the world before him is nothing like he imagined. The bustling cities, the vibrant neon lights, the crowded streets—all of it is gone.
Instead, a dim sky and an endless wasteland stretch before him. A light drizzle falls incessantly, casting the entire world in an eerie, lifeless silence.
The world feels dead, void of any vitality.
The boy furrows his brow, steps out of the cave, and into the rain.
When Old White returned to Protected Zone No. 64, he cast a weary glance at the sky, now swallowed by a canopy of thick, storm-laden clouds. His golden curls, matted with rain and clinging to his unshaven face—unshaven for perhaps thirty days—dripped steadily as water traced rivulets down his weathered skin. Beneath his tightly knit brows, his deep-set eyes shimmered with a sorrow rarely seen in him.
The relentless rains of late autumn had robbed him of any recent "harvests." As a free hunter scraping by at the edges of survival, a failed hunt meant only one thing—hunger.
Trudging through the persistent drizzle, he wore a battered black leather coat, a relic that seemed to have weathered over a century. From a gaping tear in the back, one could glimpse the taut, powerful muscles of his broad back.
He moved through the dilapidated streets of the town, each step heavy with exhaustion. Slung across his back was a rugged, old hunting rifle—worn and coarse, yet still the tool that sustained his fragile livelihood. He was a hunter, and an aging one at that.
His pace was slow—not out of caution, but fatigue.
"White, you came back empty-handed again?" called a voice—thin, worn, yet still melodic. It belonged to a woman in her thirties, beautiful but hollow-eyed with weariness. Dressed in tattered clothes, she stood weakly at the door to White's right.
White glanced at her, half of her body exposed to the chill, and shook his head. "No luck."
"My child hasn't eaten in two days," she said, her voice cracking as tears spilled forth. She trembled uncontrollably, as though her soul itself had shattered. "Please… tonight, I'll stay with you. I'll do whatever you ask—just… please, let me earn a little food. Please, I beg you…"
White gazed at the helpless woman, then slowly pulled two coins from his pocket and placed them into her hand. "Buy something for your child. I don't need your company. Don't debase yourself. Never sell your soul or your body. Trust me—tomorrow, I'll bring back food. And you… find yourself a man who'll stay."
The woman sobbed as she clutched the coins. "Thank you. But tell me—what man in this town would feed both me and my child?"
White offered no reply. He simply turned and walked away.
He didn't even know the woman's name—such women were too many in Zone 64. If not for the fact that she had a crippled son, he wouldn't have spared her a second glance.
Behind him, the woman wept in silence. To her, marrying a hunter like White might be the last thread of hope in a world unraveling. If her child starved for two more days, she would sell her body. She still had her looks—she knew that. If she gave in, her son might live. What else could she do?
But White was no god. He had done all he could.
A few haggard townsfolk stood trembling beneath the eaves, clothed in rags, watching the strong man pass through the mist with silent reverence and sympathy.
Yet none of them reached out for help—they knew Old White had given all he could.
He was the strongest man in the town. In better times, every hunt he returned from brought back fresh, plump game to share with the townsfolk.
But in recent days, he had returned empty-handed.
The people already understood why: the beasts beyond the zone's edge had begun to mutate at a terrifying rate. Finding an untainted creature had become near impossible.
It wasn't just White—even the mercenary corps stationed in town, with their thirty battle-hardened fighters, advanced weaponry, tactical comms, and even a repurposed armored truck, had no solution.
Even their forays into the wild barely brought back enough to feed their own.
"Hey, White! Come have a drink!" called a deep, boisterous voice. It was Cook, the heavy gunner of the Viper squad, seated under the awning of a shabby tavern. Beside him sat a Bramm heavy machine gun from the old arms factory. Nicknamed "Mad Bear," Cook was a hulking black man. Even in the bitter cold, he wore only a tactical vest.
Inside the tavern sat four Viper team soldiers, laughing and drinking. They had traded a small deer for two bottles of whiskey. Their raucous cheer paused when they spotted White walking by.
Hearing Cook's call, White hesitated, then stepped inside—he needed the fire of alcohol to warm his frozen soul.
Cook passed him a stool. The two were built alike, though one was black and the other white.
These days, humanity no longer split by race or color. If there was any division left, it was this: the living, and the "living dead."
Behind the counter stood the tavern's mistress—a striking woman with golden hair tied back and an inviting smile on her lips. "Hey, White. It's been a while."
White offered a bitter smile, glancing at her plaid shirt, stretched tight across her generous chest. "Can't afford to drink."
She laughed heartily. "You can drink for free—just make sure you satisfy me tonight. With a body like yours, what a shame to let it go to waste."
Laughter erupted. A man let out a wolfish whistle.
"Hey, boss lady, let us join too! We'll make sure you see heaven!"
"Yeah, we're better than Old White any day!"
"My sweet mistress, I dream of you every night…"
The drunken chorus roared with obscene glee.
The tavern mistress only smiled and pointed to the silver pistol she placed on the bar. "Try me, boys—but ask its permission first."
All laughter ceased. Men sank into their chairs, eyes lowered.
Only Old White chuckled. "I'm too old. My fire's gone out." Then he sat.
But the tavern mistress stared at him still, her eyes blazing, her shirt open three buttons to reveal lace and flesh.
Cook poured him half a glass of whiskey. "No luck lately, huh?"
White gave a tired smile to the others. "Within thirty kilometers, there's almost nothing left that isn't corrupted. If we want real prey, we'll have to go farther."
Brann, a white soldier beside Cook, muttered, "And further means more danger."
White nodded. "Do you have a better idea?"
Brann sipped his drink, then sneered. "No. But at least we've still got whiskey. Better than starving, right?"
White's hand trembled as he raised the glass. He didn't answer. He downed the whiskey in a single gulp and rose to his feet. "I'm going to see my daughter. Enjoy your drinks."
The liquor set his blood alight. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, nodded to the tavern mistress, and stepped back into the rain.
Cook turned to Brann. "You shouldn't have said that."
"Hmph. The captain's invited him to join Viper a dozen times. Always refused. If he won't respect us, why should we respect him?"
Old White hadn't gone far before a commotion caught his ear from a nearby alley.
He turned his head—and saw a boy curled in a filthy puddle, being kicked mercilessly by a gaunt, furious man…