It had been a week since I awoke in this world—or rather, since I was reborn into the body of Silas Gilzean.
The penthouse was quiet. Luxurious. A cage of glass and steel towering above the pulse of New York. In the days since I claimed this body, I had converted the sterile modernism into something far more useful.
What once held imported art and minimalist furniture now housed trays of moss soaking up filtered sunlight, vines coiling around balcony rails like sleepy serpents, and a secluded chamber in the back where the tiles had cracked from repeated necromantic stress. The city beneath me lived and died in a frantic rhythm. But up here, I grew something patient. Intentional.
I had spent the week practicing my gifts.
Chlorokinesis responded to will and instinct. I shaped thorned vines into spears. Coaxed sunflowers to grow without soil. Even the moss began to whisper secrets when I tuned my senses. Necromancy, colder and quieter, demanded precision. Raise the corpse. Control it. Harvest essence. Bury again.
The PvZ Dominion System obeyed without question. Summoning a zombie was as simple as breathing. I didn't need to prepare the ground. Graves formed at my command—a rupture of concrete, the scent of loam, and then fingers clawing free. A small, personal apocalypse every time.
I had tested Peashooters in the bathroom, where their acidic spit melted tile. Wall-nuts were slow to grow but made excellent mobile barricades. I learned to remote-control zombies within a hundred-meter radius and share senses with three at any range—a security system made of rotting flesh and plant fiber.
But theory was one thing. Combat? That required prey.
The city was colder at night. The heat of the day faded into shadows that slithered between fire escapes and trash piles. I didn't walk with a destination. Only intent.
Something would present itself. This world always obliged cruelty.
Then I heard it.
A scream—thin, cracked, feminine.
It came from an alley bathed in flickering neon. Two men loomed in the half-light. One was built like a slab of concrete with tattoos etched into his face like prison art. The other was wiry, all twitch and grin, holding a switchblade and breathing heavily.
The girl was pinned to the wall, her arms up, her voice a broken whimper. She looked young. Not child-young. But vulnerable. Human.
I didn't hesitate.
The first grave ruptured from the alley floor. The ground cracked, coughing dust and the scent of rot. From it rose a Conehead Zombie, its eyes dead but its body obeying me like a trained dog. The big man turned just in time to see a rotting hand crush his throat.
He gurgled. Went still.
The wiry one slashed wildly. I gestured.
A Peashooter burst from a nearby trash pile, its muzzle glowing with chemical spit. One shot. The man screamed as the projectile seared through his arm.
Then came the vines.
I whispered to the walls. Moss ignited with a green glow. Vines surged out of cracks and drainpipes, wrapping around the screaming man, lifting him off the ground like a meat puppet.
It was done in seconds.
The girl stared. Not at the bodies. Not at the mess.
At me.
Her eyes weren't grateful.
They were horrified.
She saw what I had summoned. The unnaturalness of it. The things that had no right crawling free from the earth. The vines coiling like sentient snakes. The sunflower blooming above the corpse as if to sanctify it.
She stumbled backward, tripping on her purse. Scrambled to her feet. And ran.
Didn't even scream again.
She ran from me like I was the monster.
Maybe I was.
But fear... fear is fertile. It cracks the soil. It makes room for something new to grow.
Tonight wasn't about saving anyone. It wasn't about good or evil. It was about proof. I needed to know that I could act. That I could use what this world gave me without flinching.
I can.
And I will again.
The girl will forget my face, but not the feeling. The gang will wonder why their dogs never came back. And the city?
The city won't notice a thing.
Not yet.
But something is growing.
And it's not asking for permission.
I stood over the remains in silence, letting the last gurgles of necrotic feeding fade into the night. The air smelled of blood, piss, and the faint earthy musk of grave soil—my soil.
The Conehead rose, its mouth wet and dripping. Not from hunger now, but from memory. My connection to it tightened. I saw glimpses—not full images, just flashes. Broken lockers. Tattoos. Docks cloaked in fog and the sound of laughter over crates of smuggled tech.
The Black Fangs weren't a major gang. No flashy suits or world-ending ambitions. Just parasites. Leeching off forgotten corners of the city, filling alleys like weeds choking a dying garden.
And now, they were fertilizer.
I turned from the corpses and strode out of the alley, the zombie falling into step behind me, shambling but precise.
The city kept moving—sirens in the distance, the low hum of electricity in the streetlights, the soft echo of jazz bleeding from a nearby rooftop bar. The world didn't stop for two dead thugs. It never would.
But it would slow.
Eventually.
The East River Docks were maybe ten blocks from here. Close enough to walk. Close enough to make a statement. Not a declaration. Not yet.
Just a whisper.
A test.
I could feel the Grave Energy pulsing like coals behind my eyes. The Sunflowers at home were blooming under moonlight—faster now. Stronger. The vines I left in the subway had started to take root.
Everything was growing.
And now it was time to plant fear.
> [System Notification: Grave Energy Threshold Reached] [New Feature Unlocked – Memory Echo Reconstruction] Description: Your undead may now extract partial memories through brain tissue ingestion. Memories appear as fragmented flashes; clearer visions possible with sustained feeding or linked souls.
[Zombie Unit Kill Count: 2] [Dominion Progression: 4%] [Next Unlock: 10% – Seedbed: Portable Grave Deployment]
I walked into the night, quiet and composed.
Toward the docks.
Toward the Black Fangs.
Toward the next chapter in my dominion.
The system's new ability, Memory Echo Reconstruction, was a potent development. The fleeting flashes I'd received from the Conehead's feeding were enough to tell me the gang's central hub was at the docks, and they were involved in something more than petty muggings. "Smuggled tech." The phrase hung in my mind, a tantalizing detail that hinted at larger, more dangerous operations. This world, with its advanced science and cosmic oddities, made "smuggled tech" a Pandora's Box of possibilities. I needed to know more. My quiet ascent to power required intelligence, and the dead were proving to be the most effective spies.
The Conehead shambled beside me, its shuffling footfalls masked by the ceaseless city noise. I felt no disgust, only a detached sense of control. This was my minion, a tool forged from the life of a monster and the power of death. The girl's fear was a valid reaction, a predictable response from a world unaccustomed to such a direct violation of its natural order. Her fear, however, was also a resource. It was a testament to the effectiveness of my methods.
I reached a dimly lit street corner and the glow of a greasy diner spilled out onto the sidewalk. A small, potted plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves wilting from neglect. With a flicker of thought, I extended my chlorokinetic control. The plant straightened, its leaves perking up. A small, but undeniable, act of defiance against the decay of the city. I felt a small, almost imperceptible surge of Sunlight Energy from its revitalization. It was another small validation of my power.
The walk to the docks was a lesson in the unseen. I saw a homeless man huddled in a cardboard box; the system noted a faint trace of Grave Energy from a trauma he carried. A young couple laughed, their joy a bright, fleeting spark of pure energy that my system could not yet process or utilize. I was becoming an emotional and energetic predator, feeding on the darkness and the silence, while the world moved on, oblivious.
As we neared the docks, the air changed. It grew colder, damper, smelling of salt and diesel fuel. I could feel the presence of the Black Fangs, their collective energy a low, simmering hum of aggression and petty crime. The system's readings became more detailed.
> [Grave Energy Source Detected: 12 Units] – Recent death, likely from a minor scuffle. [Living Targets: 8 units] – Varying levels of aggression and awareness.
My plan was simple. I would find their base of operations, use my Conehead zombie to create a distraction, and then sow my seeds of dominion. This wasn't a battle. It was a harvest. I would use the ensuing chaos to gather more Grave Energy and, if I was lucky, find a new body to convert into a more specialized minion.
I turned to the Conehead, my mental command a simple, clear directive: "Go."
The zombie, without hesitation, shambled toward the docks, its footsteps silent on the damp pavement. Its purpose was singular, its loyalty absolute. It was a tool, a scout, and a harbinger of the change to come. I followed a few paces behind, a silent puppeteer pulling the strings. The black water of the East River lapped against the pilings, its rhythm an endless, monotonous pulse. The docks were a perfect place to hide, to grow, to plant.
And I was here to plant.
End of chapter