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Author Note:
' ' = When thinking in mind.
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From the rusted gates of Megurigaoka Private High School, Kaelthorn took in the grounds with a quiet, assessing gaze. What might have once been a place of routine and noise was now suffocatingly still, yet filled with motion — hundreds of infected drifted aimlessly over cracked concrete and dead grass, their movements sluggish but strangely patterned, tethered to memories they no longer understood.
He scaled the weatherworn wall to the side of the gate in one silent leap, boots landing without a scrape, and began walking along its narrow top. His eyes moved constantly, sweeping every angle — tracking positions, counting heads, noting gaps. The density of the infected below left almost no safe corridors. Even with his speed, passing between them risked entanglement.
'Kaelthorn: Too many. A frontal crossing is suicide. Probability of containment—high. Expenditure—not worth it.'
His focus shifted toward the wreckage at the center of the grounds — a military helicopter, its frame twisted into unnatural shapes, fuselage charred and split open like a carcass. The rotor blades were scattered in jagged pieces across the field, and the once-olive paint had been scoured to bare metal in places by heat and shrapnel.
Through the gaping side door, he saw the blackened remains of soldiers still strapped into their seats, skeletal jaws locked open as if frozen mid-order or mid-scream. The burn patterns and crumpled metal told a clear story. It hadn't been brought down by an attack designed to hide evidence. The machine had simply fallen — hard — and the explosion that followed did the rest.
His gaze drifted from the wreckage to the school building itself. Through fractured windows, he caught glimpses of movement — infected wandering inside. Fewer than outside, at least from what could be seen, but enough to complicate any entry.
He traced the wall's length to where it ended abruptly, replaced by dense forest wrapping around the school's other three sides. Oddly, none of the infected roamed those edges; they clustered almost entirely in the front grounds.
Movement by the main entrance drew his attention — one infected shuffling out while another staggered in. None approached from the forest perimeter.
'Kaelthorn: Memory imprint. They remember this as the only threshold. Entrance equals in… exit equals out. Side and rear boundaries don't exist to them.'
He narrowed his eyes, following the subtle rhythm of their movements.
'Kaelthorn: These were students once. The routine holds them — even in death. Rules they can't articulate, but obey without question. If I enter by a path their memory rejects… they won't anticipate it. But the inverse is also true.'
A faint, wet rasp pulled his attention down — an infected directly below him had stopped mid-step, head twitching upward at an unnatural angle, eyes locking on him. The neck jerked again, like a broken marionette, before its arms slowly rose, fingers curling and uncurling. The motion wasn't quite a grab — more like a wave that didn't know its own purpose.
Others noticed. They didn't lunge. Not yet. They simply turned toward him in eerie unison, heads tilting to match the first one's, as though listening to a silent cue.
'Kaelthorn: Recognition without understanding. They know I don't belong.'
The air seemed heavier now. More heads turned. Footsteps began to converge.
'Kaelthorn: No time for subtlety. Fast approach.'
He dropped from the wall — landing blade-first into the skull of the closest infected. The knife came free without hesitation. More were closing in, their motions jerky, half-delayed, like they were trying to remember how to attack.
He bolted toward the swimming pool complex, slipping between two grasping forms. The fence was already half-collapsed. He vaulted over it and into the open space beyond. One infected lunged from the shadows near the wall — he sidestepped without breaking stride, then dropped into the drained pool.
SQUELCH!
Water mixed with months-old blood reached his knees. It was thicker than he expected, the surface broken by floating debris. Beneath, the floor was slick with layers of rot, making every step an exercise in controlled precision.
'Kaelthorn: Predictable terrain beats unknown forest variables.'
Above, infected peered down at him from the rim of the pool. They didn't jump. Instead, they paced along the edges in sync with his movements — not charging, not retreating, simply shadowing him. Some tilted their heads to mimic his angle, and others raised their arms when he adjusted his grip on the knife. It was almost… observational.
Near the far side, a line of them stood waiting, hands extended as if offering to pull him up. The unnatural stillness in their faces made it worse — their eyes locked on him, unblinking, until his muscles tensed.
He took one step back, bent low, and coiled power into his legs.
SPLASH!
BAM!
He exploded upward, colliding into the first rank with enough force to drop them backwards. A cold grip locked around his ankle. He brought his other heel down hard.
SPLRRATT!
The skull burst wetly, grip releasing. Without losing momentum, he vaulted onto the roof of the changing rooms. Below, the infected crowded the wall, fingertips stretching just shy of his boots.
He ran hard for the auditorium building, launching into the gap. The distance was punishing; his hands barely caught the rooftop edge, but he pulled himself up in one fluid motion.
Crouching low, he watched them. They followed for a short time, shuffling after him like sleepwalkers — until he broke line of sight. Then, one by one, they stopped, standing in place for a beat before turning away in eerie unison, returning to their former aimless routes.
Only when their collective gaze was gone did he exhale, lowering himself onto the cold rooftop.
'Kaelthorn: Five minutes. That's all it took. And I'm… tired.'
It wasn't fatigue of the body. His evolved physique could endure far worse. This was mental pressure — the strain of navigating a living maze of death where one wrong step ended everything.
'Kaelthorn: Most would fight until nothing's left. Or just… wait for it. They'd never think to play the rules against the ones who follow them blindly.'
He let the chill seep through his back, the cloudy sky above an oppressive shroud. Sleep wasn't a necessity — not often — but there was tactical value in resting when the ground was momentarily stable.
'Kaelthorn: Two months without a break. Ten minutes won't kill me.'
Eyes closed. The weight of the air pressed down. And then — silence.
.
.
.
A few hours later.
Kaelthorn's eyelashes stirred. His eyes opened to a sky the colour of dead steel, clouds sagging low and heavy as though waiting to smother the ground. The air was sharp, pressing cool against his skin, but not biting — a reminder of the season's slow crawl toward winter.
For a moment, he lay still, letting his senses map the rooftop. The surface beneath him was cold and unyielding, the faint vibration of wind brushing over metal and concrete running through his back. He did not hear the guttural chorus of the infected too close, no shuffle of steps on this roof — only the distant, scattered moans that drifted up from the grounds below.
His right hand slipped inside his coat. A glint of polished metal emerged: a pocket watch he'd scavenged from the Mall. Why this instead of a wristwatch? Nothing, just personal preference.
His left hand flicked the clasp with deliberate care.
CLICK.
The brass hands stared back at him, accusing.
'Kaelthorn: Ten minutes planned… ten hours taken.'
No anger touched his face. Time, after all, meant little when the world itself had stopped keeping it. But the pause had sharpened his mind, cutting away the dullness that travel and tension had etched there.
He rose to his feet in a single smooth motion and stepped to the roof's edge.
Below, the school grounds remained infested. The infected drifted and turned in strange, halting patterns — walking three paces forward, stopping, tilting their heads, then resuming in some skewed direction as though chasing echoes only they could hear. Occasionally, one would stop dead still, staring at a wall or patch of grass for minutes at a time, before moving again without warning. It was like watching the currents of a black tide move across the cracked concrete.
To his left, the school's main roof waited, only four to five meters away. Kaelthorn gauged the distance with the ease of habit, crouched, and leapt. He landed on the other roof without touching the railings.
A dozen infected wandered here. One had its back to him. The blade appeared in his right hand, and in the space between one step and the next, it slid cleanly into the base of the creature's skull. The body sagged without a sound.
Two more turned toward him at the faint thud, mouths working in silent spasms — but before they could make a sound, they fell to his knife as well.
The fourth one he approached stopped suddenly. Its head tilted… and tilted again, slowly… until its cloudy eyes lined up with his. The angle was exact, almost mirroring the motion he had made seconds before. It held that posture for three heartbeats before lunging. The blade answered instantly, and the mimicry ended in silence.
Kaelthorn's movements remained constant, controlled, until this section of the roof was still.
Near the center, an abandoned vegetable garden lay in decay — not freshly burnt, but long dead. The stalks had collapsed in on themselves, brittle and rotted, their shapes distorted from months of weathering. The soil had turned dark and patchy, with puddles left behind from the most recent rains.
Crossing to the far side, Kaelthorn found only three more infected. One's head twitched sharply as he approached, like a string pulled tight inside its neck. His knife cut it loose. The other two collapsed in quick succession.
Here, a large open water tank squatted near the roof's corner. Beyond it, behind a sturdy chain-link fence topped with angled bar, a series of solar panels gleamed faintly under the clouded light. They were pristine — the fence had kept both scavengers and infected at bay. But beside them, the battery units were a ruin.
One bore the violent mark of impact: a long metal pole driven straight through its casing, the force of the strike evident in the twisted housing and scorched remnants around it. The other batteries bore shrapnel scoring and cracks from the subsequent explosion.
Kaelthorn approached the embedded pole. His right hand wrapped around it. Muscles in his shoulders tightened as he pulled. It came free with a faint screech of metal against metal, revealing its full length — taller than two men, weight balanced but solid in his grip.
'Kaelthorn: A lightning rod.'
His gaze followed the invisible path upward to the mount where it had once stood — at the peak of the school's watchtower roof.
He slung the rod across his shoulder and turned back toward the previous side of the rooftop. An infected had wandered out of the open roof door, its head jerking twice as though sniffing something in the air. Then, unnervingly, it took one step forward and paused, tilting its head just a fraction — a fraction that matched his own stance perfectly.
Steel flashed. Its body folded to the floor before it could take another step.
Kaelthorn passed through the doorway, entering the school building for the first time. Two staircases greeted him. One led down into the second floor, where the sound of slow, dragging footsteps echoed faintly, while the other led up toward the watchtower's roof.
He closed the lower door, sliding the lock home without a sound. The climb upward was measured, each step calculated to keep the long rod from brushing the walls or stairs. Even a light tap would carry through the corridors below, drawing attention he did not want.
Midway, he found another open door — he closed and locked it as well before continuing his ascent.
At the top, the watchtower's roof stretched out, bare of movement. The empty mount for the lightning rod waited like a skeletal hand reaching to the sky. Kaelthorn set the rod into place, tightened the fittings until it stood straight and secure, then stepped back to study the space.
From here, the entire roof network of the school was visible — gardens, water tanks, power systems. Below, countless rooms. It was not perfect now, but the bones of a fortress were here.
'Kaelthorn: Food… water… power. Space for shelter. A place that could last.'
He walked to the edge of the watchtower. The massive clock face was directly below his boots. From this vantage, he could track every shuffle and twitch of the infected in the courtyard. The corner of his mouth lifted.
KRAK-BOOM.
Lightning tore through the clouds, striking the reinstalled rod. The flare washed over him from behind, throwing his figure into stark silhouette against the roiling sky.
'Kaelthorn: I finally found it… My first base.'
It was not ambition. It was a declaration. One day, this place would be the heart of his reach — and the shadow cast from here would spread far beyond these walls.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn then walked to the right edge of the rooftop and, without hesitation, leapt down toward the garden area once more. His landing was silent, practiced. The soles of his boots touched down against the concrete with a dull thud muffled by the ambient cold.
He strode toward the rooftop door and reached for the latch. The door was already shut, as he'd left it earlier. Now, he simply turned the locking mechanism on this side.
CLICK.
The sound was faint, final. The rooftop entrance was now secured from both sides.
Without pausing, he moved to a metal cabinet standing crooked beside the wall. He gripped it with both hands and dragged it toward the door with mechanical ease, positioning it in front of the broken window embedded in the door's upper panel.
'Kaelthorn: If any of them catch sight of movement through that… they'll swarm the door.'
The cabinet would obscure the view — a simple measure, but one that could buy time. Time was always currency in a world like this.
He then reached behind his back and retrieved two items that had been hidden beneath his flowing crimson-black cape. A makeshift spear constructed from a broken signpost and sharpened steel, and a weathered backpack. Both were scavenged from Kurosawa Ren, before Kaelthorn had left the man to his fate.
The backpack was bulky and weighted, but Kaelthorn carried it effortlessly. With the rooftop momentarily secured, he decided to take inventory. He crouched and began unpacking the contents.
Lighter.
Flashlight.
Five bottles of water (500ml each).
Ten packets of hardtack.
Ten cans of preserved food.
Bandages, hand sanitiser.
A wire cutter.
Spare gloves.
A notebook and a pencil.
And then —
Kaelthorn: This Kurosawa Ren really hit a jackpot.
In his right hand, he held a slim, sealed tube. The Lifestraw Personal Portable Water Filter.
'Kaelthorn: Clean water source… solved.'
He returned the contents neatly back into the bag, including two bottles of water and three packets of hardtack that he'd carried prior. That brought his water to seven bottles, and hardtack to thirteen.
Still, it was precautionary. Not necessity.
For the last several months, Kaelthorn had not eaten a single true meal. He'd attempted once, back in the mall, but the experience had proven pointless. His body had changed — subtly, completely. Ordinary food had no real effect anymore.
His theory was incomplete, but one correlation remained clear. Every time his right arm absorbed infected blood, his fatigue vanished. Strength returned as if the blood itself had replaced the function of food, water, and sleep. A grotesque metabolism, but efficient.
Still, he wasn't reckless.
'Kaelthorn: No assumptions. Nothing guaranteed. I'll keep supplies… in case this body stops being generous.'
He secured the bag to his back again and gripped the spear in his left hand. His crimson cape rippled slightly behind him as he turned his gaze toward the structure at the far end of the rooftop — the shed.
He had seen it earlier while crossing from the auditorium, but it had not been the priority. Now, with the infected on this level slain and the perimeter quiet, it was time to clear the last unknowns.
'Kaelthorn: Two zones left. The shed… and the store room near the solar panels.'
He approached the shed cautiously. It was made of thick panels, metal joints, and reinforced plastic — likely modified to serve as a greenhouse. He circled it once. No windows. No alternate doors. Just a single rusted handle at the front.
He gripped the handle and twisted.
Locked.
'Kaelthorn: From the inside… That's either desperate defence or a tomb.'
He didn't force it. Instead, he walked to the body of a dead infected woman nearby, knelt, and removed a small metal hairclip from her matted hair. He bent it with precise motions, shaping it into a lockpick. Returning to the shed, he inserted it into the lock and began probing.
CLICK.
The mechanism yielded with minimal resistance.
As he tried to open the door, something heavy resisted from inside. He gave a firm shove.
CREEEAK!
A barricade. Crates, chairs, maybe a shelf. Not designed to keep a force out — just delay it.
He narrowed his eyes and pushed until the door creaked open enough to let him slide through.
Inside, the air was heavy with stagnation and mildew. Dust clung to everything. Gardening supplies were scattered across the floor — seed packets, upturned pots, shattered trays. Hardened bags of fertilizer. Shears, trowels, watering cans. Plastic aprons hanging from bent nails. Books lying open with pages warped by moisture.
This place had once held purpose. Ambition. Now it was entropy under a thin roof.
'Kaelthorn: So this was meant to be a rooftop greenhouse…'
He stepped over a cracked grow bag and moved toward the back wall.
Then stopped.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement — or the illusion of it.
He turned.
Four girls. Slumped against the far wall.
They were dressed in school uniforms, layered with dirt, faint blood, and age. They were leaning on one another, their hands still clasped together tightly as if refusing separation.
Their eyes were closed. Their expressions… too peaceful.
Not breathing. Not moving.
Or… maybe.
Kaelthorn did not approach recklessly. He remained near the entrance, gaze calculating.
'Kaelthorn: Status unknown. I'll have to check them individually… but if even one is infected…'
He didn't finish the thought.
Instead, he gripped the spear tighter and watched.
The shed had given up its secrets — but not all its dangers.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn did not move toward them immediately.
Instead, he stood still—watching.
Four young women sat slumped at the far end of the shed, leaning against the wall as if they had arrived there just moments before collapse. Their eyes were closed, chests rising and falling so faintly that it might be mistaken for death.
But Kaelthorn didn't assume. He observed.
The first girl had long, dark purple hair, tied into twin-tails with violet ribbons. A black choker hugged her neck, and she wore white striped arm-warmers and green knee-pads reinforced with silver plating over her uniform.
The second girl had long brown hair—straight and thick—that flowed freely to her hips, save for a small bun tied with a silver-greyish clip near the side of her head. A soft white cardigan hung over her school uniform like a last attempt at comfort.
The third had straight blonde hair that stopped at her neck, unadorned and straightforward. Her uniform was untouched by personalization. She looked the most faded, yet strangely composed.
The last girl, however, was the most visually distinct—short bubblegum-pink hair that barely reached her chin, black clips on her head, a black cat-themed cap, and a different-colored school uniform. Her left wrist bore a loose bracelet that dangled as if clinging to her.
They were all still. Fragile. Like the remnants of something human left behind by time.
Kaelthorn crouched beside the brown-haired girl, right hand moving with practiced precision to her neck. He paused—feeling.
A pulse.
Weak. Barely perceptible.
He moved his head closer and caught it—a shallow breath. Faint, but present.
He checked the others next. One by one. His fingers were steady, methodical. No movement wasted.
All four girls were still alive. Barely.
Kaelthorn narrowed his eyes.
'Kaelthorn: Starvation and dehydration… their bodies are beginning to shut down.'
The skin on their faces was pale and thin, pulled taut against their bones. Their limbs looked brittle, hollow. There were discarded wrappers and empty cans nearby—rations long consumed. Empty bottles, dust-rimmed. They had likely stretched their food and water as far as they could. It just hadn't been far enough.
Still crouching, Kaelthorn leaned closer.
He checked their arms, necks, ankles. Then, without hesitation, he adjusted the clothing at their sides, slipping his right hand briefly beneath collars and waistlines—never lingering. It was not indecent. It was survival. Infection often began in the most unexpected places. A hidden scratch. A bite behind the knee. Under the breast. No place was safe to overlook.
He examined them clinically, scanning for any signs of dried blood, inflammation, or necrotic flesh.
The first girl—clear.
Second—nothing abnormal.
Third—unremarkable.
The fourth… Kaelthorn paused.
He gently pulled the purple-haired girl's shirt aside at the shoulder and saw it.
Faint impressions of teeth. Faded. The scars were old—barely visible. But Kaelthorn had seen enough to know.
'Kaelthorn: Bite marks… but over a year old. And no signs of transformation?'
It made no sense.
By all biological accounts, she should have turned. Yet her vitals, weak as they were, still registered as human.
He stared for a moment longer, then slowly let the fabric fall back over her shoulder. His right hand remained still against his knee.
'Kaelthorn: This... needs answers. If she doesn't know, the others might. Assuming they wake up.'
He rose and stepped back.
From beneath the long, flowing layers of his crimson-and-black cloak, he drew out the backpack. The make-shift spear remained propped against the door behind him, ready if needed.
Opening the bag, he took out a packet of hardtack and one of the water bottles. He opened the biscuit, crushed it into fine, manageable pieces. Then he uncapped the bottle and poured some water into his mouth.
Stepping close to the brown-haired girl, he knelt again and gently opened her mouth.
Their lips met—not with intent, but with precision. He transferred the softened crumbs first, then followed with water. Carefully. Methodically. He repeated the process for each of them, mouth-to-mouth, ensuring they swallowed just enough to stir their consciousness. Not enough to choke. Not enough to overload. Just enough to ignite the instinct to survive.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't pause. He had done worse things to stay alive. This—this was mercy.
'Kaelthorn: Let's hope using food on them wouldn't be a waste.'
He continued feeding them until the last piece was gone.
Then, he sat back with his back leaning against the wall in the dim light of the shed, spear within reach, and watched—waiting to see if any of them would awaken.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn remained crouched in the shed, silent, still, with the faint breaths of the four unconscious girls barely audible beside him. A temporary moment of calm had settled over the rooftop, though the air still carried the weight of decay and things yet to come. From the side of the shed, Kaelthorn pulled out the worn notebook—the one Kurosawa Ren still had with him until the end.
He flipped it open without expectation. It was a common item in the apocalypse, often used as a diary, sketchbook, or just a coping mechanism. People scribbled thoughts to stay sane. Some drew meaningless shapes. Some used it to plan. In extreme hunger, the pages themselves could serve as food.
What Kaelthorn found was exactly what he expected: uneven handwriting, a few stick-figure drawings of Ren with his dog, his family, and entries about survival in the early days. Places he passed. Supplies he found. People he watched but never helped. Each entry painted the picture of a man who didn't have a strategy—only fear and instinct.
But soon, Kaelthorn's flipping slowed. A particular entry caught his eye. Then another. Then another. His fingers hovered on the paper as his expression grew colder.
.
.
.
.
.
I was in the north when it started.
The cold didn't stop them. They just moved slower at first, but then… they changed. I watched them become heavier, skin thickening, their limbs swelling unnaturally.
There were things in their eyes.
At first, I thought it was an infection — pus, maybe rot. But it moved.
Something alive inside the eye.
Every day, they got stronger. Every night, louder.
I stayed until I saw one push through a steel door as if it were wet paper. After that, I couldn't sleep.
I left. North was lost.
.
.
I travelled west for weeks. I don't remember how many days passed — I marked the trees at first, but the rain washed everything away.
Out there, I found a city that looked mostly intact. I thought maybe the outbreak hadn't hit as hard.
I was wrong.
They moved differently there. Their eyes were blank — rolled back, like they couldn't see. But they still heard me. One of them knocked over a delivery truck just to reach a can I dropped.
I stayed low for hours behind a row of vending machines. Didn't breathe.
I still hear the ringing in my ears from when they passed.
.
.
Further west, past the factories and rail lines, I saw something I still don't understand.
There was one of them… no, not one of them, not like the others.
This one wasn't hunting survivors — it was hunting everything. The infected, the living, animals, even birds.
I watched from a rooftop while it attacked. It didn't hesitate. It didn't stop. It didn't care.
It was fast, coordinated, violent — but not random.
I stayed put until sunrise. When I finally came down, the streets were empty.
.
.
I took shelter on the cliffs further south. I hadn't seen another person for days. I was running low on food.
Then I found the remains of what must've been a fight — if you could even call it that.
The road was lined with what used to be infected. Not just dead — eliminated.
In the center of it all, a lone figure stood, holding something small and unmoving.
They didn't look up. Didn't move. Just stood there in the silence, surrounded by destruction.
I left before they noticed me. I never want to know what they were capable of.
.
.
Southeast, I saw something worse than the infected.
Survivors.
Armed. Coordinated.
I almost approached, thinking maybe I could trade or join them. But something stopped me.
They moved through the streets like it was muscle memory. Firing, slashing, detonating explosives — no hesitation, no words.
It wasn't survival. It was routine.
Their expressions didn't change. Not once.
I waited until they passed, then turned around. I didn't want to become part of whatever they had become.
.
.
Further down, past the mountains, I found a massive structure hidden in dense forest. A school, maybe. Old, but well-kept.
I watched it for a day. Not a single light.
It looked untouched — like the outbreak had never reached it.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that I shouldn't go closer.
There was something about the silence around that place that didn't feel natural.
I moved on.
.
.
Deeper inland, I passed through foothills and small towns.
And I saw something… strange.
A group of young survivors, loading up an old bus with food and water, moving quickly between houses.
They had weapons, sure, but they didn't seem afraid. They were smiling.
They joked with each other while the infected stumbled in the distance.
I don't know how long they've been out here, but I hope they keep going.
I didn't talk to them. I just watched from behind a broken fence.
I couldn't risk being seen.
.
.
A long walk north brought me to a remote village in the mountains.
Something wasn't right.
It was too quiet.
Then I saw someone kneeling over a body.
I thought they were trying to help — but then I saw the blood.
They weren't one of the infected. They moved too carefully, too deliberately.
But they were drinking it.
I left before I could learn more.
.
.
Coastal area. Roads cracked. Town half-flooded.
I stayed near the shoreline, hoping to avoid the larger hordes.
I ended up in what looked like a normal city — apartments, schools, stores.
Normal, except for the signs of struggle in every direction.
In the middle of one intersection, I saw a figure walking slowly, whispering to themselves.
They were completely unaware of the world around them. I thought they might be one of the infected — but they weren't.
Just… broken.
I left them alone. We all break differently.
.
.
I headed west again, further than I should have. The city there was too large.
The infected were everywhere. But more than that… they were coordinated.
I saw groups moving together, not just wandering. Like something was guiding them.
And others — they weren't just faster. They were smarter. Stronger.
I barely made it out with my life. Kuro kept me going.
We haven't eaten in two days.
.
.
Far northwest now. I found a quiet coastal town. Windy, rainy, empty.
It was peaceful, almost.
But the buildings had signs of something else — not violence. Abandonment.
The people had left on purpose, but not in a rush. It was as if they knew something was coming before the rest of us.
I stayed in an empty school dorm for the night. Found half a journal someone left behind.
They wrote about a friend they had to leave behind.
I didn't sleep well
.
.
I made it here.
The city is barricaded in places. Half-collapsed in others. I don't think anyone's lived here for a while.
There are signs of people. Smoke trails. Scribbles on walls.
But I haven't seen anyone up close.
Kuro is tired. So am I.
I just needed to rest.
I think this is it.
If anyone finds this… take care of him.
He's the only reason I didn't give up long ago.
Please don't look for me.
Not everything that is still walking is worth finding.
.
.
.
.
.
Kaelthorn closed the notebook for a moment, resting it on his leg.
His expression did not shift. But behind the stillness, calculations had already begun.
He rose slowly, his steps echoing softly on the concrete floor of the shed. He approached the door, withdrew the key he had taken from the brown-haired girl's uniform pocket, and quietly locked the door from the outside. It clicked shut with a finality that felt heavier than it should have.
With the shed secured, he walked toward the rooftop's edge, where the metal railing bordered the world's broken skyline. The wind tugged slightly at his crimson-black cape, the fabric fluttering like a dying flame. His back was to the playground far below, where Infected still staggered in mindless loops.
But he didn't care.
He opened the notebook again and resumed reading, flipping through Ren's notes for the second time, this time slower—methodical.
'Kaelthorn: So… all of them—those horrors—they're not just real. They're close.'
He looked down at the page showing a crude map with several ominous marks surrounding Megurigaoka City. Kaelthorn ran his thumb over one particular marking to the north—Ren's old city.
'Kaelthorn: He didn't theorize. He witnessed it firsthand. And escaped.'
It wasn't just the Infected. Ren had written of survivors—groups forming for protection. But Ren kept his distance from them, fearing conflict, mistrust, and the inevitable loss of his supplies. The notebook revealed more than fear—it showed paranoia. And in Kaelthorn's experience, paranoia wasn't a flaw. It was a survival trait.
'Kaelthorn: There's no such thing as allies in a world like this. Only temporary alignments… and eventual betrayal.'
He closed the notebook once more and tucked it away in his pack.
But his mind continued.
'Kaelthorn: Megurigaoka sits at the center of all this. A convergence point. That means this city is a beacon—or a battlefield.'
He turned away from the railing.
'Kaelthorn: No more slow preparation. No more passive observation. This changes everything. My plans need acceleration. Reinforcement. Contingencies.'
He moved without hesitation now, walking briskly past the garden, through the strewn corpses, until he reached the area near the rooftop water tank. Just behind the fencing lay the solar grid and the storeroom.
Vaulting over the rusted fence, Kaelthorn landed soundlessly, his boots crunching lightly on gravel. He passed the solar panels, running a brief hand over their surface. Still clean. Still operational—though he knew some batteries had failed during the initial blackout.
Soon, he stood before the storeroom door.
A padlock stared back at him.
Kaelthorn reached into his cloak and retrieved a makeshift lockpick, fashioned earlier from a twisted hairclip he had stripped off one of the Infected corpses back on the roof. He inserted it, turning it with practiced precision.
Click.
The door creaked as it opened—not from damage, but from long disuse. A gust of air pushed past him, stirring the thick dust that coated everything inside.
He stepped through the threshold.
The air was stale—still sealed from the outside world. Rows of sealed boxes lined the walls, stacked from floor to ceiling. A quiet hum of preserved equipment filled the atmosphere with dormant potential.
Kaelthorn stepped up to the first row, wiped a his hand across the surface, and revealed the label.
"Solar Relay Calibration Tools."
He moved on.
"Water Filtration System – Manual Override Modules."
"Backup Solar Batteries – Type D Compatible."
Every label confirmed it. This was a dedicated emergency maintenance storeroom.
He crouched beside the box marked with the battery label, pulled the corner open, and checked its contents. Sealed backup batteries sat within, untouched.
'Kaelthorn: If I replace the damaged unit… power returns. But no second chances. These are the last spares.'
He swept through the rest of the room quickly but precisely. Tools for repairing panel joints, modifying pump lines, and even manual electric jumpers in case automation failed. No food. No medicine. Just raw, essential infrastructure. The kind that could keep a base alive when everything else died.
He reorganized the most important crates—lining them closer to the entrance for easy future access. Then, with a last check to ensure nothing critical had been overlooked, he backed out and locked the storeroom shut.
Standing outside in the pale gloom, Kaelthorn looked back toward the shed.
'Kaelthorn: The power issue will be resolved soon. But power won't save me from what's coming.'
He turned and began walking.
The crimson-black cape swept behind him like a shadow given form. His footsteps echoed faintly as he made his way back to the girls still unconscious in the shed.
It was almost time to ask questions.
And there wasn't much time left for answers.
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*A/N: Please throw some power stones.
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