The riot police zombie stood frozen in place, a grotesque sentinel clad in jet-black body armor. Its helmet gleamed dully under the ashen sky, and in its hand it clutched a massive riot shield.
Lucas Kane didn't hesitate. He lunged forward and yanked at the helmet with both hands. It came free with a pop, revealing a pale, expressionless face beneath.
The system was right, he thought. They can't move... and they can't be killed. But it never said I couldn't loot them.
The helmet was sturdy—reinforced carbon steel, undented, and surprisingly clean. Lucas didn't spot any blood, no rotting flesh, no signs of infection. These zombies weren't oozing, festering husks like the ones in horror movies. Their condition, at least for now, was... sanitary.
If they were the slimy, pus-dripping kind, he thought grimly, there's no way I'd be touching them.
System warnings had mentioned that infection came only from bites or scratches—not from proximity or contact.
He strapped the helmet on, adjusting the chin strap as best he could. It fit snugly.
Next, his eyes dropped to the shield. It looked heavy, and the zombie's fingers were locked tight in rigor mortis around its grip. Lucas gritted his teeth and pulled with all his strength. The shield came loose with a sudden jerk, nearly sending him sprawling.
A quick pat-down yielded one more treasure: a single tear gas grenade tucked into a pouch on the zombie's belt. Not bad.
He scanned the nearby area. The rest of the undead were your typical moaning, brain-dead horrors—nothing special about them. But about ten meters away, another armored corpse stood in a slouched pose, hand curled tightly around what looked suspiciously like a revolver.
Lucas's eyes widened. A gun.
But then the countdown reappeared, glowing ominously in the air before him:
20...
19...
18...
Damn. No time.
Charging over now would be reckless. Rule number one of surviving the apocalypse: Don't be a hero.
He burned the revolver zombie's location into his memory—near a collapsed stoplight, flanked by two rusted taxis. If he survived the next few minutes, maybe he'd have a chance to come back.
With no time to lose, he turned and sprinted toward the real estate office.
The glowing prompt above the door still read:
[No zombies detected. Tier-One Supply Crate inside.]
Good enough.
He slammed through the glass door with a muted thump and immediately turned to lock it from the inside. His breathing came fast and ragged, but there was no time to collapse just yet.
He spotted a half-empty water bottle on the desk—someone had already drunk from it, rendering it unsafe to consume, but it still had its uses.
Lucas uncapped the bottle and splashed the remaining liquid across the inside of the door's glass pane. Then, working fast, he grabbed a stack of promotional flyers from the front desk and slapped them against the glass, using the water to make them stick.
One after another, he covered the entire pane. When the last blank spot vanished behind glossy real estate ads, the countdown ticked to zero.
0.
The sound hit like a tidal wave.
A cacophony of guttural screams, distorted moans, and savage shrieks filled the air. The once-frozen zombies had awakened.
Lucas crouched instinctively, heart hammering. He clutched the riot shield like a lifeline.
Outside, several zombies staggered past the office. One twitched violently, another let out a wet gurgle. But none of them looked through the door. To them, it was just another wall.
I'm invisible. For now.
Lucas let himself sink onto a worn leather couch, muscles trembling. His hands were shaking uncontrollably, adrenaline draining from his system like a punctured IV drip.
His legs felt like jelly. His lungs ached.
Facing a street full of zombies for the first time and not losing his mind? That alone was an achievement.
He drew a few shaky breaths and opened the chat interface.
Earlier, the regional channel had been an unreadable blur, messages vanishing faster than the eye could register them.
Now... things had quieted.
Still messages. But slower. Each line lingered for a few seconds before vanishing.
That means... people are dying.
And not just a few.
"The street's crawling with zombies! They woke up all at once—like a damn tsunami!"
"I barely made it inside this apartment. They're so fast. One misstep and I'd be gone."
"I saw someone get torn apart trying to grab a crate of bottled water from a car trunk. It was... brutal."
"This was supposed to be a game, right? Then why do the zombies dismember people like it's real?"
"It IS real. The world may be gamified, but the deaths are exactly like real life. This isn't some simulation."
"What kind of game is this?! This isn't survival—it's a death sentence!"
"Please... can someone help me? I'm scared and alone... I don't want to die here."
The last message was from a girl. Her profile displayed a hologram—a 3D avatar complete with height, weight, and appearance details.
In a regular MMO, she'd have half a dozen "white knights" swarming to her side by now.
But this wasn't an MMO.
This was Aquaria. The end of the world.
No one had time to play hero.
Everyone was just trying to survive.
Lucas didn't type a word. He had no intention of joining public chatter.
Every message you sent was another breadcrumb. Another clue for someone—maybe desperate, maybe cruel—to track you down.
In this world, staying silent was the only true defense.
He exhaled slowly and turned his attention back to the task at hand.
This place is safe—for now.
Zombies didn't see what they couldn't smell or hear. With the flyers blocking the view, the glass door might as well have been concrete.
And according to the prompt, there was something else here.
A Tier-One Supply Crate.
Lucas stood and scanned the compact office space. The real estate agency was barely larger than a convenience store—maybe sixty square meters total. A front area with a reception desk and some sofas, and a back room marked "Private."
He stepped into the rear room.
In the corner sat a travel-sized case, about the size of a carry-on suitcase.
He reached out.
[Open Supply Crate? Yes / No]
Yes.
The crate hissed open with a satisfying mechanical click.
Inside was a red fire axe, its blade gleaming. A bottle of purified water—sealed. And a small vial labeled "Basic Constitution Booster."
Lucas's eyes lit up.
He reached for his left hand, where a dark green ring rested on his middle finger—his spatial ring.
With a thought, the inventory panel appeared before his eyes.
[Storage Capacity: 12 Slots]
[Occupied: 2]
Slot one: a single can of luncheon meat.
Slot two: a 500ml bottle of drinking water.
Each slot could hold infinite quantities of the same item type—but no nesting. No bags within bags, no boxes inside boxes. If he stored a backpack full of gear, the system would treat the backpack and its contents as separate items, each consuming their own slot.
Vehicles were the same, he recalled from the tutorial. No cheating the system.
He began placing items one by one into the ring.
Riot shield
Helmet
Fire axe
Tear gas grenade
New bottle of purified water
Each item found its place. The water stacked neatly into the same slot as the previous one—now labeled with a subtle x2.
Six out of twelve slots, now filled.
Lucas stepped back and let out a long breath.
He had shelter.
He had a weapon.
He had armor.
And, most importantly—he was still alive.