Dark clouds pressed low over the ruined city, the air thick with the stench of blood and flesh.
The convenience store's glass windows had long been smashed, and the few packets of instant noodles left on the shelves were snatched up by a large, rough hand.
A tattooed man with a face full of scars crouched at the doorway, gnawing on half a sausage, the bluish-black tattoos on his face shifting with each bite.
"Boss, there's a live one over there."
A thug with fluorescent-green hair kicked aside a zombie's severed limb, the steel pipe in his hand still dripping dark red. "A woman holding a kid… crying her head off."
From the back of the store came the clatter of cans—three men in flashy hoodies stuffing stolen goods into backpacks.
The tattooed man spat out the sausage casing and stood, the fat under his leather jacket jiggling.
"Let's take a look."
He kicked aside an old woman curled up by the roadside, her cloth bag spilling a few pieces of dry bread, her cloudy eyes filled with fear.
Rounding the corner, they saw two thugs blocking a young woman, who was frantically placing her baby into an overturned trash bin, the back of her shirt soaked in cold sweat.
One thug whistled, banging his pipe on a car door with a sharp clang. "Well, well—soft and tender. Way better than that hag in the supermarket earlier."
The woman spun around, clutching a fruit knife, the blade trembling in her hand. "Please... we have nothing..."
Before she could finish, the tattooed man slapped her to the ground. The baby's cry rose sharply.
Fortunately, the nearby zombies had already been wiped out by a monster.
Otherwise, the baby's cries and their noise would have gotten them all killed.
A man in a floral hoodie grabbed the swaddled baby. "Shut up, or I'll throw you to the zombies!"
The tattooed man crouched to tear a silver necklace from the woman's neck, his gaze lingering on her pale, delicate collarbone.
"Not bad. Stick with me, and you'll eat well."
He noticed the bag she clutched and yanked it open—inside was a can of baby formula and half a bottle of fever medicine.
"Damn it! I thought you were hiding treasure."
He cursed and threw the bag to the ground, the formula spilling across her feet.
The woman could only tremble in terror, powerless, despair in her eyes.
As a thug reached for her waistband, a shout came from nearby.
"Boss, a group of survivors is coming!"
The thug cursed and moved to get up, but the tattooed man stopped him. "Calm down. Finish first. Get your guns out."
"If anyone dares come close, we'll deal with them. This is my thing."
He pressed a knife to the woman's throat, watching despair turn to dead calm in her eyes, his face twisting into a grin.
"Lady, you wouldn't want anything to happen to your kid, would you?"
"Then strip."
Under his vile threat, in her silence and dead gaze, her trembling hands reached for her collar.
"Something's wrong, boss! The one leading them—she's carrying that blade!"
The thug's voice carried panic.
"Blade, my ass! You've got a gun!"
The tattooed man, repeatedly interrupted, was seething.
"No, boss—"
The thug's voice cut off.
A wet, tearing sound split the air, followed by the thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
The tattooed man turned to see his thug's body still standing, but his head had flown off, trailing a spray of red, hitting the ground and rolling to a stop, eyes wide open.
Before he could react, searing pain exploded from his wrist.
The hand holding the knife had been severed, blood spraying across his face.
"Ah—AHHH!"
His scream was echoed by the cries of his men—their hands too were gone, blood mist filling the air, severed limbs strewn about.
In the next moment, a gust of wind heralded Zeroy's arrival before him.
Her golden hair swayed in the sunlight, the black-red Striker Unit in her grasp radiating cold killing intent, her small frame like the incarnation of death.
She glanced at him coldly and, without warning, raised a leg and kicked.
His large body flew several meters like a kite with a cut string, hitting the ground hard and raising a cloud of dust. His screams were weaker now.
She didn't let them go.
"I save people. Beasts without limits aren't people."
She swung her blade several times—not to kill, but to shred their legs.
Some passed out from the pain, others screamed in agony.
But she paid them no more attention. In her eyes, these ex-humans were already dead. Sparing them was only to let them die in greater pain.
If not for the trouble, she would have fed them to zombies.
She sheathed her blade and turned to the stunned woman.
The cold left her face, replaced by softness, as she extended a hand.
"Can you stand?"
"Th-thank you!"
Though she'd run into scum, Zeroy was in good spirits.
She didn't enjoy keeping up a cold, high-and-mighty act—it was only required by the environment.
She liked saving those worth saving and preventing tragedy.
After cutting these thugs down to harmless stumps and leaving them to die, she gathered all survivors in the area.
Looking back at the group trailing her, she counted three hundred strong—a day's work.
It was slow going. In the cleared area, they were only a tenth of the total survivors.
She had to supervise and protect them, moving at their pace. Now the group was too large. Any bigger, and they'd slow further.
She would take them back to the base first.
...
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