The dawn broke weak and colorless, a pale haze filtering through the cracked windows of the gym. Most of the survivors were still half-asleep, curled under thin sheets or huddled together for warmth. Garret stood near the entrance, his breath fogging faintly in the chill. His arm still ached, but his mind was sharp focused. The faint murmur of people stirring filled the air as he spoke, his voice steady but commanding enough to cut through the morning drowsiness.
"Anyone with engineering, mechanics, driving or electrical experience, come forward."
A hush fell over the room. A few heads lifted. Then, slowly, people began to move a handful of students in grease-stained overalls, a teacher who had once overseen the workshop, and two others who looked uncertain but curious. Garret nodded as they approached, sizing them up.
"Good. We're going to need every hand."
Garret stood beside one of the buses, sleeves rolled up, watching molten streams of the Leontaur's hide drip from a makeshift forge. The material hissed as it touched metal, fusing with the bus frame to form a black, armor-like layer. The work was slow and brutal, but it was progress.
Students moved about nervously, their faces slick with sweat and grime. Two engineers were busy at one side. Dave, on the other hand, was at the far end, hauling a zombie corpse away from the door.
"Last one's down," Dave called, wiping blood from his blade. His tone was steady now, confident, a far cry from the nervous student who'd once flinched at the sight of blood.
He approached, glancing at the buses, then at Garret. "You really think we can get all of these running?"
Garret's gaze drifted over the vehicles, the dull yellow buses, once meant to carry laughter and chatter, now turned into armored shells.
"Maybe," he said. "But that's not the problem."
Dave frowned. "Then what is?"
Garret's expression hardened. "Fuel."
He turned, walking slowly along the line of buses as he spoke. "Gas won't last forever. Refineries are gone. Supply lines are gone. Once what's left dries up…" He stopped, looking back at Dave. "If humanity hasn't found a new energy source by then, it'll be worse."
Dave followed his gaze to the dim sky beyond the cracked garage windows. "You really think we'll last that long?"
Garret gave a small, humorless smile. "That depends. On whether people like you keep swinging that sword."
As Garret and Dave were having a silent conversation, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the garage. One of the engineering students, a lean young man with grease-stained hands and a face smeared with soot, ran toward them.
"Garret!" he called out, breathing hard. "You… you won't believe this!"
Garret turned, one brow raised. "What is it?"
The student's eyes were wide with excitement. "I just...I just got something. A skill. It appeared right after I finished binding the hide to the bus frame. It says 'Mechanical Insight.' It's like… it's teaching me how to improve efficiency, like I can see what's wrong with the engines, where to add more armor and not disrupt the weight balance"
Garret froze for a moment, caught off guard. Then, slowly, his expression shifted, surprise giving way to something else entirely.
"People can awaken their own skills through experience." He murmured, half to himself.
Garret shook his head slightly, then chuckled, a quiet, genuine sound that startled Dave, who had rarely seen him smile.
"The Weave… rewards understanding. The same way it rewards survival."
He clapped the young engineer lightly on the shoulder. "Good work. Don't waste it. From now you are the leader of the engineering division."
The student nodded eagerly. "Yes, sir!"
He looked back at the reinforced buses, once symbols of escape, now faint beacons of possibility. The Weave had changed everything, but maybe, just maybe, it hadn't taken everything away. Maybe there was hope for humanity.
Eira and Darrius moved cautiously through the shattered courtyard, their boots crunching over broken glass. A group of students followed behind, the survivors burdened with bulging bags of food, blankets, and anything that could be of use.
As they neared the auditorium, the air grew thick with the sickly stench of decay. Then came the sound, the dragging feet, the wet gurgles. A massive horde of zombies poured forth, eyes clouded and hungry. Darrius cracked his neck, his grin feral.
"Wanna make it interesting?" he asked, hefting his massive axe onto his shoulder. "Let's see who clears more."
Eira shot him a sidelong glance, her breath a mist of cold air. "You'll regret that."
He laughed, but the sound froze in his throat as she lifted her hand.
"Frost Waltz." She whispered.
A wave of frost exploded outward, blanketing the ground in ice and swallowing half the horde in an instant. Limbs froze, bodies crystallized into beautiful statues, and before the echoes of her power faded, Eira was already moving.
Her Chixiao Sword shimmered with pale light as she wove through the throng, every slash fluid, every motion deliberate. She moved like a phantom, her blade slicing through flesh, each step a dance of grace and death. Darrius let out a low whistle, shaking his head.
"Remind me not to compete with an ice queen."
Still, his pride wouldn't let him be outdone. He roared and charged in, his axe cleaving through torsos and skulls, shattering bodies into pieces.
Eira and Darrius pushed open the battered auditorium doors, the hinges shrieking in protest. Huddled beneath the stage and between broken seats were survivors; pale, shivering, and hollow-eyed. Their clothes were torn, their faces sunken. Some girls barely clung to consciousness, their lips cracked and dry. Darrius froze, his usual bravado faltering.
"What the hell happened here…?"
A trembling lady near the front spoke first, her voice raspy from thirst.
"Yesterday… a man came through here," she said. "He had… women with him carrying a chair, like a throne."
The survivors exchanged uneasy glances, fear flashing in their eyes.
"He tried to enter," another muttered, bitterness lacing her weak voice. "When saw he couldn't kill all of the zombies he started screaming. Drawing a horde outside."
Eira had been silent all this time, her expression unreadable, her arms folded loosely across her chest as the survivors spoke. She listened to every trembling word, her icy eyes scanning their faces, the bruises, the hollow gazes.
But when the trembling girl mentioned "women carrying his throne," something inside her snapped. The air in the auditorium shifted. A faint white mist began to curl from her fingertips. Frost crept along the walls and floorboards, a thin, delicate lace that spread without sound. The survivors nearest to her shivered and instinctively huddled closer together. Even Darrius, standing beside her, felt the temperature drop sharply, the kind of cold that bit straight to the bone.
"Used… as slaves?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried, sharp and dangerous, through the vast, broken hall.
The survivor nodded weakly. "Y-yes… he made them carry his throne. And when one fell, he--he…"
She didn't finish. She didn't have to.
The frost deepened. Breath turned to visible vapor. Darrius glanced at her from the corner of his eye, uneasy. He had fought beside her, seen her freeze hordes of zombies into glittering shards, but this was different. This wasn't power directed outward. This was rage. Raw and suffocating. Eira closed her eyes for a long moment, forcing herself to breathe. When she finally opened them again, the storm behind her gaze had settled, but only barely. Her tone when she spoke, was calm once more… too calm.
"Get them food and water."
She turned toward the door the others quickly following