Descriptor: Self-taught combat techniques developed through practical experience in urban environments. Relies on aggression, improvisation, and survivalist mentality rather than formal training.
Ethan groaned audibly, a sound of pure frustration mixed with disbelief.
"Street Brawler? Seriously? That's what you're calling it?" He looked up at the empty sky as if addressing whatever cosmic force had decided to give him this system. "Couldn't call it something cooler? Like 'Urban Combatant' or 'Tactical Fighter' or literally anything that doesn't make me sound like I get into bar fights?"
The system, unsurprisingly, didn't respond to his complaints.
He continued exploring the interface, his eyes scanning the information with growing fascination despite his skepticism.
At the bottom of the screen, a small note appeared in slightly dimmer text:
SYSTEM MECHANICS:
+1 Point per Level-1 Infected eliminated
Points can be exchanged for abilities or stat upgrades
Current Points: 10
Ethan's pulse quickened, his heart beginning to race with something other than fear for the first time since this nightmare had begun.
A system that gives power for survival?
That's… insane.
But also…
He looked down at his hands, remembering how he'd struggled with the Glock's recoil. How his aim had been compromised. How exhausted he was after just an hour of running and fighting.
Also exactly what I need.
If this system—whatever it was, however it worked—could actually make him stronger, faster, more capable of surviving in this hellscape that Chicago had become…
Then maybe, just maybe, he had a real chance of reaching Emily alive.
Ethan addressed the interface directly, his voice tentative.
"System, explain your purpose. What are you? Why are you here?"
Silence.
Only the wind answered him, carrying the smell of smoke and death.
He tried again, feeling slightly ridiculous talking to empty air.
"Can you—uh—talk? Communicate? Give me information?"
[No response detected.]
The words appeared briefly on the interface before fading.
Ethan sighed heavily, running his hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
"Figures. I get the one system without personality or customer service."
Can't even get a tutorial. Typical.
Still, curiosity burned in his chest like fire, driving away the exhaustion and fear.
He began exploring the interface more systematically, tapping through different menus and options, trying to understand what he'd been given.
One tab was labeled "Inventory" in simple text. When he opened it, he found mostly empty space—but one icon was glowing, pulsing with soft light.
The icon was labeled: NOVICE PACKAGE
A starter gift? Ethan thought, feeling a strange mixture of excitement and surrealism. Like in those web novels Emily used to read…
"Alright," he said aloud, partly to himself, partly to the system, partly just to hear a human voice in the empty street. "Let's see what you've got for me."
He tapped the glowing icon.
The package expanded, revealing its contents in floating text:
NOVICE REWARD PACKAGE UNLOCKED:
Combat Technique: Taekwondo Grandmaster (Acquired) Firearm Mastery (Acquired)
"Wait, what—"
Before Ethan could finish his sentence, before he could even process what he'd just read, something happened.
A surge of information flooded into his head like a dam breaking.
Not words or images, but knowledge—pure, distilled, complete understanding of techniques and skills that should have taken years or decades to master.
Muscle memory that he'd never created suddenly existed in his body. Reflexes he'd never trained manifested in his nervous system. Stances, strikes, blocks, counters—everything downloaded directly into his brain like installing software into a computer.
His body stiffened involuntarily as the information integrated, his muscles twitching and adjusting as new neural pathways formed at impossible speed.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the sensation ended.
Ethan gasped, stumbling slightly, catching himself against the convenience store wall.
He inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon.
But when he straightened up, everything felt different.
His body felt lighter, more responsive. His awareness of his own physical capabilities had expanded dramatically. He could feel the coiled power in his muscles, the perfect balance of his stance, the precise positioning of his weight distribution.
His fists clenched on pure instinct—and the form was perfect.
Not good. Not decent. Perfect.
The positioning of his thumb, the alignment of his knuckles, the angle of his wrist—everything was exactly as it should be for maximum striking power and minimum risk of self-injury.
"Holy shit," Ethan whispered, staring at his own hands as if seeing them for the first time. "I actually know this stuff. Like, really know it."
Memories that weren't memories flooded through his mind.
He remembered reading about Bajiquan once—Emily had mentioned it in passing during one of her psychology lectures about cultural approaches to conflict resolution. She'd called it "the martial art of bodyguards" because of its emphasis on close-range explosive power.
An old Chinese martial art, developed in the 17th century, known for its devastating effectiveness in tight quarters.
Short strikes that generated maximum force. Heavy impact techniques designed to end fights quickly and decisively. Pure efficiency with no wasted motion.
The Eight Extremes Fist, literally translated.
And now he was apparently a Grandmaster of it.
Ethan took a testing step forward, his body moving with newfound grace and precision.
He threw a punch at the air—a simple straight punch, nothing fancy.
WHAM!
The shockwave from his strike was audible, a sharp crack of displaced air that hit the nearby metal sign with enough force to make it rattle on its hinges.
Ethan stared at his fist, then at the sign, then back at his fist.
"Okay… that's definitely new."
He could feel it now—the proper technique, the way to channel force from the legs through the hips and core into the striking arm. The explosive power that Bajiquan was famous for, generating maximum impact in minimum distance.
I could probably punch through a car door now, he thought with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
The firearm mastery kicked in next, integrating more smoothly than the combat technique.
Ethan pulled the Glock from his belt, and suddenly the weapon felt completely different in his hands.
Not heavier or lighter, but natural—like an extension of his arm rather than a separate tool. His grip adjusted automatically to the optimal position. His finger naturally found the proper placement on the trigger guard. His stance shifted subtly to absorb recoil more effectively.
He could instinctively calculate bullet trajectory, windage, the slight drop of the round over distance. He understood the mechanical function of the weapon at a deep, intuitive level—how to clear jams, how to perform field maintenance, how to maximize accuracy under stress.
"Guess I just leveled up," Ethan said with a crooked grin, the first genuine smile he'd felt since this nightmare began. "Like a character in one of Emily's favorite games."
If she could see this…
His expression sobered immediately at that thought.
Emily. Right. Still need to reach her. System or no system, that's still the priority.
Curious about the full extent of the changes, Ethan reopened his status screen by thinking about it—the interface responded to mental commands, apparently.
The blue holographic display flickered back into existence, but the numbers had changed dramatically:
UPDATED HOST DATA
HOST: ETHAN MILLER
PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 25(+12)
SPEED: 29(+15)
ATTACK POWER: 31(+15)
ABILITIES:
Bajiquan GrandmasterFirearm Mastery
"Jesus Christ…" Ethan muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm basically three times stronger than before. In every category."
He flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling the tension and coiled strength in every muscle fiber. The power felt incredible—intoxicating, even. Like he'd been walking around his entire life wearing weights he didn't know existed, and now they'd been removed.
His heart raced with a mixture of excitement and disbelief.
This is real. This is actually happening.
The interface shifted again as he explored further, revealing a new section labeled "SYSTEM STORE" in glowing letters.
When he opened it, he found himself looking at what appeared to be an extensive catalog of purchasable skills and enhancements, organized into two main categories:
ABILITIES and ENHANCEMENTS.
Each skill or ability could be purchased in five progressive stages, listed clearly:
Beginner (100 Points) Skilled (200 Points) Master (300 Points) Expert (400 Points) Grandmaster (500 Points)
The abilities covered everything imaginable—martial arts styles from around the world, weapon proficiencies, survival skills, tactical knowledge, even things that seemed almost supernatural like "Enhanced Perception" and "Accelerated Healing."
The enhancements section covered raw physical stats—strength, speed, endurance, reflexes—each upgrade costing dozens of points and rising exponentially with each tier.
Ethan scrolled through the options, his mind racing with possibilities.
So this is how it works, he thought. Kill zombies, earn points, buy power. It's literally a damn apocalypse RPG.
And I just became the protagonist.
The glowing screen faded after a moment, apparently programmed to minimize when not actively being used. It left only the faint hum of the dying city—distant fires, car alarms, the occasional scream or gunshot from blocks away.
Ethan holstered the Glock with newfound confidence, adjusted the folding shovel on his back, and stared down the empty street toward the airport lights visible in the distance.
The path ahead was still dangerous. Still filled with zombies and chaos and death.
But now… now he had a real advantage.
Now he had power that could grow with every enemy he defeated.
Now he had a fighting chance.
"Alright, System," Ethan muttered, his voice low but filled with determination. "You want an overlord? Someone to survive this apocalypse and come out on top?"
He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and began walking toward O'Hare with purpose in every step.
"Fine. I'll be your overlord. But first…"
His eyes fixed on the distant glow of the airport terminal, where Emily was waiting.
"First, I save my sister."
"Let's start from there."
He broke into a run—faster than before, more controlled, his enhanced body moving with a grace and power that would have seemed impossible just minutes ago—heading into the fire-lit horizon.
Ready for round two.
Ready for whatever came next.
Ready to become whatever he needed to be to survive.