Two chapters in one, yay! ✌️✌️❤️ Where are all the commenters? Give
Give me some power stones there you go~😉
I am thinking of the world travel for the worlds of House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones around the fifth or seventh volume. What do you think he should be? Or maybe even sooner, as by then he would be as strong as Basic Thor from Marvel. What do you think? Does the world have potential with dragons and magic, capturing and creating his own empire there with mostly queens ruling? A vacation and resources world with story being motley fast kill and harem.. what do you think?
*****
White smiled, a thin, cruel curving of his lips.
"Only the essential personnel get a seat on the choppers. The rest? Consider them... live combat data for the experiments. They are expendable."
"They are liquid assets. Expendable. Leave them to the B.O.W.s."
He hung up the phone. The heavy clack echoed in the silent room.
"Protocol 4-4 initiated," the Red Queen announced. "Perimeter lockdown in T-minus ten minutes."
White walked back to the main screen. He watched as the icons for the blast gates on the Raven's Gate Bridge turned from Green to Red. He watched as the icons for the National Guard units began to move toward the city limits.
"Control the infection spread as much as we can," White whispered to the empty room, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
He tapped the image of Atlas again.
"Chaos will flush him out. He thinks he is a predator? He thinks he is free?"
Dr. White smiled—a terrifying, soulless expression.
"This city is now a cage. And when the Apex reveals himself... we will be waiting."
He turned to his lead security officer.
"Oncs the Hive is cleaned and quarantined prepare the Nemesis, Lickers, The T-00, The T-001 Proto-Tyrant. The T-002, Chimera Hybrids, and Subject Type-B." White ordered. "Wake them up, and they'll start tackling sewer problems first, then If Subject A-1 wants a fight... let's give him a war."
---
Raccoon City – Northern Residential District.
Time: 5:55 AM.
The sun had fully breached the horizon, casting a wash of pale gold over Raccoon City.
It was that quiet, deceptive hour of the morning. The streetlights were flickering off one by one, their sodium-orange glow surrendering to the daylight. The city was waking up. Sprinklers hissed on manicured lawns, misting the hydrangeas. The smell of brewing coffee and toasted bread wafted from open kitchen windows, masking the faint, underlying stench of sewage that was beginning to seep up from the drains.
Atlas walked down the sidewalk of Elm Street, a ghost of the Arklay Mountains invading suburbia.
He was a striking anomaly against the backdrop of white picket fences and sedans backing out of driveways. He wore the stolen U.B.C.S. tactical gear—tight black compression shirt, reinforced grey cargo pants, and heavy combat boots. The clothes were devoid of insignia, stripping him of any faction, leaving only the raw physicality of the man beneath.
He was broad-shouldered, his muscles coiled and dense, moving with a fluid, predatory grace that made the average pedestrians look clumsy by comparison. His silver-grey hair was swept back, wild yet stylish, and his skin was a pale alabaster that seemed to catch the light differently than human skin.
Passersby noticed.
A group of joggers ran past him on the other side of the street. Two women in the back of the pack slowed their pace, their heads turning to track him. They whispered to each other, giggling, eyes lingering on the way his tactical shirt clung to his chest and arms.
"Check him out," one whispered, biting her lip.
"Is he a model? Or maybe SWAT?"
"With that bleached hair color? Definitely a model," the other replied, flashing a hopeful smile in his direction.
Atlas didn't even blink. He didn't care about their thirst. He didn't care that he was the most dangerous thing in the zip code. His mind was turned inward, focused on a conversation with the only entity that truly mattered.
'Pleione,' he commanded silently, stepping casually over a discarded newspaper on the sidewalk. 'Tally the harvest from the forest. I want to know the perceived value of human life in your eyes.'
The System's chime responded instantly, a sweet, digital melody that played directly into his auditory cortex.
[Affirmative, Atlas.]
[Processing Combat Data from Arklay Ambush...]
The blue screen materialized in his mind's eye, overlaying the peaceful street with cold, hard numbers.
[Targets Neutralized: 15 (U.B.C.S. Operatives)]
> [Experience Gained: 75 EXP]
> [Evolution Points Acquired: 15 EP]
Atlas stopped walking. A frown of deep, genuine dissatisfaction creased his brow.
'75 Experience? 15 Evolution Points?'
He analyzed the data with cold, predatory logic.
'That is... insulting. Those men were elite mercenaries. Trained killers. Prime physical specimens in peak condition. And yet, they offer a yield of 5 EXP and 1 EP per head?'
He resumed walking, his pace slightly more aggressive.
'A standard, brain-dead Tier-0 Zombie grants 10 EXP and 2 EP. A creature that shuffles and rots is worth double the biological value of a trained soldier? The math ain't mathing. If elite combatants are worth this little, what is a civilian worth? Dust?'
It defied the laws of RPG logic. Usually, harder enemies yielded better rewards.
'Pleione,' Atlas demanded, his mental tone sharp. 'Explain this disparity. Why is the biological harvest from humans so significantly degraded compared to the infected? Why is Evolution point earned trash?'
Almost immediately, the cold, female voice of the System echoed in his mind, unfurling a stream of data that combined biological fact with cosmic metaphysics.
[Query Acknowledged. Initiating Deep-Dive Audit of Essence Extraction Efficiency.]
[Answer: The disparity in yield originates from the target's Bio-Spiritual Density.]
[1. The Currency of Evolution:]
[Experience (EXP), Evolution Points (EP), and V-Gold are not arbitrary numbers. They are resources synthesized mostly from the crystallized fragments of a killed being's 'Soul Matrix'. The yield is directly proportional to the vitality and intensity of the life force contained within that vessel at the moment of death.]
[2. The Human Baseline // The Regulated Vessel:]
[Standard humans possess a Soul Matrix that is in a state of equilibrium. Their vessels are governed by strict biological limiters—myostatin inhibitors, fatigue toxins, and pain receptors—designed to preserve homeostasis. These mechanisms prevent the body from accessing its full potential to avoid self-destruction. A human soul is a stable, low-output capacitor. It is safe. It is regulated. It is dilute.]
[3. The Zombie Anomaly // The Unbound Reactor:]
[A Zombie, however, has had these biological shackles catastrophically ruptured. Their cellular architecture has not merely mutated; it has evolved into a vessel of ravenous, feral vigor.
To sustain this unnatural physiology, the subject's Soul Matrix is forcibly compressed. The virus creates a 'Metaphysical Vacuum' within the host, trapping the soul in a Faraday Cage of mutated flesh. No longer able to flow or dissipate, the soul becomes a super-dense, volatile singularity. Giving them much longer lifespan and power structures.
While the contagion initiates in the blood and synapses—targets of body and mind—it creates a metaphysical vacuum.
This blockage severs the connection to the 'Self' (consciousness), but hyper-charges the 'Engine' (vitality). The undead condition forces the Soul Matrix to operate at 300% efficiency, achieving a state of violent biological fusion. They are not burning out; they have become closed-loop reactors of infinite stamina, fueling an immortal nightmare that defies the natural laws of decay.
The undead forces the soul to burn at 300% efficiency. Becoming a denser, more volatile container of energy. They are burning their candle at both ends.]
[Summary: Humans are standard AA batteries—stable, but low yield. Zombies are unshielded, leaking fusion cores—unstable, dangerous, but overflowing with raw, condensed power.]
[Strategic Conclusion: Farming unmutated humans for Evolution Points is inefficient. Focus on Mutants, B.O.W.s, Evolved Threats, and Superhumans for optimal growth metrics.]
Atlas absorbed the stream of data, the blue light of the interface reflecting in his eyes as his frown smoothed into a look of cold understanding.
"So that's the logic," he mused silently, his voice low. "The virus isn't just a plague; it's a catalyst. I am not hunting sick people... I am hunting walking nuclear reactors."
'It finally explains the missing variable...'
Atlas thought, leaning back against the rough concrete wall. 'In every apocalypse story back on Earth, the virus was treated as purely biological—fungus, rage pathogens, parasites. But I always wondered: if the body is dead, what powers the perpetual motion? What fuels the eternal hunger?'
'What is the role of the soul?'
Before his transmigration, he did wonder about the existence of the soul, but now that he is here, he realizes it exists and plays an important role in his evolution. He was wondering if zombifiction just affected the body and mind, but now he knew for sure.
He tapped his temple, tracing the invisible lines of the System. 'It's the Soul. The virus targets the biology to build a cage, but it targets the metaphysics to power the machine. It isolates the Soul Matrix, severing the "Ego" and the "Consciousness"—the Self—leaving only the raw, driving instinct. That explains why traditional cures in fiction were so difficult; you can't just fix the cells. You have to reconnect the metaphysical wire, you have to bridge the gap between the Body and the Soul that the virus violently tore apart.'
'This creates a coherent timeline for infection,' Atlas realized, his mind racing as the pieces clicked into place.
'It explains why antivirals and cures in the stories only ever worked during the incubation phase—before the "Zombification". Once the Soul Matrix is fully compressed and the viral cage hardens, the connection to the original "Self" is just blocked. Trying to cure a fully turned zombie is like trying to un-burn a match. The metaphysical fusion has already occurred; the biological hardware is irrevocably altered to support the reactor, not the human.'
This explains why it was extremely uncommon for a fully transformed zombie to revert to human form..
He paused, his eyes narrowing as he considered the more dangerous variants he knew were out there.
'And it creates a terrifying logic for the anomalies. The "Smart Zombies." The ones that use tactics, wield weapons, or lead packs. Their Soul Matrix wasn't completely sealed off. Whether through a flaw in the virus or sheer biological luck, their "Ego" is leaking through the cracks in the containment field, granting the beast access to the muscle memory and tactical intellect of the host.'
A darker thought crossed his mind, one that explained the rarest of the undead—the Sentient Ones.
'It even justifies the existence of those who retain their sanity after the turn. If the density of the Soul Matrix is determined by life force... then a human with exceptional willpower or a naturally dense spirit or something else might resist the compression. They don't become a trapped battery; they force a symbiosis. They aren't prisoners of the virus; they become its pilots. They keep the Self, but gain the power of the zombies and stamina of the Reactor.'
These thoughts reminded him of a romance anime he had previously watched. "Sankarea: Undying love."
It was a beautiful love story of a guy obsessed with zombies and a girl who wanted to die.
The anime was amazing, but its bittersweetness and ambiguous ending left much to be desired.
And Zom-ussy goes crazy fr fr.
Atlas laughed to himself at his joke, even though it wasn't that funny. 'Biological constraints meet spiritual warfare. It's all just a math problem involving energy density and resistance.'
He let out a short, cynical huff of breath.
'To anyone else, this would sound like esoteric nonsense. Magic. Mumbo jumbo. But considering I am a transmigrator interacting with a gamified System in a fictional reality... treating the Soul fragments as a harvestable fuel source is actually the most logical part of my day.'
It makes sense for vamps too—they're basically just upgraded zombies.
The realization settled over him, heavy and grim. He looked down at his hands, then out toward the ruin of the city.
"Anyway, from this, one thing is clear," Atlas whispered, the sentiment hanging in the dead air.
"It seems human life is dirt cheap."
"In this world, human life seemed to cost less than dirt—its value measured only by how much power stood behind it."
He looked at his own hand…
'And I am the biggest reactor of them all.'
He was shaken from his internal reverie by the realization that he had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked up. He was attracting attention. A man walking in tactical gear with a thousand-yard stare tended to make suburbanites nervous.
He needed to blend in. He needed to be "human."
He scanned the street..
About twenty meters ahead, a young woman was stretching against a lamppost. She looked to be in her early twenties, dressed in tight black yoga pants and a neon pink athletic top.
She had those old Sony headphones around her neck.
Atlas adjusted his posture. He relaxed his shoulders, dropping the "Apex Predator" aura and replacing it with a mask of "Lost Tourist."
He walked toward her.
The sound of his heavy boots on the pavement made her look up.
Her reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened, scanning him from the boots up to his face. When her gaze met his striking grey eyes, her breath audibly hitched. A flush rose to her cheeks, instant and visible.
She straightened up, patting her hair self-consciously, a wide, fluffy smile spreading across her face.
"Um... hi," she squeaked, then cleared her throat to try for a sultrier tone. "Hi there."
Atlas stopped a respectful distance away, flashing a polite, disarming smile. It was a weaponized smile—perfectly calibrated to lower defenses.
"Good morning, miss," Atlas said, his voice deep and smooth, like velvet over gravel. "I hate to interrupt your workout, but I seem to have gotten turned around."
The woman blinked, seemingly dazed by his voice. She leaned forward slightly, her body language screaming availability.
"Oh! No, you're not interrupting at all! I was just... stopping. Yeah. Stopping." She laughed nervously, twirling a strand of brown hair around her finger. "I'm Jessica. Do you need help?"
"A pleasure, Jessica," Atlas nodded. "I'm new to the city. My phone died, and I need to find a bank. Could you point me to the nearest Atm please?"
"An ATM?" Jessica repeated, as if he had asked for the meaning of life. "Yes! Of course! There's a First National Bank just down the road."
She pointed a manicured finger down the street, stepping closer to him as she did so, invading his personal space.
"It's about... mm, maybe 1.2 miles that way,"
she said, using the local units. "You just go past the elementary school, turn right at the St. Michael's Clock Tower, and it's right next to the diner. You can't miss it."
"1.2 miles," Atlas repeated. "Past the Clock Tower. Perfect."
He looked at her. Her heart rate was elevated—he could hear it beating faster. Her pupils were dilated. She was practically vibrating with attraction.
"You know," Jessica added quickly, biting her lip. "It's a bit of a tricky turn. I'm actually finished with my run. I could... walk you there? If you want?"
She looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, falling head over heels for a man who had slaughtered fifteen people less than fifteen minutes ago.
Atlas maintained the mask. He didn't mock her. He didn't scare her.
"That is a very generous offer, Jessica," Atlas said softly. " But I wouldn't want to keep you. I have a feeling today is going to be a very busy day for this city."
He stepped back, giving her a small, courteous nod.
"Thank you for your help."
"Oh," Jessica's face fell slightly, but she quickly recovered, beaming at him. "Well, if you're ever lost again... I run here every morning!"
"I'll keep that in mind," Atlas replied. "Maybe I'll see you again. If fate allows."
He turned and walked away, his stride long and purposeful.
Jessica stood by the lamppost, watching him go. She sighed, fanning her face with her hand. "Wow. What a guy."
As Atlas moved out of earshot, the smile vanished from his face, replaced by the cold indifference of the hunter.
'Enjoy your run, Jessica,' he thought, glancing at the storm clouds gathering over the city skyline. 'Because in a few days, running will be the only thing that keeps you alive.'
He checked his mental map.
'First the ATM.'
*****
I am thinking of the world travel for the worlds of House of the Dragon and Game of Thrones around the fifth or seventh volume. What do you think he should be? Or maybe even sooner, as by then he would be as strong as Basic Thor from Marvel. What do you think? Does the world have potential with dragons and magic, capturing and creating his own empire there with mostly queens ruling? A vacation and resources world with story being motley fast kill and harem.. what do you think?