If you want me to continue this work, I would appreciate encouragement. Let this novel become famous! I would like you to bring power stones. If you have any advice for me, please comment so I can improve.
****
He was a Tier-1 Undead Variant. He was a zombie. A highly evolved, intelligent, super-powered zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.
And zombies... they ate flesh. Raw, living flesh.
In the lore of movies and anime—Tokyo Ghoul, Vampire: The Masquerade—creatures like him usually lost the ability to consume human food.
It tasted like ash. It made them vomit.
If he couldn't eat this... if he was condemned to not eating, losing life's biggest loss in the wonderful life... his dream of a "Perfect Life" was over. He didn't want to be a monster who couldn't enjoy a pizza. He wanted to be a man who enjoyed everything, even the minor pleasures of life.
And Eating a big part of it
"Please," Atlas whispered to the steak. "Don't taste like rotting garbage."
His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the silver fork and knife.
He cut a slice of the steak. Pink juice ran onto the plate.
He lifted the fork. He hesitated.
'Pleione,' he asked mentally. 'Will I throw up?'
[Unknown. Your digestive system has been reconfigured by the system with the combination of T-Virus to maximize energy absorption. Theoretical compatibility with cooked protein: High.]
"High is good," Atlas muttered. "High is good."
He opened his mouth. He put the steak inside.
He chewed.
He froze.
His eyes went wide.
Flavor.
Rich, savory, salty, umami flavor exploded on his tongue. It didn't taste like ash. It didn't taste like rot. It tasted... better.
If he had the ability to cry he would have tears by now one of his biggest fears didn't come true He hadn't become like the Bone Daddy.
These emotions were truly overwhelming for him and could only be compared to the kiss he shared with Alice.
His enhanced senses—Taste
included—amplified the experience. He could taste the butter it was seared in. He could taste the black pepper. He could taste the iron in the meat.
It was euphoric.
Atlas swallowed. It went down smooth. A warm sensation spread through his chest as his stomach began to process the biomass instantly.
Clank!
Atlas dropped the fork. The metal clattered loudly against the plate, but he didn't hear it. He just closed his eyes, savoring the lingering taste of salt and butter.
Then, he threw his head back and roared with laughter—a sound of pure, unadulterated relief that shook the air.
"Yes!" he shouted to the empty room, his voice cracking with emotion. "YES!"
He wasn't a ghoul. He wasn't a mindless, rotting husk condemned to feast on carrion. He wasn't a broken monster. He was functional.
The hesitation vanished. Atlas grabbed the toast with trembling hands. He scooped up the eggs. He began to eat with a voracious, animalistic intensity, but there was no savagery in it—only gratitude. He shoveled the food into his mouth, moaning at the explosion of texture and flavor.
He ate with the enthusiasm of a man on death row enjoying a pardon. Every bite was a victory against the Undead.
He could live. He could feast.
As he savored the flavours, his mind raced, expanding beyond the walls of this room, beyond this reality.
"Think of the possibilities," he muttered between bites, his imagination firing on all cylinders. "With the Multiverse Transit Authority, the menu is infinite. I don't have to just survive; I can dine like a Man that owns the place."
He gestured with a piece of toast as if conducting an orchestra.
"I'll sit at the counter of Ichiraku Ramen with Naruto. I'll steal a slice of Apple Pie from the Fullmetal Alchemist's world. I'll sample the sweetness of Cardcaptor Sakura's desserts and the dark elegance of Black Butler's Curry Bread."
His eyes widened with a sudden, hilarious realization.
"And the Food Wars universe... oh, yes. I need to experience a 'clothing-bursting' dish. I need to taste food so divine it makes buildings crumble and brings grown men to their knees. Hahaha!"
That is a goal. That is a dream!"
"Pass the salt," he joked to the silence, pouring a steaming cup of dark roast.
The Apocalypse was coming, but at least the breakfast was good. The coffee was hot, the eggs were salty, and life... life was good.
---
Time: 09:15 AM.
For the next thirty minutes, the only sound in Room 303 was the scrape of silver cutlery against fine china.
Atlas ate with a terrifying, rhythmic efficiency.
The medium-rare steak vanished. The five sunny-side-up eggs were devoured. The stack of toast, soaked in butter, disappeared. He drank the entire pot of black coffee straight from the carafe, the scalding liquid sliding down his throat like water. He is tasting the fruits to determine their flavor.
He didn't think about the T-Virus. He didn't think about the impending nuclear strike. He just enjoyed the salt, the sweet, the fat, and the heat. It was a sensory rediscovery of being "alive."
Finally, he set the empty carafe down on the silver tray with a soft clink.
He leaned back in the chair, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin.
"Delicious," he whispered.
He stood up and wheeled the trolley into the hallway, leaving it outside his door. He didn't want the smell of food to linger; he wanted his sanctuary neutral.
He closed the door and locked the deadbolt.
Then, glancing at the heavy wooden chair at the desk, he grabbed it and wedged it under the door handle. It was a primitive security measure for a being who could tear through steel, but old habits from the Sandbox died hard. A locked door was a suggestion; a barricaded door was a statement.
Atlas walked back to the bed and lay down.
He waited.
He placed his hands on his stomach, staring at the ceiling fan.
'Okay,' he thought, analyzing his internal state. 'I just consumed roughly 8,000 calories in one sitting. Plus two liters of water and a pot of coffee.'
In a normal human, this would trigger the "meat sweats." It would trigger bloating. And eventually, it would trigger a trip to the bathroom.
Atlas waited for the urge. He waited for the pressure in his gut.
Five minutes passed. Ten.
Nothing.
He sat up and lifted his shirt—or rather, opened the robe. He looked at his abdomen.
It was perfectly flat. The six-pack abs were clearly defined, the serratus muscles sharp and visible. There was no distension. No bloating.
"Incredible," Atlas murmured, pressing a hand against his stomach muscles. "It's like Saiyans."
He had confirmed two of the most critical questions regarding his new existence.
* Can he eat? Yes, and he can taste it. He isn't a cursed ghoul like Tokyo Ghoul's Ken Kaneki, doomed to vomit up human food.
* Does he poop? No. Nature's call hasn't rung for him yet—he's still in the clear.
"My body isn't digesting," Atlas realized with scientific fascination. "It's incinerating. It breaks down matter into pure energy with at least 80% efficiency. No waste products. No bathroom breaks. At least that's my theory."
It's like Saiyans who can digest a greater percentage of food and do not excrete much waste, as their bodies are designed for continuous energy expenditure.
His physiology allows for efficient energy conversion.
He grinned. "I am the ultimate foodie. I never have to pause a raid to take a dump."
Satisfied with his biological audit theory, Atlas lay back down, spreading his arms and legs wide, taking up half the king-sized bed.
He closed his eyes. The food had replenished his mental fatigue, and the lack of digestion meant he felt light, energized.
"Pleione," Atlas commanded, his voice lazy but his mind sharp. "I've made my choice."
The System's blue interface flickered to life behind his eyelids.
[Awaiting selection, Atlas.]
"I'm looking at the list," Atlas murmured. "I want to start with the basics. The Skeletal–Muscular Optimization (Limb Focus). But I have a question before I buy."
He opened one eye, staring at the holographic text floating in the air.
"Does this upgrade still make me stronger if I already bought the Body Reinforcement? Or does the effect diminish? I don't want to waste points on a stat boost that gets overwritten by a bigger upgrade down the line. I'm min-maxing here."
[Negative, Atlas,] Pleione responded, her voice sounding almost amused by his gamer logic.
[Evolutionary traits are cumulative. They stack. The Limb Focus specifically targets the axial alignment and fast-twitch fibers of the extremities. The Full Body Reinforcement targets the core and systemic tissue density. If you acquire both, you do not lose efficiency; you become a compound threat. The next evolution only builds upon the foundation of the last. So no matter what type of evolution it is, it always clamps on the last one.]
"So it stacks," Atlas grinned. "Music to my ears."
He closed his eyes again, visualizing his arms and legs turning into hydraulic pistons.
"That's good. Then Pleione, purchase the Skeletal–Muscular Optimization (Limb Focus)."
[Affirmative.]
[Processing Transaction...]
[Cost: 50 Evolution Points.]
[Remaining EP: 247.]
The air in the room seemed to vibrate. A low hum filled Atlas's ears.
[WARNING: Invasive Biological Restructuring Imminent.]
[Target Areas: Humerus, Radius, Ulna, Femur, Tibia, Fibula, and associated myofascial networks.]
[Please prepare for neural synchronization.]
[Do you wish to proceed?]
Atlas gritted his teeth, gripping the bedsheets.
'Do it,' he snapped mentally.
[Acknowledged. Body Reconstruction in progress...]
[Initiating Genetic Overwrite...]
"Heh," Atlas chuckled nervously. "Go on. I'm prepared."
Then, the heat hit him.
It started in his marrow.
Unlike the full-body evolution which felt like being dipped in lava, this was precise. It felt like invisible, hot wires were being threaded through the center of his arm and leg bones.
CRACK.
Atlas gasped as he felt his left shin bone... shift.
It wasn't a break. It was an Axial Realignment.
The energy surged into his extremities, targeting the microscopic cells in his skeletal structure. The natural, slight curvature of the human femur and tibia—traits evolved for bipedal walking—were being forcefully corrected for better efficiency.
Under the skin, the bones straightened. They became perfectly linear pillars of support.
Simultaneously, the Micro-Lattice Growth began.
Atlas felt a deep, grinding itch inside his bones as the density increased. Layer upon layer of calcified reinforcement was being laid down in a honeycomb pattern, transforming his bones from porous human bone into something resembling organic carbon fiber.
Then came the muscles.
SQUELCH. TEAR. KNIT.
He could feel the fibers in his biceps and quadriceps tearing apart at the cellular level.
But they didn't bleed. They rebuilt instantly.
Myofibrils multiplied. The muscle bellies in his forearms became denser, tighter. The tendons in his ankles and wrists thickened, snapping tight like high-tension cables.
He felt his legs becoming springs. He felt his arms becoming hydraulic rams.
The pain was there—a sharp, burning throb that pulsed with heat—but it wasn't the blinding agony of his first full body evolution. It was roughly the equivalent of getting a shot at over a sunburn. Painful, but manageable.
He lay there for ten minutes, sweat beading on his forehead, his body twitching involuntarily as the System fixed his anatomy.
And then, just like that, it stopped.
The heat vanished. The grinding ceased. The energy originating from the soul vanished.
Atlas lay panting for a moment, testing his fingers. He clenched his fist. The movement felt... snappy. Explosive.
He sat up, confused..
"Hey, Pleione," Atlas asked, flexing his bicep and watching the muscle fibers ripple with new definition. "Why wasn't the pain as bad as always? Is something wrong? Or are you pitying me and dialed down the settings because you don't want to see me cry?"
He asked it in a playful voice, but he was genuinely curious. The last evolution had felt like being dismantled by a chainsaw.