Nobody ever took things with the gravitas it deserved, not even now, not even when the entire fucking world was falling over. There was no such thing as ‘sanity’ or ‘common sense’, only its malicious counterparts that ate away at your mind, but for some, who didn’t have much of a mind in the first place, the feeling would’ve been euphoric, as twisted as that sounded.

Deon Griffiths seemed to be one of the few who was willing to treat the incident properly. He couldn’t trust the others to do it, not after what they had experienced. Victor was too immature. Kaiya was way too immature, worse than him. And Chunhua was a child masquerading as an adult. And the rest of his classmates too, who were either too weak or too meek, following what others had to say without a lick of thought or agency for themselves.

And when their own dead was revived, how would they react then? Nothing good. They’d freeze. They’d be irrationally angry. They’d cry maybe and curse at God or whoever for pulling this stunt. Finally, consequently, they’d make a mistake, and be in the grave.

In summary, most people were not cut out to be warriors. They shouldn’t even be here, caught precariously in the line of fire, constantly dangling on the wire between life and death. You needed balance for this, mind and body. You needed expertise, and perhaps—as Dad liked to say—you needed to be ‘wicked’ enough to enjoy the walk.

This was a better time than any to develop a liking to this acquired taste.

Deon grunted, sitting on the hood of a wrecked car, having his copper-colored greatsword resting against the front tire, blood dripping from the edges. It had the length of a child, the sharpness of a fine knife always, and as long as Deon provided his mana signature, it’d be as light as rain. That was his [Talonstride], a greatsword crafted for him as a present from Professor Ichiken as a reward for reaching B-Rank.

The [Talonstride] was a collaborative effort by the third-years in the Weaponsmithing class. It was mechanically and magically dense: they had implemented a permanent sharpness enchantment, and used mana signature tech to specialize this weapon for him and only him. Most of all—and this was the most impressive part—it could transform into an imposing shield as tough as the finest manasteel. The shield had a draconic design at the center, so whenever he used barrier magick, he’d flash his symbol.

Tacky, but he was grateful. This was the ultimate reward for his efforts, and what he had accomplished at Ordo University.

It had taken vigorous training and self-innovation to reach this level. Rarely would third-years reach a B-Rank; most settled in the C’s (you should never settle). Victor had annoyingly said that he’d be the first to reach A; obviously, that didn’t working out for him so he stopped talking about it. He used to repeat that almost everyday last year.

Deon sighed, looking down at his hands. Perhaps he took his college years too lightly, participating in his classmates’ silly games and banter, only to have their beloved class bonding—as intentionally nurtured by the college—torn asunder by tragedy. Life often worked like that, Deon thought, in twos. Duality, halves, all those words: there were good times and tragic times, and each reiteration shortened the former and extended the latter.

He looked around at the empty block, where the dead lay on the streets, hunched over sitting against storefronts, and sometimes in their pieces, they were still alive, weakly clawing at the nearest thing like a baby reaching for their mother.

Deon had cleared this area of zombies, by himself, using the [Talonstride] that the Supportive Program had forged for him (some dead now), watching as distant zombies shamble to their necromancer’s call (the Tormented Flesh supposedly), and bitter at the world and everything for taking the innocence he once had. He recalled how it occurred, when he made the original discovery that bad things happened to good people for no apparent reason, that the world had its own arbitrary laws and the golden word called ‘Fate’ was the summation of dice rolls—the gambler of one’s future as ultimately not you, but the universe who decided the winning plays and dealt the pot unfairly.

That’s the way things work in the great expanse of the multiverse, he thought to himself, comfortable in his own existentialism, I always wonder if we’re puppet on strings or trains riding to the dead end of a tunnel.

The multiverse, perhaps, was one of the worst discoveries made by mankind, grouped together with the likes of atomic weaponry and different scores of philosophic hatred. It had destroyed scientific understanding, religion, and was a constant apocalyptic threat (many considered the last one to be largely unimportant compared to the other two).

That was mankind’s irony wrapped tidy in a pretty bow, articulately and cognizant of a sudden armageddon, but of course, the end of this great world would be mildly (incredibly) inconvenient to their days, their businesses, like walking by a child laying on the street dying. Mankind had enacted the worst cruelties upon each other and the natural earth; how horrible its creator must be.

A low, far and disturbingly near growl tickled Deon’s ear, a soft whisper of a threat, and immediately he bounced onto his feet and hoisted the mighty [Talonstrider] on his shoulder, weightless. He had been dallying for far too long: a creeping horde was approaching him on the west. The east too. Through the northern alleyways and the southern fronts. Well, that meant he was surrounded. Surrounded by thousands of zombies. If he had the stamina, he could stand his ground.

He did not have the stamina.

Great. I need to—

Before he even thought to act, an arrow pierced through the stale air, boomed past his head, and firmly cracked something hard behind him: a zombie, one he missed, one that might’ve torn a chunk out of his neck. He traced the trajectory to its source: a young, amber-colored man donning icons of Native American culture, who had his arms stretched apart as if nocking a bow. He did not have one. In its place, a phantom grew from his body and gave him the weapon and finesse to do so, perfectly.

That was Joseph, Beckoner, who took refuge in an alleyway whose walls were splattered high and low with thick brushes of blood. A blonde-haired woman darted from the entrance next, wearing a rather revealing outfit crossed between a magician and a stage actress—Alice, or Verse.

And of course, the leader of the team had to appear last as if this was some sort of dramatic story: the Class Representative of Combative Class A2, Victor. Damn, did he look pissed though. He was almost as red as the blood painting his cheeks and armor.

“Oi!” he cried, “you fucking asshole, you’re going to get overrun!”

Deon looked around at the oncoming horde. He had about less than thirty seconds before they’d become a serious concern. He turned to Victor and shrugged.

Victor rolled his eyes. Joseph and Alice whispered something to him. He nodded his head, exasperated, half-ready to kill Deon and half-ready to abandon him, but he chose neither. He yelled again, “You’re not fucking cool, you know that right?!”

This guy is an idiot. Deon shouted back, “You’ll never be as strong as you want! You’ll probably be some Oasis-type human garbage!”

“You mother—!” Victor stopped himself and paced around in a circle. “You are the worst asshole I know! Do you really wanna die here, man?!”

His words spurred a sudden memory in Deon’s head: when Chunhua tried to appeal to him, and how he humiliatingly got knocked down by a simple strike from her. He had many things to say about her. Although she was pretty (Kaiya thought she was the cutest), Chunhua had no right to speak about duty and responsibility after squandering hers.

But…

Well, Deon didn’t know what Victor might do. Most of the time, Victor was a predictable man; however, in high-intensity moments, he’d take actions that would go against his typical behavior. It happened during class-versus-class exercises, where he’d pull through with a win (or a complete loss). If he let this genius do that, then everyone might as well turn the knife onto themselves.

I can’t believe I’m doing this, he thought to himself. The zombies were closing in, about ten to fifteen seconds until gray, decaying impact. More than enough time. “Fine!” he answered, already running towards them as fast as he could.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Victor looked to be trapped between relief—that Deon gave up on his stubbornness—and sheer contempt—because it was Deon, him, and Deon had felt exactly the same way and more. It was a romantic exchange between rivaling men, where they mutually and exclusively despised one another, because there was no bigger bastard than him.

So everyone, led by Victor, escaped the area and the growing growling nonsense uttered by the deceased, and down numerous alleyways—where Alice and Joseph frequently glanced back at Deon, glaring—until they suddenly stopped, caught halfway deep into one with no quick exit.

“Shit,” Victor muttered. Ahead of him was a party of zombies, reaching to the high tens, squeezing between the claustrophobic walls, pressed together like sardines, reaching and outnumbering and getting closer. “Let’s retreat—motherfucker, where did they come from?!”

The same was said for behind them. Deon should’ve expected this: he consistently thought too highly of Victor, and each time that man disappointed him further and further. “Did you not map out your escape route?!“

Victor snapped, “I did! I was taking us closer to the Tormented Flesh, but surprise! Zombies are concentrating there!”

Joseph was about to suggest something before Deon pushed him aside. He lifted his [Talonstrider] above him and channeled his mana. Mana was the color of a pure world, the ink of phenomenon that could write miracles. It seeped into the [Talonstrider], flowing through the mechanical mana channels, struck the catalysts, the microscopic runes carved with an incomprehensible tiny manasteel blade. Gears turned, magic was reality. The sword shifted, split apart, akin to some steampunk device, and the individual pieces snapped together into an alternate configuration, of a shield as stalwart as him. Wide and tall, harder than the mightiest of stones, and it was his.

“Out of my way!” Deon shouted, and charged into the forwardmost cursed spawn.

[Skill Activation: Barrier - Draconic Shield]

From the shield, a translucent orange barrier erupted and tackily plastered his symbol at the center. Its edges cracked into the walls beside him, scratched by during his sprint, and the zombies too cracked, struck by the [Draconic Shield]. It had an inherent property: whatever touches the shield will be burnt, gravely, so what will happen to rotten flesh?

Deon, with his impressive brawn, pushed. Faces melted against the barrier spell. Flesh dripped from bones. Even eyes turned to an icky white slop. The smell was horrendous, enough to rile his stomach. Every step he took, more zombies pushed together. Adding weight. Made him slower, but never made him cow. He was stronger than this. He had to. People had died under his stead, and no matter his feelings, death was rarely deserved.

So he pushed, and stepped, and advanced, holding back tens of zombies, to over a hundred, as a single man struggling against the undead tide.

It’d be impossible for the zombies to break through. He knew this.

“Over here!” Victor called after Deon had cleared the way, standing near a small staircase leading into the backrooms of some building. Alice and Joseph had already ducked inside.

Deon nodded and turned to the dead. “Rest, okay?”

The [Draconic Shield] activated its second effect: Wavefire. At any time, Deon could deactivate the barrier and emit a scorching fire-gust, and he had. The entire debauchee was enveloped in a screaming, hideous flames that turned their bodies black as soot. Using this opportunity, he dashed into the building, heard the door click behind him, then a shelf fell barricading it.

They were in a storage room.

Victor sighed in relief, turning to his team. “Alice, Joseph, everything okay here?”

Joseph looked out of a high window, nodding. “Yup. There’s too many zombies out there though; if we don’t get overwhelmed, we’ll definitely burn out.”

Alice nodded. “So we’re trapped here, long story short. I already called in for help. Sage is taking care of it now.”

“I consider that good news,” Victor said, smiling. “None of us are dead. We’re all accounted for, and…”

Deon frowned. “I wouldn’t think that’s—“

Victor punched Deon in the jaw. Hard. He didn’t hold anything back with that. Even knocked Deon against a shelf, knocking over several boxes.

“What the FUCK were you thinking?!” snapped Victor.

Deon chuckled, tasting blood in his mouth. The inside of his lip was cut. That was a good punch. “What?”

“You abandoned your own fucking team!” Victor said. “If I hated you any more I wouldn’t have saved your ass—“

“You didn’t save me—“

“Shut the fuck up, that doesn’t matter. You're lucky that your teammates—our friends—can take care of themselves! Abandonment’s about the worst fucking thing you can do, what makes you think you’re special?”

“I was following Chunhua’s advice,” answered Deon. That was why he was alone. Professor Ichiken had spoken to him before the mission began, about Chunhua’s concerns; he trusted Deon still, to lead his team. That was a poor decision.

Deon didn’t think his team was particularly useful. Kevan, although he was a great sorcerer, often let his nerves get the best of him. On the other hand, Jannis was too proud and was hard to convince. And there was Amelia, too passive. Too meek. There was no leadership quality in her; truthfully, Deon thought Amelia would drop out in the first year.

These feelings came to a boil, and Deon had a shouting contest with his teammates. One thing led to another and he left, deciding that these people were not simply worth it, and Chunhua—for once—was right: it was not worth dragging them into battle. They’d die.

And they were angry, just like Victor right now. “What the fuck is wrong with you? What happened in the hospital?“

Deon laughed, shaking his head. What happened in the hospital was hardly any different elsewhere: Ordo University, Black Paladin Station, everywhere basically. People died, indiscriminately. He could’ve stopped it, so many times. Everyone had their own tragedy. They had their regrets, each to the last, and had the memories burned into their retinas.

It seemed everyone had their own sob stories. Deon couldn’t understand how—after experiencing those things—they could laugh afterwards at some stupid joke, or enjoy food again, or have the same determination? That was something incomprehensible to him, and he couldn’t hope to attain the answer.

“It doesn’t matter,” Deon said, smiling through pink teeth. “I abandoned my team, go ahead and yell at me.”

“Alright,” Victor concluded. “You’re done, Deon. You did something completely fucking unforgivable. After we finish up with the Tormented Flesh, you have to explain this to Professor Ichiken.”

That was the only natural consequence.

Deon said nothing else. No one had anything else to say; anger and resentment had subsided, and disappointment creeped into its place. His friends. Classmates. Disappointed. What a fuck-up this was. They did nothing but listen to the zombies outside, scratching at the walls. Some had rocky voices, some as shrill as crows, some squeaked and plucked. Then, oddly enough, the growling roared into screeching. Everyone turned to the nearest window and saw flickers of flames fly by. Soon the zombie voices turned human.

No one could make out the voices.

About thirty seconds later, they heard a knock on the door, rhythmic, acting as a sign that it was a human. After all, no zombies knew rhythm. Victor nudged Joseph, and Joseph lifted the shelf off of the door, throwing it to the side.

The door opened to reveal a tall black-haired man with silver-white eyes, holding a bloody chipped sword. Behind him was a Korean woman who had a skull impaled on her shortsword, a full-armored man wielding a flaming axe, and another woman in a tight bodysuit.

Victor flipped him off. “Why does it have to be you?

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Uh huh, fuck you too. You guys okay? We’re going to the Tormented Flesh after this.”

Victor looked at Deon. “Are we?”

No matter what Deon thought, he had to at least help. “Yeah. We’re fine. Let’s go.”

The System dinged, and they received a new quest.

~

[Quest Notification - New Subquest]

Subjugation: Tormented Flesh

The invaders bastardized your dead, using them as pawns to further their own destructive purposes. Bring rest to the restless ones, free them from the tragedy they have fallen from and give them death.

Difficulty

S

Victory Condition The Tormented Flesh is slain Defeat Condition

Pillar Dawns is destroyed

The Tormented Flesh reaches SS [Current Rank: S5]

Rewards

500,000 standards

Bestiary - Comets