I leveled up, and the influx of rewards and advantages was almost overwhelming. Then again, after hours of holding this checkpoint against hordes of gun-toting zombies, it wasn’t exactly surprising. Still, I knew much of the credit belonged to the federal soldiers who had stood their ground alongside me.

Nevertheless, it felt like the perfect time to allocate my stats. After all, boosting them would mean I could heal more people, withstand more punishment in combat, and, let’s be honest, have even more fun wreaking havoc than I already was.

Name: Ain

Class: Adept Guardian Healer

Race: Fallen Angel

Strength: 15 → 45 (Who Are You Trying To Be, Hercules?)

Agility: 20 → 40 (Still Not Usain Bolt, Sorry)

Vitality: 50 → 65 (Your Skin Is Soft, Yet, Strong)

Aptitude: 45 → 60 (Still No Red Bull)

Opening the skills menu as usual, I got some rather interesting new skills, but the old ones still existed for me to use. I also opened the perk menu, which helped me make the decision faster. The skill and perks do look interesting, after all.

Skills:

* [Healing Bullet]

* [Healer Gas]

* [Purging Wave]

* [Resilient Ward]

* [Demonic Enhancement]

* [Focus]

Perks:

* [First Aider Discount]

* [Fallen Angel Rage]

Should I even buy all of them? No, that would be a bad idea.

Hovering over the skills and perks, I couldn’t help but grin. These were overpowered, no doubt.

[Purging Wave] sent out a wave that healed allies and destroyed undead—a perfect balance of support and offense. [Demonic Enhancement] unlocked raw destructive power, acting as the trigger for [Fallen Angel Rage], which massively boosted my damage output in clutch moments. And then there was [Focus], a skill that slowed my perception of time, creating a slow-motion effect for pinpoint precision and faster reaction time.

For now, I decided to purchase the skills and perks, leaving the decision of which to upgrade for later. With that, my leveling up was complete.

“Hmm, upgrading your class, eh, Ain?” Oscar approached, clapping his hands in slow applause. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I replied, a faint smirk on my face.

“So, healer, where are you headed next?” he asked, his tone curious but weary from the battle.

“Probably to grab the medical supplies you were asking for,” I answered, slinging my rifle over my shoulder.

Oscar’s face twisted in frustration, and he let out a sharp exhale. “Hmph, no wonder my request for medical aid hasn’t come through. Let me guess—the truck’s bloody stuck, isn’t it? Fucking hell.” His voice was a mix of irritation and resignation, the weariness of the day’s events catching up to him.

I gave a small nod.

“Well, and I guess command assigns a contractor for it, huh?” Oscar rolled his eyes.

"What?" I said, narrowing my eyes, caught off guard by his bluntness.

"You’re disposable, Ain," Oscar replied flatly. "No offense, but that’s just how it is with contractors." He paused, gesturing vaguely to the soldiers around us. "Us? We’ve got families, kids, people who depend on us. If we go down, we’re at the top of the priority list for revival. But you? The Federation can wait—unless, of course, one of your fellow contractors is willing to foot the bill for your revival cost."

His words stung, but they were laced with a truth I couldn’t deny. In their eyes, I wasn’t a soldier with roots, just a tool for the job. A resource, expendable and easily replaced.

"Nice to know where I stand," I said dryly, my voice tinged with sarcasm. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Oscar continued, “When contractors are dispatched, it usually means the mission is too dangerous or too costly to send more soldiers. It’s a gamble for command, just like it’s a gamble for you."

He crossed his arms, his gaze turning toward the horizon as if weighing his next words. "Still," he continued, a hint of caution creeping into his voice, "I doubt the truck will just be a truck, Ain if you catch my drift."

I frowned, the weight of his words settling in. "You think it’s bait?"

Oscar smirked faintly. "Or something worse. Either way, keep your eyes open out there. Do you need our help?"

I refused, “I think I get what you mean. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”

“Well, I think I can spare something,” Oscar said, tugging at the front of his ballistic armor. With a grunt, he pulled out the heavy plate nestled inside. "Level VI plate," he explained, holding it out toward me. "This should protect you from something strong enough to pierce a BMP’s armor. And since you’re a contractor," he added with a smirk, "you’ll probably just get thrown around instead of, you know... turned into paste."

I took the plate, feeling its weight in my hands. "Appreciate it," I said, sliding it into my own armor.

"Don’t mention it," he replied, adjusting his now lighter vest. "Just don’t go getting yourself killed before delivering those medical supplies."

“I promise, I won’t.” I then gazed at the sea of corpses. “Oscar, you don’t mind if I loot those husks, right?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

I stepped toward the field of carnage, my boots crunching over shattered weapons and spent shells as I surveyed the lifeless husks. I crouched beside the first husk, its grotesque, partially decayed features locked in an eternal grimace.

"Let’s see what you’ve got," I muttered, my hands moving quickly to rummage through its inventory.

One husk after another, the loot started to add up. Ammunition, weapons, and a lot of personal equipment, which might fetch a decent price if I could get it repaired. Then I struck gold—the peppered juggernaut suit that the husk was wearing. The sight of it almost made me laugh. “Guess you won’t need this anymore,” I quipped, adding it to my growing collection inside of my inventory.

Eventually, my inventory became so full that I had to transfer most of the loot into the back of my pickup truck. Despite my upgraded storage capacity, it wasn’t enough to hold all the weapons and gear from the husks I’d taken down. They were like pests—relentless and in overwhelming numbers.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

After all, it hadn’t just been a skirmish; it was a small army that had assaulted the checkpoint. The sheer volume of loot was staggering, but I prioritized the most valuable finds. My phone became my makeshift ledger as I carefully noted down items that seemed worth selling: intact rifles, ammo, machine guns, and the occasional rare armor scavenged from their corpses.

* 25x M4A1

* 20x AKMs

* 8x M249

* 2x PKM

* 5x M240B

* 1x MG-338

* 15x IOTV GEN-III

* 10x 6B13 Armor

* 30x 6B23 Armor

* A shitton of bullets

* A broken juggernaut suit

The truck bed creaked under the weight of the haul, piled high with gear that could potentially fund my next upgrades—or save my life in the field. As I surveyed the load, I couldn’t help but shake my head with a small grin. "Guess I’m going to need a bigger inventory soon," I muttered.

“You work hard, eh?” Oscar remarked, eyeing the truckload of weapons and gear I’d managed to scavenge. His tone was somewhere between impressed and amused.

“Well, they are hordes,” I replied with a shrug. “Might as well make the most of it.”

Oscar nodded, his gaze shifting to the pile in the truck bed. “Alright, listen. If I were you, I’d sell that haul at the nearest depot first. It’s too much to carry around, and you’ll need the credits more than we will. Don’t worry about the medical supplies—they can wait. Honestly…” He paused, his expression darkening slightly. “I think those ‘supplies’ might not be for us anyway.”

His words hung in the air, adding a weight of suspicion to the already strange mission. “You’re saying it’s a decoy or something?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Just saying—be careful, Ain. Clear your inventory and prep for whatever you’re walking into. The Federation doesn’t send contractors on easy jobs.”

I gave him a nod of thanks. “Appreciate the advice, Oscar. I’ll swing by the depot and gear up before heading out.”

“Good,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Stay safe out there.”

image [https://i.imgur.com/8qWW1iK.png]

“Verdammte Scheiße, young angel, it’s not even a fucking day, yet,” Wilhelm commented.

I returned to Ludmilla, my pickup truck groaning under the weight of the haul. The sheer amount of gear piled in the back certainly turned a few heads, but most people just shrugged it off—contractors hauling in ridiculous amounts of loot probably wasn’t an uncommon sight around here.

Pulling up to the depot, I unloaded everything I planned to sell, stacking it haphazardly on the floor. Wilhelm, the depot’s clerk, gave me a once-over before sighing and grabbing his ledger. Without a word, he began counting and cataloging the mountain of gear I’d brought in.

Piece by piece, he tallied up the haul, scribbling down notes and muttering under his breath. “You’ve been busy,” he said at one point, lifting a battered rifle with a skeptical look.

I just shrugged. “They came in hordes. I didn’t really have a choice.”

Wilhelm smirked faintly and went back to his work. Once he’d finished calculating, he turned to me with a verdict. “Alright, here’s the deal. Some of this gear is in decent shape, but most of it’s barely holding together. Those busted apparel items? Practically scrap. So, the value’s been adjusted accordingly.”

He handed me a slip with the final numbers, and despite the deductions for broken gear, it was still a substantial haul. I couldn’t help but grin. “Not bad for a day’s work.”

Wilhelm looked over the pile of gear with a tired expression, scratching his head. “The assault rifles, hmm… I don’t have time to appraise them all, girl,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Let’s fix them at 1,100 UC each to balance out the AKs and M4s prices. Fair enough?”

He didn’t wait for a response, moving on to the heavier weaponry. “For the LMGs, we’ll call it 3,000 UC each. GPMGs? Those are worth more—5,000 UC apiece. The armors, though…” He paused, poking at a dented chest piece. “Probably 1,000 UC each, given their condition.”

Wilhelm straightened up, brushing his hands off his combat uniform. “Hmm, that’s all, I guess. Sound good?”

I nodded, mentally tallying the numbers. It wasn’t a bad deal, and honestly, I didn’t have the energy to haggle. “Fair enough,” I said, watching him start logging the items into his system. “So… how much?” I asked.

“160,500 UC,” Wilhelm answered.

“Alright.”

“And the funds are transferred, angel,” Wilhelm said, leaning back with a sly grin. “I don’t know how you pulled this off, but damn, you’re one hell of a contractor, you know? If you ever need tanks—or something close—just let me know. Maybe I’ve got something cheap that’ll catch your eye.”

“Noted,” I replied with a faint smirk, mentally filing away the offer. You never knew when a tank might come in handy. “And Wilhelm, can you fix this thing?”

I pulled out the juggernaut suit, knowing how it tanked the MRAD easily, I would like to have one, and probably, Wilhelm would be willing to swap it for a brand new one of my size, but I didn’t have too much hope of it.

“Damn, how the hell did you shred a high-performance ballistic suit?” Wilhelm muttered, shaking his head as he inspected the ruined gear. Chips of ceramic dust clung to the battered fabric. “Tell you what—I’ll trade you a new one for 4,000 UC.”

“What’s so special about it?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

“It’s a suit made with high-tensile aramid fibers woven in a cross pattern for extra strength and to spread out impact. The ceramic plates are silicon carbide with a dense backing to stop them from shattering and to absorb energy from hits. This setup can stop rifle rounds—even lead-core 12.7x99mm NATO. On top of that, the outer shell is coated with a special resin to resist fire, wear, and bad weather, and it’s sealed to keep everything working under tough conditions,” Wilhelm stopped to take a breath.

“Go on,” I said.

“The helmet is made from high-density aramid fibers reinforced with ceramic inserts, providing excellent protection. It’s compatible with standard accessories like NVGs, flashlights, and other tactical gear.”

“So…”

“Anything short of a Barrett M82 won’t take you down,” Wilhelm said, smirking. “Yeah, it’s heavy as hell, but with this, you could survive almost anything. Just remember—if someone brings something bigger than a Barrett, you’d better turn and run.”

“Okay, thanks,” I replied with a nod.

“Still,” Wilhelm continued, hefting the armor slightly, “you’ll need time to strap this thing on. It’s no power armor, but it’ll fit snugly enough over your outfit. So, what’s it gonna be? Are you buying or not?”

“Sure, go ahead,” I said without hesitation.

“Deal,” he replied, a satisfied grin on his face. “I’ll find your size. Wait here.”

After a few minutes, he returned with the armor. “Here we go,” he said, placing it on the counter with a dull thud. It looked imposing up close, its ceramic plates glinting faintly under the depot’s overhead lights. “This should fit you. If not, well, you’ll just have to grow into it.”

I chuckled. “Let’s hope it fits. I don’t have time to grow right now.”

Wilhelm smirked, crossing his arms. “Try it on. It won’t do much good if you can’t move in it.”

With a bit of effort, I strapped the armor over my current outfit, adjusting the buckles and tightening the straps. It was heavier than I’d expected, but it didn’t feel unwieldy. The snug fit was surprisingly comfortable, and I could still move without feeling restricted.

“How’s it feel?” Wilhelm asked, watching me with a critical eye.

“Solid,” I replied, shifting my shoulders and testing the range of motion. “A bit heavier than I’m used to, but manageable.”

“Good,” Wilhelm said with a satisfied nod, leaning on the counter. “If I gave this to level 1 you, though? You’d be overwhelmed. That outfit weighs 90 kilos.” He smirked slightly, watching as I adjusted a strap. “Just remember what I told you—this thing can handle just about anything, but if you see anti-materiel gear pointed your way? Don’t try to be a hero.”

“Got it,” I said with a faint grin. “Thanks for the warning—and the upgrade.”

I quickly stripped off the suit and stowed it in my inventory. Taking it off was much easier than putting it on—unsurprisingly. As I secured it away, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. There was no way anyone could swim in that outfit, and that probably explained why the juggernaut armor was designed to be so easy to remove.

Still, couple that with a machine gun, either the M249 or the MG-338, and it would be a beast, after all, I didn’t sell those two things for an obvious reason. I was planning on buying or fixing the juggernaut suit from the get-go. It was a beast, considering that it somehow tanked the machine guns and the barrage that we threw at it. We destroyed it by the sheer amount of fire, not because our weapons were any powerful.

“Now, what are you going to do next?” Wilhelm asked.

“I still have a contract to fulfill,” I answered, putting my night-vision goggles on my helmet. It snugged perfectly into the helmet that I wore.

“Woah, woah, young angel, is that a Ground-Panoramic Night-Vision Goggles?” Wilhelm asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Look, I know it might sound strange, but hear me out—it’s better if you insure your equipment,” Wilhelm said, leaning on the counter. “Sure, you can try to retrieve it yourself from your dead body, or worse, your dead husk, but with insurance, you can skip all that. You come back to me, and I’ll have it waiting for you—no extra cost.”

“How much?”

He smirked, tapping his ledger. “It’s only 20% of the item’s value upfront. Don’t you think that’s a good deal?”

“For my whole gear?” I asked.

“Well, let’s see, any items purchased from me is already insured, you might only want to insure the weapons you find on the field,” Wilhelm further explained.

“Ok.”

“Let me get my hand on my scanner for you,” Wilhelm grabbed his phone-like thing from his pocket and scanned me with it. “I see you found two new machine guns, an M249, and an MG-338. That’ll be 5,000 UC in total.”

“Fine,” I said, transferring 5,000 UC into Wilhelm’s account.

“It’s a good day doing business with you,” Wilhelm smiled. He then handed me a laser sight. “A bonus, just for you, dear angel.”

“Thanks.”