The apartment's main stairwell creaked beneath his boots as Aiden descended the last flight. Dust puffed from the crumbling corners, and the scent of rotting drywall mingled with the metallic sting of the outside air drifting in through fractured windows. Each step was measured, calm, but heavy with purpose. He wasn't running anymore. He wasn't hiding.
He was prepared.
The moment he reached the busted front doors of the building—half blown out, half boarded up with scavenged furniture—Aiden paused. He adjusted the strap of his duffel, then pulled the dark balaclava higher over the bridge of his nose. The mask molded tight to his features, leaving only his cold, calculating eyes visible—a glimmer of blue against a face shaped by wariness and will.
And then… he stepped outside.
Atlanta greeted him with its usual broken silence.
The once-lively streets, once bustling with honking cars, food trucks, chatter and chaos, were now overtaken by creeping weeds and the skeletal remains of long-abandoned vehicles. Lamp posts leaned like old men, and windows in nearby buildings stood like empty eye sockets—haunted, hollow, watching. Far in the distance, the wind tugged at a torn banner that read: "Welcome to the Digital Renaissance – 2074 Tech Expo". A cruel remnant of a time long gone.
But Aiden paid it no mind. His focus was straight ahead—toward the ruins of the massive Central Atlanta Library, just half a block down, its upper floors scorched and crumbled, but its structure still standing. It loomed like a tomb of forgotten brilliance, and he'd already harvested its treasures the day before.
Aiden's silhouette was sharp against the gray sky—lean, quiet, and functional. His new gear wasn't flashy, but every item had a purpose:
Black Canvas Tactical Jacket:Reinforced at the elbows and shoulders, it clung close to his frame without restricting movement. Deep inner pockets were layered with hidden compartments—he had sewn some in himself the night before. One of them carried a hand-sized tool kit; another held a notepad and a graphite stylus he'd crafted from melted wiring.
Balaclava-Style Face Cover:Black, breathable, insulating. It hid most of his face without hindering visibility, and helped him stay anonymous in a world where anonymity could mean survival. The woven fabric muffled his breath and trapped warmth, and a charcoal filter stitched into the mouth region helped mitigate dust.
Tactical Gloves with Reinforced Knuckles:Made of polymer mesh and synthetic leather. The hard knuckles weren't just for show—they'd already cracked a few bones during a close encounter in the subway two weeks ago. The fingertips remained dexterous enough for precision work—reloading, lockpicking, or handling a makeshift explosive fuse.
Insulated Hiking Boots:Weather-worn but solid. Steel-toed, waterproof, ankle-supporting beasts of footwear. He'd waterproofed them himself using melted wax from a candle and some synthetic sealant he found in a ruined hardware store. Every step felt stable, silent.
Bulletproof Vest (Tier 2 Kevlar):Looted from the remains of a suburban home-turned-fortress. Scratched and scuffed but structurally sound. The ceramic plate inserts had taken a round at some point but were still usable. Aiden had reinforced the stitching himself. It hugged tightly beneath the jacket, heavy but comforting.
Dark Blue Duffel Bag (Tactical Disguise):It looked mundane—military surplus maybe, worn from time. But it served two purposes:
It held actual supplies: food, purified water, a field repair kit, small coil of rope, pocket stove, spare clothes, journal, and first-aid items.
More importantly—it disguised the existence of his System Inventory, which he had decided, wisely, to keep secret from everyone. If anyone ever watched him pull out gear or weapons seemingly from nowhere, the duffel would provide the illusion. He could palm items into it with sleight of hand, making it look natural.
Katana – Sheathed Across His Back:It wasn't ornate. No golden dragons, no engraved kanji. Just a functional, well-balanced blade he'd cleaned and sharpened after finding it in the back room of a collapsed dojo weeks ago. The sheath was wrapped in repurposed climbing rope, slung diagonally across his back so the grip rested just above his left shoulder.
Standard-Issue M9 Pistol:Tucked into a thigh holster and secured with two straps. Found at the old hospital, its serial number scratched off. Cleaned and oiled. Three full magazines of 9mm ammo nestled inside a pouch on his belt. He'd practiced with it enough now that the recoil didn't surprise him anymore. The weapon was as much an extension of his hand as the katana.
Aiden adjusted the duffel slightly and scanned the street with practiced eyes. The Mental Reservoir trait was already working subtly in the background. His mind layered knowledge from his readings over the environment in front of him—calculating elevation angles, assessing where tripwire traps might be most effective, identifying the best vantage points for ambush or retreat.
And even though he stood alone, surrounded by the bones of a broken civilization… Aiden felt composed.
"This world isn't going to save me. But it's sure as hell going to challenge me. Let it."
He took a step forward. Then another. Boots crunching gravel. Duffel swaying. The katana shifted slightly with each stride.
The library faded behind him like a chapter already written.
The road ahead?Still blank.
And Aiden was ready to write his name on every page of it—one smart decision, one learned skill, one sharpened weapon at a time.
The door of the apartment complex shut behind him with a soft click. Not a slam. Not a creak. Just the hush of wood and rusted hinges pressing back into place. Aiden didn't look back.
The sky over Atlanta was pale—stained gray by ash, dust, and time. Faint streaks of old jet contrails were the only movement overhead, frozen in a sky that had forgotten what it meant to be alive. The air carried the low whistle of a dry wind dragging across broken glass, abandoned cars, and piles of trash scattered by storms and scavengers alike.
Aiden adjusted the strap on his shoulder, pulling the duffel bag tight against his back. It didn't weigh as much as it should have. Most of the food and items he carried weren't actually in the bag—they were locked in the strange timeless void of his System Storage, untouched by decay or time. But no one else could know that. To anyone watching, the worn bag was full. Heavy. Real.
He passed the edge of the library plaza, his boots stepping lightly through the cracked sidewalk. His gear shifted with a whisper of cloth and canvas. The black tactical jacket hung close to his body, padded and quiet. His face was hidden beneath the balaclava, leaving only his eyes visible—cold and focused, scanning every alley, every rooftop, every shattered windowpane. He moved like he wasn't just trying to avoid being seen—he moved like he expected someone might already be watching.
Somewhere to the north—three or four blocks away—lay the old mall.
Aiden had spotted it on the faded city map he'd found in the library archives, marked Perimeter Square. It was a sprawl of commercial decay, a monument to capitalism now crumbling beneath vines and silence. Malls were dangerous—dens of darkness, bottlenecks, and blind corners—but they were also treasure troves. If there was food sealed away somewhere untouched, it would be there. And with his inventory's ability to keep anything from spoiling once stored, he wouldn't just survive. He'd thrive.
The more food he gathered, the longer he could operate without relying on others. Without needing anyone.
That alone was worth the risk.
He moved quickly but never rushed, keeping to the sides of buildings and slinking through alleys where the light barely touched. Trash bins, burned-out sedans, cracked pillars of concrete—these became his cover, his terrain.
Twice he stopped entirely, crouching behind dumpsters as small clusters of walkers drifted by.
They were like forgotten puppets—swaying bodies draped in old uniforms and hoodies, their skin loose and gray, mouths slightly open as they murmured nonsense into the stale air. They didn't speak. They didn't think. But they listened. A snapped twig, a kicked can, a cough—that was all it took.
Aiden watched them with clinical silence. If he didn't have to kill them, he wouldn't. Every fight was a risk, every swing of the katana a gamble that could leave blood or sound or worse. His stamina had improved—he could feel that clearly since yesterday—but he wasn't eager to waste it on shambling corpses when the real threats might be waiting inside the mall itself.
He took a longer route, circling past an old café with shattered windows and overturned chairs. As he passed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sealed snack bar he'd taken from a nearby shelf. He palmed it naturally, slipped it into the duffel.
The rest of the food—canned meat, granola, dried noodles—had disappeared quietly into the system.
Frozen in time. Preserved. Hidden.
The duffel was just the mask. A lie to tell the world: "See? Nothing strange here. Just a guy with a bag."
It was nearing midday when the shadow of the Perimeter Square Mall finally loomed before him.
The building looked like it had been dragged through hell and back. Part of the west wing had collapsed entirely, and vines the size of tree roots clung to the east wall like a choking hand. Windows were blown out, black holes into the belly of the mall. The faded sign overhead flickered uselessly in the wind, the plastic letters spelling "RI R MALL" in broken pieces.
Aiden stood across the street, crouched beside a burnt-out food truck that reeked of old oil and scorched metal. He surveyed the mall quietly, watching the entrances. The main front doors were wide open—too open. A clear invitation… or a trap. He didn't like it. He never liked what was easy.
Instead, he moved to the side—toward the loading docks.
Collapsed dumpsters, shipping pallets, and chunks of concrete blocked much of the southern tunnel entrance, but he spotted a narrow gap beneath a broken shutter. It would be tight, and pitch black inside, but it was hidden.
Exactly what he needed.
Before entering, Aiden pulled out a tattered piece of paper from his coat. On it, scribbled in quick graphite lines, was a supply checklist. Not just food this time—tools, medicine, gear. He folded the paper again, tucked it into a hidden sleeve pocket, and knelt beside the shutter.
The scent coming from the tunnel was old—stale air, mold, and the ghost of engine grease.
He closed his eyes, letting his mind calm. He'd read about this—"Mental Priming Before Entry into Hazard Zones." One of the psychology manuals from the library. A small technique, but it worked. Deep breath. Lowered heart rate. Sharpened focus.
And then, slowly, he slipped beneath the broken shutter and disappeared into the dark.
The darkness inside the mall pressed in like a held breath—dense, stagnant, and heavy with the stench of rot and dust.
Aiden crawled under the bent shutter, feeling its cold metal graze the top of his jacket. The moment his boots hit tile, he rose into a crouch, katana still sheathed but his hand resting loosely on its grip. His eyes adjusted quickly; the training from the books had helped more than he'd realized. Light from cracked skylights filtered down in thin shafts, catching floating motes of dust and illuminating the desolation inside.
What had once been a temple of noise, crowds, and flashing signs was now a hollow corpse of commerce. Overturned benches, mannequins collapsed in dramatic poses, spilled soda cups fossilized in dried syrup—all surrounded by a silence broken only by the occasional skitter of debris falling somewhere far ahead.
Then—
[Ding!]
Aiden's pupils contracted slightly as the familiar chime echoed in his mind like a voice slipping into his skull through the seams of reality.
[New Quest: Killing Spree]Objective: Kill all the walkers inside the mall[Walkers: 0 / 56]
Reward:• Skill Unlocked: Novice Melee Mastery Lv. 1• +200 EXP
Bonus Task:Gain bonus EXP for each walker killed using stealth.
Aiden didn't flinch. He'd learned not to.
The system's appearance was never loud in the physical sense—no glowing lights, no robotic voices from nowhere. But the feeling of it arriving, the way it twisted the air for just a second, always made his spine tighten. Like a phantom standing behind him, whispering possibilities.
Fifty-six walkers.
That number made him pause.
This wouldn't be a quick sweep. This was a hunt.
He moved deeper, careful to keep to the shadows cast by toppled kiosks and pillars. The echo of distant groans told him the mall wasn't empty, and not all the infected were standing still. Somewhere ahead, in the cavernous main plaza, he could already hear the subtle rhythm of their dragging feet.
He crouched behind a broken photo booth near the arcade entrance and scanned the upper levels. A railing had collapsed from the second floor, leaving jagged metal hanging like broken ribs. Walkers shambled along the edge, half of them staring blankly into the atrium, others wandering near storefronts of ruined boutiques and fast-food counters.
"Fifty-six."
It wasn't just a number anymore—it was a map in his mind. An invisible tally. Fifty-six red dots scattered across this ghost of a shopping center. And he had to erase them.
Quietly, if possible.
"Stealth kills… more EXP."
His fingers tightened around the grip of the katana as he unlatched the sheath with a whisper of steel. He didn't draw it fully yet—no need to flash light off the blade. Not yet.
His first target was nearby.
A walker in a faded maintenance uniform stood facing the corner of a now-abandoned phone repair kiosk. It swayed gently, arms slack, mouth half open in some dreamless twitch.
Aiden moved.
He stepped slow and smooth, keeping his center of gravity low. Just like the urban tactics book had shown—"Predator Motion," it called it. The art of moving without disturbing sound. His boots didn't scuff, didn't tap. Each step was a ghost's sigh.
When he reached it, he rose behind the walker like a shadow being pulled into form. The katana slid free with a quiet whisper.
The strike was clean.
A sideways arc across the base of the skull—quick, deep, and final.
The walker slumped without a sound.
[Walker Killed: +2 EXP]
[Bonus Stealth Kill: +4 EXP]
Total: 6 EXP
Aiden exhaled slowly.
One down.
Fifty-five to go.
For the next hour, he became a phantom in the ruins.
He stalked them one by one—never rushing, never letting emotion override precision. Behind a shattered Sephora counter, through the food court where crows pecked at a long-dead body, into the broken elevator shafts. Walkers were everywhere. Some alone, easy prey. Others in tight clusters that forced him to wait. Watch. Learn their rhythm.
Every step was a lesson. Every kill, a calculation. Every stealth takedown, a subtle dance with the edge of death.
But the mall wasn't quiet forever.
In one of the side wings—a collapsed home décor store—he stepped on a broken picture frame, and the sharp crack echoed like a gunshot.
The walkers turned.
Three of them. No—five.
"Damn."
He backed up fast, katana rising into a two-handed stance. They rushed, arms flailing, jaws gnashing with hunger. The first went down with a clean slash, the second with a thrust through the eye. But the third grabbed his shoulder.
Aiden twisted, slammed it into the wall, and drove his blade through the chest.
The last two he took down with a flurry of desperate but precise swings, his stamina bar in the corner of his vision ticking down slightly with each blow.
When the last one fell, twitching on the tile, Aiden stood over the bodies, panting behind his balaclava.
Blood dripped from the blade, steaming faintly in the cool air.
[Multiple Walkers Killed – 16 EXP]
[Total: 8 Walkers eliminated. Remaining: 48]
He wiped the blade clean on a nearby tarp, slid it back into its sheath, and stepped over the remains.
His heart was beating faster now, but not from panic. From focus. From the rising heat of battle.
He looked up toward the dim light filtering in through the broken skylight.
Fifty-six walkers were no small task.
But Aiden knew one thing now, standing in the ruins of a dead world, surrounded by the fallen:
The mall became a warzone.
Not of bullets and firepower, but of shadows and silence, of cunning and patience. Aiden was not the same man who had slipped beneath the loading dock shutter. That man had entered a dark tomb full of death.
This one would own it.
He crept through the half-lit halls of Perimeter Square Mall, katana in hand, vision sharp, mind sharper. Every walker he saw wasn't a threat to be feared. They were targets in a game of chess he was learning to master, piece by bloody piece.
His first move was elegant.
He slipped into an old Bath & Body Works, long-since looted, shelves half-collapsed. The scent of stale perfume still hung in the air, oddly strong. Three walkers milled about just outside, brushing past each other like blind fish. Aiden studied them—watched their gait, their breathing (if you could call it that), and the small sounds they made.
Then he pulled a metal lid from a candle jar and lobbed it into the corridor.
Clink. Clatter.
The sound echoed like a challenge down the corridor. The walkers turned instantly, arms twitching, heads tilting toward the noise like dogs scenting blood.
Aiden waited in the shadows.
They wandered closer, drawn to the source—but the source was never where he truly was.
He struck fast. One from behind—clean slice through the neck. The other he pulled backward and stabbed upward through the chin, silencing the gurgle before it could rise.
[Walker Killed: +4 EXP]
[Bonus Stealth Kill: + 8 EXP ]
The third turned just as he stood. Too late. Aiden's blade was already cutting across its torso.
He wiped the katana and moved on.
In the wide atrium near the food court, he switched tactics.
He crouched atop the shattered balcony, surveying the mall floor below. Dozens of walkers wandered near what had once been a soft pretzel kiosk and an escalator now frozen in rust. The benches around the fountain were cracked and moss-covered. It was the perfect kill zone.
From his elevated position, Aiden spotted a large wheeled janitor's cart that had been wedged near the balcony edge—its frame rusted, but still intact. He pulled out a chunk of broken ceiling tile and hurled it hard against a vending machine far below.
The bang echoed like a thunderclap.
The walkers below stopped. Stared. Then began to shamble toward the sound. As they did, Aiden braced himself.
With a grunt of effort, he shoved the janitor's cart forward.
The wheels squealed briefly before the entire thing tipped over the broken railing and plummeted.
The crash was violent.
Metal slammed into bone, concrete, and flesh with a sickening crunch. Five walkers were crushed instantly—bones split, skulls flattened. One had its spine shattered as it was pinned against the kiosk. Others groaned and staggered, disoriented, clawing at the air.
Aiden was already moving.
He vaulted down a side stairwell and appeared behind them like a reaper cloaked in ash.
When the smoke cleared, he had slain a dozen more.
His EXP bar ticked upward like a heartbeat. The system didn't speak—didn't praise or comment. But Aiden felt it. That quiet sense of progress. Of momentum.
Still, there were more.
The atrium had served its purpose, but the noise had drawn others from the far wings of the mall. A larger group now funneled through the dark corridor that once led to a cinema entrance, their groans growing louder as their numbers thickened.
Aiden's eyes narrowed.
"Too many to fight directly."
He ducked into a long-forgotten sportswear store, smashed open the liquor cabinet in the customer lounge. Dusty bottles of whiskey and brandy clinked inside.
He grabbed one—amber-gold and pungent.
Ripping part of the sleeve from a fallen mannequin's shirt, he created a makeshift fuse. Rope, cloth, and instinct. A Molotov cocktail.
He doused the rag, held the bottle in one hand, and lighter in the other.
The groans came closer. He peeked from behind the half-shattered glass door. Walkers. Fifteen, maybe more, stumbling through the old cinema corridor like a tidal wave of decay.
He lit the rag. Flame hissed to life, licking at the bottle's neck.
"This is mine now."
He hurled it.
The bottle arced through the air like a comet and shattered against the tiled floor just ahead of the walkers. Flames burst into being—orange, red, hungry.
The fire roared.
It engulfed the floor in a spreading pool of flame, devouring the closest infected in seconds. They howled—not in fear or pain, but in the unnatural scream of flesh that forgot it could feel. Some burned where they stood. Others fell, writhing. A few tried to push through, but the fire claimed them, too.
[Multiple Walkers Incinerated: +30 EXP]
[stealth bonus: +60 EXP]
The hallway flickered in orange light. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. The scent of burning rot filled the air.
Aiden stood back, eyes gleaming behind his mask.
It wasn't just survival anymore.
This was control.
This was war.
His system chimed again as the last of the flames died and the groans quieted into silence.
[Quest Progress: 44 / 56 Walkers Eliminated]
Only twelve left.
Aiden rolled his shoulders. His arms were sore. His breathing was measured. But his mind was sharper than ever.
He wasn't done yet.
"Let's clean up the rest."
And with that, he vanished back into the darkness—like a whisper lost in smoke.