Chapter 183: A Ruined World, the Gods Save Mankind

Rotten birds flapped their broken wings, slicing through the gray sky with the scent of death.

As they flew, feathers fell like withered leaves, swiftly passing through the ruined city ruins before landing on a rusted iron fence outside a fortress building, tilting their heads to emit a hoarse cry.

Their hollow, lightless eyes stared at the sealed metal door.

Bang!

A gunshot exploded in the silence, tearing through the heavy air.

The reddish bullet pierced the gray twilight, striking the Immortal Bird with precision—its body instantly shattered, rotted flesh and shattered bones spraying outward, dissolving into a black mist violently ripped apart.

“Hey, not bad with the gun, huh?” A slender humanoid man emerged from the swirling dust, spinning a revolver-like pistol around his index finger.

“Blackie, conserve your bullets. The underground fortress’s ammo stock is nearly gone—we should be using them on those annoying raiders.”

Another thin figure stepped out of the yellow-brown dust, carrying a heavy pack on his back and holding a modified large-caliber weapon.

The two figures arrived before the rusted metal door.

Listening to his friend’s continued complaints, the man known as Blackie pulled down his mask and grinned, revealing white teeth:

“We had a good haul today—don’t sweat the small stuff.”

As he spoke, he looked up at the camera above the metal door and waved.

Soon, the metal door groaned with a deep, grating metallic screech, as if a giant beast had awakened from slumber.

As the door moved, rust flakes rained down, settling on the dust piled before it.

The hinge groaned under unbearable strain, as if it would shatter any second.

The metal door opened only half a meter before halting—then the two figures slipped through into the interior.

Inside the secure tunnel, a stench of rusted metal and disinfectant hit them.

The corridor within was narrow and dim, the emergency lights overhead flickering erratically, as if about to die at any moment.

Along the tunnel, walls were plastered with faded warning signs, most blurred beyond recognition, barely legible phrases like “Virus Quarantine—Keep Out” and “Emergency Evacuation Route.”

Thick steel beams crisscrossed chaotically overhead; the fortress interior resembled a vast beehive, surrounded by countless rooms and passageways, each serving a different function.

Upon entering the hall, countless eyes turned toward them.

The man called Blackie pointed to his friend’s pack behind him, spreading his arms in triumph:

“Good haul today—a batch of expired 25-year-old compressed rations.”

Hearing this, the gaunt survivors in the hall lit up with hope, cheering in unison.

After briefly exchanging details about the loot location with the searchers in the hall, Blackie took the pack from his friend and headed for the power supply room.

This was the fortress’s core zone, divided into the power supply area and the communications center, where the dull roar of generators deafened the air.

Pipes and wires crisscrossed the room like the veins and nerves of a steel giant, pumping the energy needed to sustain life throughout the fortress.

In the communications zone, a row of aged equipment glowed with faint lights; an elderly man sat before the instruments, desperately trying to catch even the faintest signal from outside.

Yet, to this day, all they received was endless silence and stillness.

At the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door—this was the fortress shelter’s storage room.

It held a meager supply of food, medicine, and essentials; the cans on the shelves were all rusted, their labels nearly illegible.

Blackie remembered clearly: he had seen the leader pull out this same batch of cans when he was just a child.

But they had never been opened—kept here only for psychological comfort, a placebo to stave off despair.

The medicine packaging was torn, exposing uneven pills inside; the scarcity of supplies hung like the Reaper’s scythe above the survivors’ heads, constantly reminding them of the grim path ahead.

He handed the pack full of compressed rations to the woman in charge of supplies, who processed them for decontamination; then Blackie returned directly to the living quarters and pushed open a wooden door.

Inside, a group of children huddled together, their faces sallow, bodies frail, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Blackie carefully pulled a slightly melted, misshapen chocolate bar from his inner pocket—the children’s gazes snapped to it, their eyes instantly alight with longing.

“Blackie, you’re hoarding supplies,” whispered an older child.

Blackie said nothing. He crouched down, tore off the foil wrapper, broke off a piece the size of his finger, and held it out to the child:

“Eat. Don’t talk.”

“Thank you, Blackie.”

The older child gathered courage, took the chocolate, and split it into uneven chunks, passing them to his companions.

The children took the pieces, placed them in their mouths—the long-forgotten sweetness bloomed on their tongues, and their filthy faces lit up with satisfied smiles.

Blackie distributed the chocolate to each child in turn, keeping none for himself, then turned and left the room.

Blackie’s room was on the first underground level—a 30-square-meter space.

He stripped off all his gear and laid it aside, then went to the bathroom.

He crouched, scooped up a handful of dry sand, and rubbed it over his body; the grains slipped slowly between his fingers, rough against his skin.

He rubbed gently—the sand scraped his skin, producing a faint “shush-shush” sound, washing away surface oils and grime.

He continued applying sand to his chest, back, and legs; the grains rolled across his skin like countless tiny brushes.

When finished, he stood, shook his body vigorously, and the sand rained down like a shed old shell—his skin remained dry, but now carried a faint sense of freshness.

He redressed and walked to his desk, sitting down.

He lit a dim lamp and pulled out a tattered book, beginning to flip through it.

The book had been left by the room’s previous occupant, documenting scenes of the world before the Immortal Virus outbreak.

Turning the pages, his fingers brushed over faded images: children running across green grass under blue skies and white clouds, laughter seeming to echo through the paper.

Bustling city streets glowed with neon lights, crowds thronged with carefree smiles; beyond, a vast blue ocean shimmered, as if one could smell the salty sea breeze.

He stared at these images, his gaze growing distant.

To him, these scenes were phantoms of another world—distant as a dream.

He tried to imagine such a world, but had no memories to weave the picture.

Blue skies and white clouds?

In truth, every time he stepped outside the fortress shelter, he looked up to see only a gray, dust-choked sky, thickly veiled, sunlight barely able to pierce through.

Green grass?

The areas he’d explored held only cracked earth and withered vegetation—no trace of life could be found.

The more beautiful the book’s descriptions, the greater his sense of alienation.

Those bustling streets, clear rivers, warm sunlight… to him, they were fairy tales that had never existed.

He had doubted countless times: had such a world ever truly existed, or was it merely humanity’s desperate fantasy?

At least, he had never seen it with his own eyes.

Like the leader’s cans—likely empty inside.

He closed the book, sighed softly.

His fingers idly traced the spine; the pages emitted a faint mildew scent, mingled with dust—just like his world, decaying steadily.

He carefully returned the book to its corner, burying a dream he had never touched since birth.

Exhausted, he lay on his bed and soon fell asleep.

The beautiful scenes from the book played out in his dreams—but when he awoke, only the mildew-scented, dim room remained.

He rested his arm over his forehead, staring at the ceiling, lost in idle thoughts.

Just as he was about to rise, the door slammed violently:

“Blackie! Wake up! A massive horde of Immortal Zombies is heading toward the fortress!”

Hearing this, Blackie’s relaxed nerves snapped taut—he leapt from bed, dressed quickly, and sprinted toward the exploration hall.

Dozens of fully armed warriors had already gathered; his childhood friend “Little Jin” rushed over, tense, and pressed a modified weapon into his hands:

“Blackie, get ready—the Immortal Zombie horde’s coming.”

As he spoke, Blackie pointed toward the large screen above the hall.

The screen was split into 16 panels, each monitoring a different area around the fortress.

Cold numbers and images flickered, finally locking onto a desolate scene of ruined cityscape.

In the footage, beneath a gray sky, countless Immortal Zombies shuffled slowly toward the fortress.

Their bodies twisted and broken, skin rotted, exposing gleaming white bones; their steps were slow and unsteady.

As time passed, the number of Immortal Zombies in the footage kept growing—like a black Black Tide slowly swallowing the camera’s view.

Recognizing the phenomenon of Wandering Corpses, Blackie tightened his grip on his weapon.

Wandering Corpses were a phenomenon of the post-apocalyptic world: Immortal Zombies, drifting aimlessly, gathered in clusters; those ahead, damaged and slow-moving, caused those behind to pile up in greater numbers.

Gradually forming massive Immortal Legions, advancing in overwhelming waves.

The process was like highway traffic jams—slow-moving vehicles side-by-side caused the vehicles behind to accumulate endlessly.

Immortal Zombies evolved rapidly, possessing extremely acute senses of smell.

Among them, some “Special Variants” had emerged, capable of detecting fresh blood from great distances.

Such a massive horde likely contained one or more of these Special Variants.

The Zombie Black Tide could strike the fortress with devastating force at any moment.

If it did, the fortress’s blast doors might not withstand the brute force of these monstrous creatures.

All combat personnel gathered in the hall, eyes locked on the overhead screen—the air grew thick with tension, nearly suffocating.

“Release disinfectant.”

At that moment, a figure with gray hair stepped beneath the screen and spoke sternly to the operators at the control panel.

The operators didn’t hesitate—they immediately activated the switch.

Instantly, two nozzles extended from outside the metal door, spraying a limited supply of purple liquid to disperse any lingering odors near the entrance.

Time passed—the Immortal Zombies gradually filled every panel on the screen.

The first wave of immortal zombies approached the metal gate, stumbling forward toward the distance.

No crisis had yet occurred, but the combatants in the hall felt immense tension—the danger was far from over, as more immortal zombies were still coming.

The second wave of immortal zombies arrived at the same moment, slowly drowning every inch of the camera’s view; close-up lenses clearly captured the hollow eyes and grotesque faces of the zombies, as if they might burst through the screen and lunged at everyone inside the fortress.

Low, guttural growls echoed throughout the hall.

In the silent environment, even the muffled thuds of hearts beating in different chests could be heard.

“Keep a firm grip on your weapons—don’t accidentally fire out of nerves.”

The white-haired leader spoke in a grave tone, his gaze fixed as rigidly on the large screen as the soldiers’.

Blackie took a deep breath, wiped sweat from his forehead, and turned to look at the man beside him: Jinzi.

“Jinzi, do you think we can survive this round?”

“Of course we can—didn’t we survive the wandering zombie incident before? Every time, we made it through safely. This won’t be any different.”

The man called Jinzi spoke with firm conviction, yet his expression betrayed his tension—he unconsciously swallowed hard.

The third wave of immortal zombies approached during their conversation.

The chatter in the hall ceased instantly; soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, knuckles whitening from the pressure.

Just as they thought the third wave was ending, a towering special variant zombie appeared on screen—noticeably larger than the others.

Its skin had a strange bluish-black hue; beneath its decaying muscles, faintly glowing bones were visible, and a few sparse strands of hair clung to its rotting flesh.

This special variant had been mechanically following the main horde, but suddenly seemed to sense something—it halted its steps, swaying slightly under the pressure of zombies behind it, yet remained rooted in place.

Its cloudy eyeballs slowly turned, revealing two yellowed fangs from its gaping mouth.

Its nostrils flared rapidly, as if sniffing for some invisible scent in the air.

The soldiers, already on edge, felt their hearts leap into their throats.

Even the white-haired leader’s eyes flickered with panic.

The soldiers tightened their grips on their weapons, each holding their breath, terrified that the slightest sound might enrage the zombie.

Everyone understood: if this zombie confirmed life within the fortress, they would Iron Face an unprecedented crisis.

Even if the immortal zombie horde couldn’t breach the fortress’s blast-resistant metal gate, prolonged siege would slowly drain their resources until they died.

Time passed; the uniquely colored zombie on the monitor, as if pulled by some signal, slowly rotated its body in place.

Its movements were stiff yet unnervingly focused; its cloudy eyes occasionally swept toward the fortress.

Each casual glance felt like a heavy hammer striking the soldiers’ hearts.

Then it began moving toward the fortress; each step brought uncoordinated swaying, its rotting soles leaving dark stains on the ground.

As it walked, it kept lifting its head, sniffing the air, its skull twitching intermittently.

The immortal zombie drew closer; the soldiers’ heartbeats grew fiercer, as if about to burst from their chests.

Several young soldiers’ hands trembled uncontrollably; sensing the troops’ nerves had reached their breaking point, the leader at the front whispered:

“Stay calm—it’s not certain yet.”

Yet the leader himself was drenched in beads of sweat, his eyes revealing unmistakable gravity.

The zombie reached the thorny barrier near the fortress, extending its emaciated, ulcer-covered arm to grope aimlessly along the obstacle, growling low and deep.

The soldiers inside the fortress stared at the monitor, their nerves stretched to the limit.

Click.

One soldier disengaged his weapon’s safety.

Click! Click! Click!

The other soldiers followed suit, disengaging safeties and pressing their fingers to the triggers, their gaze shifting from the monitor to the front safety corridor.

The atmosphere grew unbearably heavy; everyone held their breath.

At that moment, the zombie on the monitor suddenly licked the bloodstains on the railing, then turned and resumed moving with the horde toward the distance.

“Crisis averted,” the leader said, relief flooding his voice.

In that instant, the soldiers’ taut nerves eased slightly.

Every soldier felt they had just walked through the gates of death.

If this special variant had attacked the fortress gate, every immortal zombie would have followed.

They didn’t know the exact reason, but analysis suggested that the virus within immortal zombies triggered the release of a special pheromone upon detecting “food.”

When one immortal zombie sensed life and was drawn to it, the pheromone it emitted would be instantly perceived by nearby zombies—like a chemical signal conveying “food here,” drawing them to converge.

But the brief crisis passing didn’t mean safety—the massive horde behind was still advancing.

The fourth wave, the fifth wave… each appearance of a special variant zombie made the atmosphere in the fortress hall grow heavier.

“Jinzi, do you know what I was thinking just now?”

Blackie nudged Jinzi beside him with his shoulder, his expression still haunted.

“What?” Jinzi swallowed again, his eyes locked on the monitor, but he answered anyway.

“I was thinking—if we survive this, I’m going to eat every last crumb of the cookies I saved up last time. I just realized: my greatest regret in life is dying before finishing my cookies.”

“I thought it was something big. If we make it through this, I’ll give you a pack of my collection of treasured items—expired two years ago.”

Blackie stared in disbelief:

“Expired two years? Where did you even get that?”

“From the nomads we helped last time. They claimed they once controlled a food production plant, so their supplies were relatively fresh.”

“Damn it, why didn’t they give me any?” Blackie’s eyes widened.

“Because you’re ugly.”

The light banter eased some of the tension.

After a brief exchange, Blackie and Jinzi turned their gazes back to the large screen.

The horde had passed halfway; special variants kept appearing, but no incidents occurred.

Everyone’s emotions rose and fell with each new special variant.

Then, on the monitor, a three-meter-tall special variant zombie appeared.

At less than a hundred meters from the fortress, it suddenly dropped to the ground and crawled forward along invisible pheromone trails; at less than thirty meters, it launched itself upward, flinging nearby immortal zombies aside, and slammed wildly into the metal gate.

The crisis descended with shocking speed.

BOOM!

The metal gate shuddered with a thunderous impact.

On the monitor, every immortal zombie raised its head after the blast.

The orderly advance of the horde was shattered by the sound.

BOOM!

A second impact rang out.

Rust flakes rained from the gate; its edges screeched against friction.

Even zombies that had moved far away now halted their aimless trudging, their cloudy eyes glowing with bloodlust, all turning sharply toward the fortress.

Then, growls erupted in waves; every immortal zombie turned toward the fortress shelter.

They shoved and twisted, charging recklessly toward the metal gate.

Not just the gate—even the walls became targets.

Immortal zombies had no intelligence; they could only lock onto targets via pheromones released by other zombies.

They had no concept of “doors”—any obstacle in their path became a target for attack.

In an instant, the growls, chaotic footsteps, and body collisions intertwined into a terrifying symphony of death.

The soldiers inside the fortress turned pale with shock.

They realized something catastrophic had happened.

The pheromones had now spread widely; every immortal zombie was frenziedly attacking, and would not stop until the entire fortress was destroyed and they were all slaughtered.

Other passing immortal zombies would also join this mad assault.

Judging by the gate’s condition, it wouldn’t hold much longer.

Instantly plunged into desperation, every soldier’s eyes flickered with despair.

The fortress’s records contained many historical events, some brought by warriors fleeing other regions—they had documented scenes of shelters besieged by immortal zombies, where the assault never ceased.

They looked up at the large screen.

Immortal zombies felt no pain, knew no fatigue; they kept crashing into the concrete walls in relentless waves.

Cracks had begun to appear on parts of the walls; peeling plaster revealed the steel plates beneath.

During this, weaker zombies shattered upon impact, their black blood and shredded flesh splattering everywhere—yet they never stopped smashing into the walls.

“Prepare for battle!”

The aged leader roared, then hurried to the control panel and pressed a red button.

Instantly, red lights flared across the fortress; two flamethrowers extended above the metal gate, spewing fire to scorch the special variant and the zombies around it.

But the intense heat did not slow the special variant’s assault—even as its body ignited, it kept slamming against the metal gate.

The leader turned to the soldiers, standing at the ready, their faces filled with despair, and spoke in a low, grave tone:

“I know you’re afraid—I am too. Facing death, no one can remain calm. But…”

The leader paused, his gaze sweeping over every Iron Face:

“We still have the right to choose!”

“We can choose to surrender and wait to be torn apart by immortal zombies—or we can fight with our lives to defend the dignity of humanity. We must not lose the courage to resist—even if there’s only a sliver of hope, we must try to break out.”

“When the gate breaks, all combat troops protect the non-combatants and break through. For your families—fight!”

The sound of weapons being chambered rang out in succession.

“Everyone, prepare for battle! Use your bullets to tell these monsters we will never surrender.”

With that, the leader, his head now completely white-haired, stepped to the front of the line and raised his modified weapon.

The weapon resembled a steel beast: six modified barrels arranged in a ring, each specially treated with a deep blue sheen; its main body forged from scrap materials taken from abandoned vehicles, its surface covered in thick heat sinks like scales.

Soon after, non-combat personnel from underground began arriving in the hall.

Seeing them carrying bundles and sacks, the leader roared:

“Dump everything! Carrying supplies will only slow you down—get out first, then worry about food.”

Under the leader’s orders, non-combat personnel were positioned at the center of the hall, surrounded and protected by combat troops.

The muffled sobs of children, the soothing voices of women… all sounds intertwined, deepening the oppressive atmosphere.

BOOM!

At that moment, the metal door at the tunnel’s end collapsed with a thunderous crash.

A three-meter-tall, flame-wreathed special-class immortal zombie emerged, its grotesque form illuminated by flickering emergency lights.

“Push forward!”

At that instant, the white-haired leader pulled the trigger; the weapon in his hands, resembling a Gatling gun, spun rapidly, spewing tongues of fire. The warriors beside him likewise clenched their triggers without hesitation.

In an instant, a storm of bullets poured forward.

The front-line special-class zombies were driven back by the dense hail of bullets, even knocked over several times by the impact—yet after brief pauses, they scrambled up again, roaring as they charged forward.

The Black Tide of immortal zombies surged forward like an unstoppable black flood.

“Advance!”

Following the leader’s command, the warriors pushed forward.

Valuable bullets, normally hoarded, were now expended without restraint.

With firepower covering them, the warriors advanced several meters—but before they could exit the tunnel, they were forced to retreat.

They realized the immortal zombies’ bodily resilience was too high; bullets alone could not kill them.

The tunnel acted like a filter, reducing the number of immortal zombies that could pour in.

Even so, progress remained impossible.

But if they exited the tunnel, they would Iron Face an endless horde of zombies attacking from all sides.

Behind the leader, the black-skinned man’s grim Iron Face now showed a flicker of despair.

He realized the fortress’s complete fall was merely a matter of time—ammunition stocks would soon be exhausted.

When that happened, their fate would be to be devoured by immortal zombies.

The breakout plan, once implemented, proved utterly impractical.

The strength of the immortal zombies was beyond anything their firearms could oppose.

Despair spread through the hall; the constant sobs were drowned out by gunfire, everyone already foreseeing their end.

Either they would be infected and become immortal zombies—or far more likely, perish under the frenzied gnawing of the undead.

Minutes later, immortal zombies breached the hall; the leader at the front had one arm torn off—though he survived, contact with the undead meant certain infection.

Even a bullet to the temple could no longer alter the outcome.

The virus would rapidly consume bodily energy, multiply, and ultimately transform him into an immortal zombie—devoid of self-awareness, driven only by instinct.

Warriors fell one after another; just as all believed their life’s chapter was ending—

An accident occurred.

A thick crimson energy surged like a tidal wave, sweeping violently into the fortress tunnel.

This crimson energy seemed alive, darting nimbly through every crevice of the tunnel, filling the dim hall in the blink of an eye.

Its radiance was blinding, like the midday sun, illuminating every corner of the tunnel as bright as day.

At the critical moment, the immortal zombies lunging at the surviving warriors were suddenly bound tightly by the crimson energy.

Like countless resilient ropes, they swiftly wrapped around each zombie’s body—from limbs to torso—layer upon layer, sealing them completely.

The immortal zombies writhed and struggled violently within the crimson bonds, emitting horrifying screams—but all effort was futile.

Then, the crimson energy surged with immense force, dragging the zombies’ bodies at high speed toward the tunnel’s exit.

Every zombie’s body left long, dragging trails across the ground, kicking up clouds of dust.

Under this overwhelming force, all immortal zombies within the fortress were yanked out of the tunnel and hurled violently onto the open ground outside.

This sight stunned the warriors in the hall, who had already resigned themselves to death; even the despairing black-skinned man turned his gaze toward the tunnel entrance.

A figure now came into view.

He stood at the tunnel entrance like a statue, his upper body bare, every inch of skin radiating raw power.

The dim light carved the contours of his muscles, revealing beautifully defined, taut lines.

Broad shoulders, thick as bedrock, as if capable of bearing the weight of the entire world.

His deltoids rose high, sculpted with precision—hard, fluid, and profoundly three-dimensional.

In this era of food scarcity, where most survivors were emaciated from malnutrition, this body appeared to the black-skinned man as divine.

His chest, rising and falling with each breath, seemed to him a towering castle—solid, immense.

The biceps and triceps on his arms resembled twin loaded cannons; veins snaked across the muscle surface like veins of power, ready to unleash immense energy.

When he clenched his fist, muscles tensed instantly, and crimson energy surged visibly.

A layer of crimson sheen instantly coated his copper-toned skin, like a natural armor, exuding wild ferocity.

“Watch out!”

At that moment, the special-class zombie lunged toward the figure.

The black-skinned man, anxious, shouted a warning.

But what followed made his eyes widen.

The special-class immortal zombie, capable of smashing through blast-proof metal doors and immune to bullets, had its neck seized in a single grip.

The mysterious man’s arm, muscles knotted like iron tongs, rendered the special-class zombie utterly motionless.

His fingers, wrapped in crimson energy, sank deep into the zombie’s rotting flesh; the zombie thrashed desperately, emitting guttural roars—but under this figure’s control, all struggle was meaningless.

Then, the mysterious figure’s biceps swelled violently, each muscle seemingly infused with boundless energy; with a sudden surge, he tightened his grip, crushing the zombie’s neck further.

The crimson energy enveloping his body grew even more furious.

With a loud “CRACK!”

The special-class zombie’s head exploded in his hand, spewing black sludge and shattered brain matter; fragments of flesh and blood splattered across his Iron Face—but he paid no mind, merely scoffing as he shook his head, flicking the filth away, radiating sheer dominance.

The crimson energy continued swirling around him, washing away all stains.

The endless hordes of immortal zombies nearby launched another assault.

He stood alone at the tunnel entrance, like a guardian deity.

Facing the snarling, clawing zombies, the mysterious figure moved like a furious lion—each punch carried infinite force.

With every strike, crimson light trailed behind, felling entire waves of immortal zombies.

The nightmares of their eyes, before this figure, were as insignificant as ants, easily crushed.

This power, beyond comprehension, utterly stunned the survivors in the hall.

They stared dumbfounded at the figure guarding the tunnel, even wondering if they were already dead—this must be a posthumous hallucination.

At that moment, the towering figure at the tunnel entrance turned his head toward them.

He grinned, revealing white teeth, and raised his thumb.

In the player’s mind, the Challenger’s prompts rang continuously:

These protected survivors were providing an endless stream of wish energy; in mere moments, 1,200 wish energy points had already been collected.

If traded at the marketplace, this would be worth at least 12,000 sacrificial power.

The hardest part of exploring the small world wasn’t dealing with immortal zombies.

These weakling zombies couldn’t even pierce his defense if they stood still and tried to gnaw on him.

The real challenge was finding survivors.

Every time he located a survivor settlement, he generated massive wish energy.

At this moment, the regional voice channel was flooded with player shouts:

“Aaaah! Who found survivors? I’ve been wandering for hours and haven’t seen a single one! Any kind soul share a survivor coordinate? I’ve got a backpack full of canned food waiting to be traded.”

“I think you’re all showing off behind my back. 500 sacrificial power for a survivor settlement coordinate.”

“I’ve recharged my flying sword twice and still haven’t found a single hair—could it be that all survivors in this world are dead? Did we come here for nothing?”

“Can you all shut up? Don’t mess with my mindset—I refuse to believe there isn’t a single survivor left.”

“So satisfying. Gathering wish energy is so easy—the feeling of it constantly rising is amazing. Isn’t there still someone who hasn’t found any survivors? (Screenshot of wish energy gain).”

…

Mao Xuan posted his earnings screenshot in both the regional and guild chat channels, then clenched his fist.

Instantly, the crimson energy surrounding him surged toward his right fist, briefly gathering before exploding forward in a devastating punch.

BOOM!

The earth trembled; the crimson-fused punch wind tore through the air.

Before the punch even reached, searing heat had already swept outward.

The front-line immortal zombies emitted low roars; their rotting bodies twisted and shattered under the crimson punch wind, as if crushed by an invisible giant hand.

The crimson energy continued advancing, like a raging dragon—wherever it passed, zombie bodies exploded, black blood and shattered bones sprayed everywhere, the air thick with stench and the smell of burning flesh.

This punch seemed to condense the power of heaven and earth into a single point—like a judgment at the end of the world—erasing all filth and decay from Mao Xuan’s sight.

After twisting his body to gather power, the Crimson Gang Qi trait activated again.

Another heavy punch landed; the immortal zombie crumpled before his strength like a toy.

In Mao Xuan’s eyes, most immortal zombies were no stronger than the Golden Pincer Crabs of the Misty Coast in the Monster World—slaying them was as easy as chopping vegetables.

In comparison, the Heavenly Fire Law King, also from a minor world, was practically a final boss.

Measured by the standards of a minor world, the Heavenly Fire Law King did not seem weak.

No wonder several guild leaders sought to control minor worlds.

If a few troublemakers showed up, they might overturn the entire world.

Especially those mages with Wish Soul Cores—the delicate, spellcasting types—once they planted a tower here, they became invincible; they needed no close-range protection at all.

“Old Mao, I saw your Yuanli income screenshot—did you find survivors? How’s the situation?”

At that moment, a voice echoed in his mind.

“Survivors have been found—I’m raking in Yuanli fast. Once I hit 33,000 Yuanli and unlock the second Wish skill, I’ll switch my Star Vein to a support build. Wait for good news.”

“Call anytime if you need help—we’re at Emperor Tomb Mountain Range and can arrive anytime for backup.”

“No need. I can handle it alone. The monsters in this minor world are extremely weak.”

After replying, Mao Xuan clenched his fist. Crimson energy currents surged beneath his feet. He lifted his gaze to the dense horde of immortal zombies surging toward him.

Four months of close combat—always getting beaten, or on the way to getting beaten.

Now, at last, he felt the joy of close combat.

But this was only a minor world—not his future battlefield. He’d already embedded the Wish Soul Core. If he quit now, his guild brothers would surely ambush him at the village gate and massacre him.

He was invincible here, but back in the village, he was just a slightly stronger player—not even close to the top tier.

The Wish Soul Core had been funded by his guild brothers’ sacrificial power.

So this would be his final dance as a close combat practitioner.

A phantom battle axe slowly coalesced in his hand, as if forged from the sun itself, its blade wreathed in blazing flames, blindingly radiant, making him appear like a god descending from heaven.

As he swung the axe, golden flame streams sliced through the sky, leaving arcs of light in their wake.

The immortal zombie horde crumbled like ants beneath the axe’s glow; their decaying bodies were incinerated into ash before they could even approach, thick black smoke and the stench of charred flesh filling the air.

With a sweeping slash, the golden flame surged like a furious dragon, and Mao Xuan, amidst the slaughter, looked like a war god, crushing the immortal zombies with invincible might.

This scene utterly stunned the survivors inside the fortress shelter, shattering their worldview.

“Mommy, so there really are gods who protect us.”

A little girl’s innocent Iron Face lit up with a smile as she raised her picture book—filled with illustrated fairy tales.

The mother said nothing, her gaze still fixed, dazed, on that invincible figure.

…

The battle outside continued.

Once the survivors inside the shelter realized they were safe, their desperate will to live began to fade.

Noticing his Yuanli dropping, Mao Xuan accelerated his slaughter of the immortal zombies.

There were many ways to gain sacrificial power besides protection—earning tens of thousands of Yuanli in this world was certainly feasible.

Meanwhile, inside the shelter hall.

Among the crowd, Blackie’s eyes burned with fanaticism as he stared, transfixed, at the godlike, invincible figure. Just now, hearing the girl’s cry, he recalled a myth he’d once heard.

The tale spoke of a god in the post-apocalyptic wasteland who saved the doomed, bringing hope and redemption to survivors in despair.

But as he grew older, he realized it was merely a story invented by the elders.

The elders knew despair would utterly crush all survivors; they crafted this tale to offer a sliver of comfort to those in their darkest hour.

To make them believe that even in the deepest pit, salvation was possible—to keep them fighting on.

But now, the god from the story had truly appeared.

Just as described, no matter how many immortal zombies came, none could harm him in the slightest.

“Little Jin, the myth came true.”

“Little Jin?”

Finding no reply beside him, Blackie whirled around—Little Jin was gone.

Scanning the crowd, he spotted Little Jin in a corner, his Iron Face ashen.

Pushing through the throng, he reached Little Jin’s side and saw a smear of immortal zombie blood on his left cheek.

“Don’t touch me.”

As Blackie reached out, Little Jin, teeth clenched and mind growing hazy, roared.

Blackie’s body trembled uncontrollably. He knelt before Little Jin, eyes reddening.

He’d been his best friend since childhood—not a blood brother, but closer than one. Every exploration mission had always been the two of them together.

“Blackie… shoot me. Let me go quick. I can’t take it anymore—it hurts too much.”

Little Jin spoke through gritted teeth, voice slurred, as if forced from his throat. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His eyes held both longing for life and terror of death.

“Alright.”

Blackie raised his gun, aiming it at Little Jin’s head.

His breathing grew heavy. He sucked in air, trying to muster the courage to pull the trigger—but his fingers refused to move.

“Blackie, please. Hurry.”

Little Jin’s pupils had turned gray-white—the hallmark of immortalization. The immortal virus was ravaging his body.

Seeing his brother’s agony, Blackie finally made up his mind. He gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.

At the last instant, a hand shot out, seized the barrel, and yanked it upward.

Bang!

Blackie looked up—the bullet had struck the god’s belly, encased in crimson light, leaving not a trace.

“You want to save him?”

“Yes.” Blackie nodded without hesitation, a flicker of hope sparking in his eyes.

He believed this god could heal his brother.

“How much?”

“I’d trade my own life for his.”

Hearing this, the man before him—strong as a god—smiled. Then he looked down at Little Jin, writhing in pain:

“And you? How desperately do you want to live?”

(End of Chapter)