"Hey, building management? Yeah, we’ve got a serious leak up here. Feels like it’s raining in my room—can’t even cook. If this keeps up..."
He kept up the act, strolling nonchalantly toward the bathroom.
The second he stepped inside, his demeanor changed. With a swift move, he kicked the door shut behind him, locking it with a loud click.
In one fluid motion, his left hand shot out, grabbing the neck of the man inside. His right hand slipped the phone back into his pocket.
"Ronan, right?"
The man thrashed violently, trying to break free, but Miles' grip was like an iron vise. No matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t move an inch—and this was with only one of Miles' hands pinning him.
"Cough, cough! You—you're making a mistake! I don't even know you!" Ronan gasped, his face turning a shade paler.
Miles only grinned and, with a flick of his arm, hurled Ronan across the bathroom. He crashed into a wooden table, shattering it with a loud crack.
Miles approached slowly, a smile still playing on his lips.
"It doesn't matter if we know each other," he said, crouching down until he was eye-level with the gasping man. "What matters is whether you want to cooperate—or if you’d prefer I start getting creative."
Ronan dragged himself to a corner, clutching his ribs, barely managing to wheeze out, "What... do you want to know?"
Miles’ voice remained calm, almost gentle. "Your organization. Its name. Everything you know about it."
"I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I'm just a Russian tourist! I—"
He didn't even finish before Miles unsheathed the Greed Blade, driving it clean through Ronan’s right palm.
A grotesque sucking sound filled the room as the blade’s ability activated, devouring the flesh and muscle of his hand, leaving it shriveled and skeletal.
Ronan's scream echoed through the apartment. Tears and mucus streamed down his face uncontrollably, yet still, he clamped his mouth shut, refusing to talk.
Miles’ expression didn’t change as he slowly leaned closer.
"You know, Ronan," he whispered, "hands can heal. Especially if you've got the right drugs. But if I stab somewhere a little more... delicate..."
He dragged the tip of the blade lower, pressing it threateningly against Ronan's crotch.
The man immediately started trembling, a dark wet patch spreading on his jeans, filling the small bathroom with a pungent smell.
"No! Please! You devils!" Ronan sobbed, desperate. "I'm just a broker! A middleman! I don't belong to them!"
He panted heavily before blurting out, "The organization... they're called Maya. No one knows where their headquarters is. They're a research group—experiments with viruses, biological weapons, enhanced humans. I just pulled some strings, got my hands on a few doses to make a quick fortune!"
Miles narrowed his eyes. "Is there a cure? Some kind of antidote?"
"I've seen it! But it’s even rarer than the virus itself. I couldn’t get my hands on it."
"Hmm. Just a name and vague rumors? Seems like you're not very useful after all. Maybe I'll take your fifth limb as compensation."
"No! Wait!" Ronan screamed. "They all carry a symbol—a silver Mayan glyph, shaped like a crescent moon! You can spot them!"
Miles’ expression sharpened. "Are there any Devourers among them?"
At the mention of "Devourers," Ronan froze, true terror flickering across his face.
"You... you’re a Devourer too?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Miles chuckled. "Relax. I'm not interested in your pathetic genes. I'd rather starve than eat trash like you."
Ronan swallowed hard. "Y-yes. I've seen one. Pale skin, white hair... he was less human and more monster. They called him the 'White Phantom.' There are more like him in Maya. And even worse—Demon Hunters. They're... they're monsters wearing human skin."
Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Miles smiled, patting Ronan lightly on the cheek.
"Good boy. Thanks for your cooperation. Don't worry about your hand—you'll fix it. Eventually."
He stood, unlocking the door just as someone started banging from the hallway.
A grumpy voice called out, "What the hell’s going on up there? You trying to bring the whole building down?"
Miles shrugged as he stepped out.
"Just sorting out a little misunderstanding. If you're that curious, feel free to go knock some sense into him yourself."
He smiled innocently and walked past, leaving the neighbor to peer inside.
Seeing Ronan crumpled in a broken heap, the man just muttered, "Damn. Poor bastard," and wandered off.
Back at his dorm, Miles found Derek and Nate waiting anxiously at the door.
The moment they spotted him, Derek rushed forward.
"Where the hell were you all day? And what was that phone call about? Thought you were getting your ass kicked or something!"
Miles laughed. "Relax. Just having a little fun."
Nate rolled his eyes and handed him a heavy bag.
"Here. Best I could scrounge up for you. You better appreciate it."
Inside were heavy steel machetes and a set of polymer armor pieces. Basic, but solid—enough to deal with low-tier infected.
"Not bad, Nate. I’m impressed," Miles said with a grin. "But I’ve got something even better."
He reached into his jacket and dramatically pulled out a customized Desert Eagle.
The dark gray metal gleamed ominously under the dorm lights, making both Derek and Nate's eyes practically pop out of their heads.
"Whoa—holy shit!" Nate gasped, reaching for it like a kid seeing candy.
Miles twisted his wrist, evading Nate’s grab with a chuckle.
"Careful. This beast can punch through concrete walls. Not something you want to fire indoors."
"Where the hell did you get this?" Derek demanded, practically drooling.
Miles tossed the gun to Nate casually.
"Yours. But listen carefully: unless society fully collapses, you keep that thing hidden. Get caught with it now, and it’s prison for life."
Derek looked hurt.
"What about me, boss? You can't just play favorites!"
Miles laughed again and pulled out a heavily modified M1911 pistol.
"Desert Eagle's recoil would snap your wrists. This one’s more your speed."
Derek cradled the weapon reverently.
"A customized M1911... top-tier among sidearms! Thank you, boss! You're my guiding light!"
Miles also dropped a pile of ammunition onto the bed.
"Store these carefully. Preferably in a hiking pack—something discreet."
Nate, still admiring the Desert Eagle, chimed in,
"Don’t worry. After what happened at Chicago First Military Medical Center, this city’s gone to hell. Videos are everywhere online—there’s no covering it up anymore. Reporters are flocking here like vultures. The military's locked the place down, but too late."
Miles’ smile faded slightly.
"The power of the internet... Chicago’s probably a warzone already."
"You have no idea," Derek said grimly. "Schools are closed. Grocery stores are stripped bare. Even camping knives and hatchets are sold out. The government's quietly loosening gun control too—they know what's coming."
Miles sank onto his bed.
"Once the virus gets out... it won't just be America’s problem."
Derek nodded.
"China’s already called for UN intervention. Special forces from all over the world are probably sneaking into Chicago right now."
Miles sighed, closing his eyes.
"Good thing we’re ahead of the curve. Food, water, weapons... we'll survive."
Derek grinned proudly.
"I stocked enough rations and water for a month! You’re a genius, boss!"
Miles opened one eye.
"Move your stuff here. Your apartment’s a dump, and its doors are made of balsa wood. If things get ugly, you’ll be the first to get looted."
"Got it!" Derek saluted exaggeratedly. "Can we bring our girlfriends too? They’re practically family!"
"Sure," Miles said without opening his eyes. "But no making out in front of me—or I’m breaking out the mop and you won't like where it goes."
"Understood!"
The two of them bolted out the door, already pulling out their phones to make calls.
Alone again, Miles locked the door and pulled up his system interface.
The mission to interrogate Ronan was complete. With a tap, he collected the reward—1000 Game Coins.
After spending 300 coins on Derek’s customized M1911 and 100 boxes of ammo, he still had 2600 coins left.
Miles grinned and quickly made another purchase: the "Fox Hunter" pistol, plus 100 explosive rounds and 100 incendiary rounds—600 coins in total.
Fox Hunter
-
Attack Power: 85
-
Magazine Capacity: 12
-
Range: 600 meters
-
Rate of Fire: 3/s
Satisfied, he tucked the weapon away and opened the mission list again.
A flood of new tasks appeared now that he was out of the novice zone.
He carefully selected only a few:
-
T-Rank Mission: Hunt down Devourer Jarek. Reward: 1 million Game Coins, +5 levels. Time limit: 30 days.
-
G-Rank Mission: Kill 2,000 Flesh Zombies. Reward: 10,000 Game Coins, 100,000 XP. Time limit: 7 days.
-
G-Rank Mission: Rescue survivors. Reward: 100 Game Coins + 500 XP per person. Time limit: Until Chicago's destruction.
-
F-Rank Mission: Capture virus leak agent Melick and kill the Zombie King. Reward: 150,000 Game Coins, 8 million XP. Time limit: 7 days.
Miles leaned back, whistling softly.
"The real game starts now," he murmured, closing all menus and flicking on the TV.
The news was chaos. Hysteria swept the city as rumors of the virus exploded online. Reporters scrambled for answers, but soldiers and officials remained tight-lipped.
Miles watched it all unfold, a small, almost amused smile tugging at his lips.
The end had already begun.
And he was ready.