Ethan, however, barely spared them a glance. His mind was already processing every angle—the shooters' positions, their stances, the time it would take for them to react.
He frowned slightly.
"Idiots," he muttered.
Then his form blurred.
Shadow Step.
He vanished into the darkness, reappearing behind the armed men before they even registered movement.
At the same time, Spawn leapt from the truck—a towering skeletal figure cloaked in black cloth, landing with the weight of a nightmare.
The six men panicked, shouting and firing wildly.
Bullets tore through the air, sparks flying off Spawn's bones.
But fleshless bones felt no pain.
Each bullet embedded uselessly into him, clinking against hardened marrow.
Spawn's skull tilted slightly, the hollow sockets glowing faintly with malevolent light.
"Pathetic," Ethan whispered from the shadows.
The bullets that hit Spawn only embedded itself in the bones. The bullets did not have any effects on Spawn who does not possess flesh thus feel its weakness.
The instant Ethan activated Shadow Step, his body blurred into motion.
His speed exploded—more than five times faster than a normal human. The world around him seemed to slow, sounds stretching and warping as he darted forward like a streak of darkness.
In a blink, Ethan appeared in front of the scar-faced man. His sword gleamed under the faint sunlight that filtered through the clouds of ash, cutting a deadly arc toward the man's head.
The scar-faced militant's eyes widened in terror. Instinct kicked in—he raised his rifle and fired in panic.
But by the time the trigger clicked, Ethan's body flickered again, vanishing from sight like smoke. He reappeared behind the man in the same breath, the edge of his sword kissing the man's throat.
Before the man could even breathe, a confident voice rang out from behind a line of rusted cars:
"Brother, stop! Otherwise, I can't guarantee your companions' lives!"
Ethan froze for half a heartbeat, scanning the surroundings. His sharp gaze caught sight of movement—twenty armed men, fanning out in practiced formation. They carried Type 81 rifles and Type 79 submachine guns, their muzzles glinting dully in the light.
Two tractors blocked the road behind the Volvo trucks, sealing every path of escape. The group had been ambushed with military precision.
Among the men stood a tall, broad-shouldered leader—around 1.8 meters in height, with weathered skin and eyes like a predator sizing up its prey. His stance was steady, confident, the kind of man who had survived long enough to believe he couldn't die.
Ethan's mind worked at lightning speed. He could take out the front line before they reacted, but the girls in the trucks wouldn't survive the crossfire. Their firepower was too overwhelming.
His jaw tightened. He made his choice.
"Spawn, let them live."
The order resonated silently. Ethan tightened his grip on the sword, pressing the cold blade against the scar-faced man's throat as he stepped behind him—using the man's body as a living shield. His eyes locked on the leader's.
The scar-faced man stiffened, the chill of the steel seeping into his flesh. Cold sweat trickled down his temple. He dared not even breathe too loudly.
Spawn, obeying Ethan's command, didn't swing his massive axe. Instead, he lunged forward, his skeletal form blurring in motion. Five of the armed men were sent flying by his bone-shattering kicks, their weapons scattering across the cracked asphalt. Spawn then stood beside Ethan, motionless like a grim sentinel.
The tall leader gave a low chuckle, unshaken by the display.
"Brother, you've got quite the skills. Not something you see every day."
He thumped his chest lightly, grinning.
"Name's Tiger. You can call me Brother Tiger. And you are?"
Ethan's gaze remained sharp and steady. His tone was deep, calm—but with a faint edge of warning.
"Ethan. Brother Tiger, I'd like to know why you've blocked our path. We've done nothing to offend you."
Tiger smiled faintly, but there was no warmth in it.
Ethan could already read the man's type—calculating, ambitious, the kind who would smile at you while planning to take your head.
The tension hung thick in the air. Behind Ethan, the girls sat rigid in the trucks. Luna's hand trembled as she held her pistol, her usually composed face pale but still strikingly beautiful under the faint rays filtering through the clouds. Julia and Clara, dressed in travel-worn clothes yet still radiating natural elegance, clung to each other, their eyes wide with fear. Even through the fear, their delicate features shone—a cruel reminder of what beauty looked like in a world where hope had died.
Humanity had fallen so far that even beauty had become something tragic, something that no longer belonged in this era.
Ethan's mind raced.
The militants' weapons were modern—7.62mm Type 81s with 30-round magazines, and the compact submachine guns were likely stolen from a police armory. Their trigger discipline and spacing suggested experience, maybe ex-soldiers, deserters or even professional thugs. Fighting them head-on would be suicide for others unless he used every shadow he could find.
Tiger spoke again, breaking the silence.
"Ethan, don't get me wrong. I was out looking for supplies… and survivors. You should come with me to Always Bright Village. The place is well-protected, fortified. Plenty of food, we have killed every zombie. If you follow me back, I'll make sure you and your people live comfortably."
His tone was friendly, but Ethan didn't miss the predatory glint in his eyes.
He shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Brother Tiger. But we're headed for the Long Hai City survivor enclave."
Tiger frowned for a moment—then it passed, replaced by another thin smile.
"To each their own. I won't stop you. But coming all the way here wasn't easy, and my brothers have risked their necks. I'll be taking one of your trucks in exchange."
Ethan exhaled slowly. His fingers relaxed slightly on the hilt. He had expected this.
"Fine," he said flatly. "Take one. As long as no one dies, everything else can be replaced."
He knew when to bend. Survival wasn't about pride—it was about choosing which battles to fight. That's why he had evenly divided their supplies between the two trucks—food and gear divided equally. Losing one wouldn't cripple them.
Tiger gave a satisfied nod and gestured for his men to lower their guns. The tension in the air lightened slightly, but not completely.
He took a few steps forward, smiling in what looked like genuine admiration.
"You're smart, Ethan. I like that. Now—why don't you let Vickey go?"
Ethan glanced at the scar-faced man—Tiger's "brother"—then slowly lowered his blade.
The man, whose name was apparently Vickey, exhaled shakily and rubbed the cold sweat from his neck. He grinned, though his voice still trembled slightly.
"You're really damn strong, kid. Other than Brother Tiger, you're the toughest bastard I've met."
Ethan didn't respond. He simply sheathed his sword and stepped back, eyes still on Tiger. He knew this wasn't over.
In the apocalypse, smiles were just another kind of weapon.
And this Tiger—he was the kind who smiled before he bit.
Ethan smiled faintly, his tone calm and respectful.
"Excuse my offence."
Vickey, still rubbing his neck where Ethan's blade had been moments earlier, gave a forced grin and began walking back toward Tiger.
But before he could take more than a few steps, Spawn stepped forward—its towering skeletal frame blocking the path like a wall of death. The ground cracked beneath its weight.
Vickey froze, his smile stiffening. His eyes flicked toward Ethan, confusion flashing across his face.
"Ethan… what's the meaning of this?"
Ethan's expression didn't change. His eyes remained cool and unreadable.
"It's nothing personal. Once Big Brother Tiger allows us to depart, you'll be free to go."
His voice was calm, but there was something in it—a tone that made even Vickey hesitate to argue further.
Tiger gave a hearty laugh, though his eyes glimmered with faint curiosity.
"Vickey, stay with Brother Ethan for now."
Vickey blinked in surprise, then reluctantly nodded.
"Yes, Big Brother Tiger."
He moved back beside Ethan, uneasily aware of Spawn's hollow gaze fixed upon him.
Ethan gave a polite nod toward Tiger.
"Big Brother Tiger, I'll have my people move the supplies for you now."
Tiger raised a hand and chuckled.
"No rush. Our vehicles can't carry that much anyway."
Then, after a deliberate pause, he smiled in that too-smooth, too-relaxed way that only men used to power could.
"Why don't you make a trip back to Always Bright Village with me instead? Let me show you a little hospitality. Ethan, I admire your strength—and your people. I'd like us to become friends. Won't you give me a little face, eh?"
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. In that brief moment, a thousand calculations flashed through his mind. A refusal could provoke hostility, but compliance could lead them into a trap. The air between them was polite, yet thick with hidden tension.
After a few seconds, Ethan nodded.
"Alright. We'll accompany you for a visit. But as I said before, we're heading to the Long Hai survivor enclave. We can only stay for one day—no longer."
Tiger's booming laughter filled the ruined air.
"Of course! You're my guests, not prisoners! You can come and go as you wish."
---
Four Hummers and two farm tractors hauled the two Volvo trucks, while twenty-six militants surrounded the convoy in formation. The sound of their Type 81 rifles clattered lightly against their gear as the small army moved down the cracked highway.
The road led to a small rural settlement a few kilometers from the highway—a place that, before the world ended, might have been peaceful. Now it was surrounded by makeshift barricades of cars, wooden spikes, and rusted barrels.
The entrance was guarded by two bored men, their uniforms filthy, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders.
Beyond the gate, Always Bright Village looked deceptively alive. A handful of survivors moved about—old men fixing fences, women washing clothes in plastic tubs, and, shockingly, children digging in small vegetable fields. They were caked in mud from head to toe, their thin arms trembling from exhaustion.
A girl who couldn't have been more than ten looked up from the soil as the convoy passed. Her face was smeared with dirt, but her eyes—large and hollow—held no light. She just stared, then went back to digging.
This was the Z-Age. Childhood had been replaced by survival.
As the convoy rolled through, the villagers shouted,
"Brother Tiger! Brother Tiger's back!"
A group of militants with rifles jogged over, laughing and slapping Tiger on the back as he stepped down from his Hummer.
"Brother Tiger, you brought back a haul this time!"
"Ha! You're a legend, boss!"
Tiger grinned, waving them off like a proud general. Then he turned toward Ethan.
"Brother Ethan, tell your people to come down. You're safe here."
To show sincerity, Tiger walked to Ethan's side himself, the picture of goodwill. But Ethan wasn't fooled. His eyes flicked across the compound—the guard towers, the dug trenches, the number of rifles. This place was fortified, but it was also a den of wolves wearing smiles.