The morning arrived slowly, the sun rising timidly behind the trees, tinting the sky in soft shades of pink and gold. The Greene farm was still asleep when Jason opened his eyes. Maggie was beside him on the narrow bed, her naked body wrapped in the thin sheet, breathing peacefully, her face relaxed in a way he rarely saw during the day. Her brown hair spread across the pillow, a strand partially covering her face, lips slightly parted. He stared for a full minute, his chest warm, before getting up carefully so as not to wake her.
He no longer felt the exhaustion from the previous night; his body had recovered far too quickly, as if the overload from reading and sex had been nothing more than a light workout…
Which he found pretty amazing!
He put on the black shirt with rolled-up sleeves, the dark tailored pants, and slipped into the black sneakers he had also grabbed from the store yesterday. He took the machete and fastened it at his waist, the blade sheathed against his right thigh. The backpack stayed on the floor; he didn't need it today.
He descended the stairs in silence, the floor creaking softly under his feet. In the kitchen, Patricia was already awake, stirring something in a pot. She looked up as he passed, offering a tired but kind smile.
"Going to town again?" she asked quietly.
Jason nodded.
"I'm going to check out the library and take a look at some houses to find useful things. Let Maggie know for me so she doesn't worry…"
Patricia just nodded, without questioning: "Be careful. And come back before dark."
He grabbed a piece of bread from the counter, thanked her with a nod, and left.
The morning air was fresh, carrying the scent of dew and wet earth. Duke was quickly saddled in the smaller stable by him; Jason mounted with a fluid motion, took the reins, and gave a light nudge with his heels. The horse trotted through the gate, leaving the property toward the secondary road that led to town…
The path was silent, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of hooves on the packed dirt and the distant song of a few birds that still insisted on living.
Jason kept his eyes alert.
The town appeared on the horizon after half an hour of calm riding. The streets were still empty, abandoned cars covered in dust and dry leaves, some broken windows reflecting the rising sun…
Jason dismounted near the largest library.
He tied Duke to a nearby tree, gave the animal a pat on the neck, and went inside.
Jason didn't waste time.
He went straight to the reference sections, moving with purpose between the shelves: civil and structural engineering, metallurgy, welding, carpentry and woodworking, security and defense, basic mechanics and tool making.
He kept going: logistics planning, mechanical and automotive engineering, materials engineering, electrical engineering, renewable energy, environmental engineering, water systems, architecture and interior design.
And he didn't stop there.
He also included biomedical engineering, medicine, mechatronics engineering, automation… and finally, resource management.
He grabbed what he needed—a stack of fifty books covering all those subjects—sat at a table in the corner, and began to read. Page after page, his eyes sliding quickly, his mind absorbing everything with startling precision. [Perfect Mastery] worked without pause, filling gaps, connecting concepts, turning theory into practice elevated to a perfect level…
When he read about MIG welding on carbon steel scrap, it wasn't just theory—he felt in his hands the exact electrode angle, the ideal travel speed, the precise amperage adjustment to avoid porosity. When he absorbed the chapter on improvised wind turbines, he mentally saw the blades spinning, calculated the torque, the efficiency, the viable materials on the farm. When he studied home activated carbon and reverse osmosis water filtration systems, he already knew exactly which buckets, pipes, and barbecue charcoal could be used to purify the stream…
By this point, he was starting to get used to the process…
An hour later, the first stack was finished.
Jason closed the last book, rubbed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He rested for exactly seven minutes—long enough for the headache to lessen from a sharp throb to a dull pulse, and for his body to stop complaining as if he'd run a marathon. He stood up slowly, stretched his shoulders and neck with precise, almost mechanical movements, and returned to the shelves.
He found another stack, this time about forty books, on shelves that looked untouched for years. Complementary topics: rural hydraulics, home fuel distillation, impact-resistant structural fortification, ballistics applied to improvised weapons, small-scale hydroponic cultivation, antibiotic production from mold (based on Second World War methods), even a rare volume on low-power electric fencing engineering.
He carried everything to the same corner table, organized them into smaller piles, and started again.
His eyes glided across the pages at an almost hypnotic speed.
An hour later, the second stack was done.
The overload returned with force. His head throbbed as if someone were hammering inside his temples; the muscles in his neck and back were stiff and sore, as if he'd spent the entire day carrying heavy loads.
Even so, he didn't stop.
Noon was still far off.
He had set a simple goal: read at least one-tenth of the library's entire useful collection before the sun got too high. Considering what he had already read yesterday—slightly over a hundred books—and the ninety from today so far, that was perfectly doable. The library held thousands of useful volumes; ten percent meant something between three and four hundred books…?
And he… was already halfway there.
Jason took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes hard, and stood once more.
Third stack.
Another forty books: basic topography and cartography, rural camouflage techniques, black powder manufacturing with household supplies, well drilling engineering basics, advanced food preservation by salting and smoking, even an old rural guerrilla manual detailing traps for humans.
He sat again and kept reading.
And so he continued reading, page after page, stack after stack. His senses remained attentive to Duke's situation outside, but fortunately the small town seemed to be lacking in Walkers…
When he closed the final volume—a dense treatise on energy conservation in isolated environments—the sun was already nearing its zenith. Light streamed through the high windows in warm, golden beams.
He counted mentally.
Two hundred and seventy books read today.
Added to the hundreds from yesterday, the total came to around four hundred volumes.
That represented roughly ten percent of the library's useful collection.
He had successfully completed his initial goal.
With that done, he could stop.
He leaned back in the old wooden chair, closed his eyes, and let his body truly rest for the first time in hours.
The mental overload was bothering him even more than before—a dull pressure behind his eyes, a low buzzing at the base of his neck—and his body was exhausted, as if he had run dozens of kilometers and then gone to do heavy labor.
But strangely… his body wasn't screaming for food or water with the urgency it should have.
Which didn't make sense.
He had spent hours reading nonstop, consuming energy at an absurd rate, forcing his body to adapt to each new block of assimilated knowledge. Under normal conditions, that would be equivalent to working three or even four days straight without eating or drinking…?
And yet… his hunger and thirst were minimal? Something distant, almost academic, as if his organism were merely registering "caloric and hydration deficit" without panicking…
Hmm…
He sat there for a full half hour to rest, letting his mind catalog everything he had learned.
When the half hour ended, he stood up.
Jason left the library with slow steps. He stretched his arms above his head, yawning with a low grunt; his shoulders cracked, his spine aligned with a satisfying pop, and he felt the muscles in his back and neck relax a little. Duke was waiting patiently, ears twitching as he heard Jason's approaching footsteps.
He gave the horse a light pat on the neck, murmuring "good boy" as he untied the reins.
Instead of heading straight back to the farm, he mounted and guided Duke on a slow walk through the small town's streets; he wanted to explore in search of useful things.
The streets remained deserted, abandoned cars turning into sculptures of rust and dust, broken windows reflecting the sun in shards. The rhythmic sound of Duke's hooves echoed off the empty facades—a noise that inevitably drew attention.
It didn't take long.
Three Walkers emerged from a side alley: an old mechanic in a torn coverall, a woman in a rotten floral dress, and a teenager in a ripped band t-shirt. They dragged their feet toward the horse, moaning lowly, drawn by the sound.
Duke snorted nervously, starting to back up, eyes wide.
Jason calmed the animal with a firm hand on its neck, murmuring "easy, easy" while drawing the machete with the other. The motion was casual, almost lazy; he dismounted with a light leap, landing between Duke and the dead.
The first Walker came too fast. Jason spun his body, the machete tracing a clean arc that split the mechanic's skull from temple to jaw. The body dropped like a sack of potatoes. The second, the woman, tried to grab his arm; Jason stomped on her knee, breaking it with a dry snap, and drove the machete into her temple with a precise downward strike. The third, the teenager, came from behind; Jason spun on his heels, grabbed the Walker by the hair with his free hand, and drove the blade through the orbit, twisting once before pulling out.
Three bodies on the ground in less than ten seconds.
Duke snorted loudly, pawing the cracked asphalt, but stayed in place.
Jason patted his muzzle, murmuring "good boy" once more. He wiped the blade on the mechanic's shirt, sheathed the machete at his waist, and remounted.
He passed a already-looted pharmacy, a grocery store with overturned shelves, and a mechanic's shop with tools scattered around. He found nothing really interesting in those places…
It was only when he reached a single-story house at the end of the main street that he found something useful.
The building sat a little back from the road, its wooden facade peeling, a rusted sign hanging on the porch: Collector: Antique Weapons and Militaria…
The front door was ajar. The side gate's padlock was broken. Probably someone tried to loot at the beginning of the outbreak… and gave up halfway.
Jason dismounted, tied Duke to a nearby fence, and entered carefully, machete already in hand.
The interior was dusty and almost empty. All the valuable weapons had already been taken—then he noticed a broken rear window; that was how they got in, so…?
Two Walkers remained inside: an elderly man in a khaki vest, probably the owner, and a younger one in a torn polo shirt. They came shuffling from the back hallway.
Jason didn't hesitate.
The machete traced a clean arc, splitting the old man's skull from temple to jaw.
The body fell heavily.
The second tried to grab his arm.
Jason stomped on the Walker's foot to immobilize it, spun his body, and drove the blade through the nape, twisting once before pulling out.
Silence again.
He wiped the machete on the owner's pants and began to search.
Even though at first glance there was nothing, the chances of finding something hidden were high. He did this for about twenty minutes until, in a low drawer under one of the shelves—locked, but with the padlock already broken—he found what he hadn't expected.
A handmade combat knife.
Clearly custom-made.
The blade was Damascus steel, with a hypnotic dark-gray and silvery wavy pattern. About thirty centimeters overall, drop-point tip sharp enough to shave arm hair just by touching.
The handle was dark noble wood, probably jacaranda, with intricate silver inlays forming intertwined branches. The polished steel guard, slightly curved, protected the fingers well and reflected the light from the lantern he had lit.
Beside it, inside a reinforced black leather sheath with double stitching and belt loop, were a small sharpening stone and a vial of oil.
Jason picked up the knife carefully and tested its balance in his palm.
Perfect.
The balance point was exactly where it should be for fast handling.
He sheathed the new blade, fastened it to his belt beside the old machete (now serving as backup), and pocketed the stone and oil. He continued searching everywhere, literally checking every possible hiding spot, but found nothing else interesting…
Well, he was lucky to find anything at all in such an obvious place to look…
He kept searching the town for another hour and a half, passing through various different establishments.
But it was already clear: the place had been completely looted when it came to weapons and useful gear.
All he managed to find were a few protein bars, chocolates, and some chips, which he ate right there to replenish a bit of energy.
During that interval, he still eliminated another dozen Walkers without any difficulty.
Nothing that really slowed him down.
When he was already thinking of ending the search, something caught his attention.
A mansion in the center of town.
He decided to take a look.
As he approached, he noticed the side gate padlock—which gave access to the backyard—was broken.
Jason dismounted, tied Duke to a nearby tree, and entered carefully, machete already in his right hand, the new Damascus knife fastened to his belt on the left as backup.
The side gate creaked lightly as he pushed it, but he opened it slowly enough to avoid excessive noise. The backyard was large, with a dry pool covered in dead leaves and overturned garden furniture. The back door of the house was ajar—a clear sign someone had entered (or left) in a hurry…
He paused at the threshold, listening.
Low moans, shuffling feet…
Despite his sharpened senses already warning him that there weren't just one or two Walkers inside… Jason entered anyway.
After crossing the garden and entering the mansion silently, a main hallway revealed itself.
The main hallway led straight to a spacious living room, furnished with expensive pieces now covered in dust and cobwebs.
And there they were.
A dozen Walkers scattered around the room.
Some still wore the clothes they had in life: a man in an expensive suit with a loose tie, probably the homeowner, a woman in a torn party dress, teenagers in band t-shirts, servants still in uniform.
They all turned at once when they heard his footsteps.
Jason didn't hesitate.
The first, the suited man, came too fast. Jason spun his body in a fluid motion, the machete tracing a perfect arc that split the skull from temple to jaw.
The body fell before it even touched the floor.
Two came from behind, one on each side.
He stomped on the left one's foot, breaking the ankle with a dry snap, and used the momentum to spin, driving the new Damascus knife into the right one's temple. The blade entered clean… and came out even cleaner.
The Walker fell.
The other ten advanced in a disorganized mass.
Jason moved like water between rocks.
He sidestepped an outstretched arm with a minimal lateral step, spun his hip, and landed a spinning kick to another's chin, snapping its neck with the impact. The body flew against the wall.
Two came together.
He grabbed the first by the wrist, twisted the arm back until he heard the joint pop, used the body as a shield, and buried the machete in the second's temple. He released the first, who dropped to his knees, and crushed its head with his heel.
The rest tried to surround him.
Jason gave a faint smile.
And entered the flow of combat as if he were dancing.
A low kick broke one Walker's knee; as the body fell, he spun and drove the Damascus knife into another's nape. A third tried to grab his neck; Jason caught the arm, used the dead's own weight against it, and threw it into the two coming from behind.
The three fell tangled.
He stomped on their heads.
One.
Two.
Three times.
Wet, muffled cracks.
The last four came in a straight line.
Jason advanced.
Machete in right hand.
Damascus knife in left.
He slashed the first across the neck; the Damascus blade sliced through rotten flesh like butter. The second tried to grab him; Jason blocked with his forearm, spun his body, and buried the machete in its temple.
The third came from behind.
Jason kicked backward without looking, breaking the knee, then spun and drove the knife into the eye socket.
The fourth hesitated for a second.
Jason gave no time. He advanced, grabbed the Walker by the hair, yanked its head back, and shoved the machete through the open mouth… up to the brain.
Silence.
Twelve bodies on the living room floor in less than ninety seconds.
Jason wiped the blades on the suited man's clothes, sheathed them, and began to search the mansion.
The house was large: dining room with broken crystal chandelier, industrial kitchen, bedrooms upstairs. Most things had already been taken or destroyed, but the main office on the second floor remained relatively intact.
He found the safe behind a crooked painting.
Luckily, it wasn't an electronic keypad model—just a sturdy padlock.
Jason broke the padlock.
And found something truly incredible.
Inside, wrapped in oiled cloths:
Two Beretta 92FS pistols.
But not ordinary models.
They were special collector's editions—chrome slide and frame with gold accents, grips of noble wood engraved with subtle arabesques, barrels polished to a shine.
Rich people's guns.
Kept in impeccable condition.
Beside them were twelve already-loaded 9mm Parabellum magazines, clean ammunition with no sign of corrosion, plus a reinforced black leather tactical belt with dual holsters for the pistols and two extra magazine pouches.
Jason checked everything carefully.
Then fastened the belt around his waist, seated the two Berettas in the side holsters, and distributed the magazines into the compartments.
Now, yes…
He was much better equipped.
Jason left the mansion calmly.
Duke was still tied, snorting softly, ears alert. Jason gave the horse an affectionate pat on the neck, murmuring "easy, boy, it's over," and mounted with a fluid motion.
Reins in his left hand, right hand resting casually over the grip of one of the Berettas.
He wasn't in a hurry to return to the farm yet.
The town was small, but it had been a stopover point for rich people and collectors. If there was a mansion with luxury weapons, perhaps there were other useful things hidden in places the initial looters hadn't had the time or patience to search.
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(A/N: Advanced chapters have been posted on my Patreon, and releases there will be more regular.
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