Zone 4 had always stood out among the other survivor territories. While much of the world fell deeper into chaos with every passing month, Zone 4 adapted.
A full year had passed since the apocalypse began, and in that time, the survivors here had not only endured but advanced. The system that had turned the world upside down? They embraced it.
Technology in Zone 4 was leagues ahead of most other survivor zones. They had integrated the system's mechanics into their machines, their weapons, their defenses.
Everything was smarter, faster, deadlier. But credit for that progress wasn't only due to adaptability—it was due to one man.
Lord Baelor.
He wasn't feared like the warlords of other zones. He was respected. Calm, composed, and powerful—an Ascended Tier 8.
Among mortals, he was a giant. Yet, there wasn't a trace of arrogance in him. He ruled efficiently, fairly, and always kept the needs of his people above all else.
Baelor walked through the well-guarded corridors of Zone 4's command center, his boots making faint echoes against the polished steel floor. Lights flickered softly overhead as screens projected live updates of supply stats, patrol movements, and weather conditions.
"Matthew," Baelor greeted his second-in-command as the man stepped beside him.
"Lord Baelor," Matthew gave a small nod. His brown hair was tied back neatly, and his eyes scanned a clipboard in his hands.
"How are things?" Baelor asked casually. "Survivors holding up well? Supplies stable?"
Matthew gave a faint smile. "Very well, my lord. Food and medical stocks are at optimal levels. We've had no internal conflicts for the past two weeks. Everything's… smooth."
Baelor nodded, hands behind his back as he walked. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
But peace never lasted.
A breathless guard sprinted down the corridor, his armor clinking with every step. "My lord!" he called out, panting. "Urgent message from the guard tower."
Baelor turned instantly, face unreadable. "Speak."
The guard bowed slightly. "A stampede is forming in the west. It's mutating quickly. Estimated time of arrival—less than an hour."
Matthew frowned. "Already?"
Stampedes weren't rare, but they were always brutal. Massive hordes of undead and mutated beasts crashing into densely populated zones—almost like nature's reset button. And China had seen too many of them lately.
Baelor didn't waste time. "Mobilize the defense forces. Sound the internal alerts. Matthew, with me."
The two moved swiftly through the base, climbing the spiral staircase that led to the outer wall. Wind gusted against them as they emerged on top, the horizon painted orange by the setting sun.
Far out in the distance—about 10 kilometers away—a thick black smear writhed across the landscape. Even from here, Baelor could tell it was more than just rotlings.
Matthew pulled out a monocular. "Level 2 ferals. Lots of them. And…"
Baelor took the device. His eyes narrowed. "Level 3 mutants. Mid-tier and… some near peak."
He lowered the monocular, face grave. "It's bigger than we've faced in months. Over 500 already. It'll rise to 800 by the time they hit."
Matthew's jaw tightened. "We only have 400 survivors. Not all of them are even fit for combat."
Baelor nodded. "Prepare everyone. Full defensive formation. Alert all battalions."
Zone 4 sprung into motion like a well-oiled machine. Sirens wailed. Fighters suited up. Arrows were counted. Medics stocked potions and bandages.
The entire force was split into four battalions—eighty trained fighters each. The remaining eighty survivors took roles as archers, medics, supply handlers, or engineers. Every able body had a job.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the horde arrived.
The land trembled as over 820 abominations surged forward. Rotlings screeched at the front, dozens of level 2 ferals swarmed behind, and amidst them… towering level 3 mutants stomped forward. Their muscles bulged unnaturally. Eyes glowed with rage. And at the back—seven peak-tier mutants, their auras alone suffocating.
Baelor's eyes narrowed. "Seven peak-levels? That's more than expected."
Even for him, this was dangerous.
"Archers," Baelor called. "Ready your shots."
Dozens of bows drew back.
"Loose!"
Arrows rained down like steel hail. The front lines of rotlings collapsed almost instantly. Some of the ferals screeched in pain as the arrowheads tore through them.
But it wasn't enough. The horde kept advancing.
Then the gates opened. The battalions charged.
Blades clashed. Flesh tore. Screams echoed. The trained soldiers of Zone 4 moved with precision. Two-man teams worked in sync—one distracted, the other struck. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell.
Still, the enemy numbers overwhelmed.
Baelor gritted his teeth. "I'm going in."
He leaped from the wall, his figure a blur. The moment his boots hit the ground, several rotlings exploded around him. With every swing of his sword, limbs flew, heads rolled, and blood painted the dirt.
His blade danced.
A streak of silver.
A dozen fell.
He was like a walking machine. A machine meant to kill.
Then came the real threat.
Ten initial-level 3 mutants lunged toward him.
Baelor didn't retreat. He ducked low, rolled under a massive claw swipe, and slashed a mutant across the gut. Its insides spilled out as Baelor jumped back, parrying another blow.
He fought like a storm. But even storms had limits.
He killed four. The remaining six started cornering him. Mid-tier mutants were approaching. And the peak-tier ones were drawing near.
Baelor's breath grew heavy. Sweat clung to his brow. This was bad. This was really bad.
He had to do something. If he fell here so would the camp. These people who had trusted their lives to him would die like rats.
But then…
Something changed.
The monsters paused.
One by one, their heads turned.
Their eyes fixated on the horizon—on a small group of survivors approaching.
At their front, a man walked slowly. A dark cloak covered most of his body. He moved like a shadow.
Baelor froze.
Why were the monsters… afraid?
Yes—afraid. That emotion they hadn't shown in months. Monsters didn't think rationally or rather they were not capable of thinking. For them to be scared, it was like their instincts were kicking.
The cloaked figure stopped.
He raised his hand.
Blood—from the fallen, from the wounded, from the dead—began to swirl into the air. It flowed toward the man like a river of red mist.
Then, with a flick of his finger—
Slaughter.
The battlefield was painted crimson.
Every monster—from rotlings to ferals to mid and peak-level 3 mutants—froze. Their bodies convulsed. And then… they exploded. Each of them.
Silence followed.
The surviving defenders stared, wide-eyed and speechless. It was as if a god had walked onto the field.
Baelor wiped blood from his cheek, breathing heavily. His instincts told him to run. But his heart told him something else.
Hope.
The cloaked figure walked forward. His people followed him—all bearing the look of hardened survivors.
Baelor stepped toward him, scanning the man. Then finally asked, "You saved us. Thank you. What's your name?"
The man stopped. He pulled down his hood.
Black curly hair. Pale skin. Sharp black eyes that held the weight of a hundred storms.
He looked Baelor straight in the eye.
"Name?" he repeated.
"They call me… Leo."