Chapter 6: Chapter 6: Zombie Chase
The pasta was divine.
Lucian sat on the cold tile floor of Marco’s Italian Kitchen, back against the steel counter, a container of carbonara balanced on his knee. He ate with his hands shoveling creamy noodles into his mouth with the urgency of a starving man.
Because he was starving. Two weeks of nothing but blood and raw beast meat had left his body screaming for actual sustenance.
He’d already demolished an entire container of lasagna. Half a pizza. A bowl of salad that he’d barely tasted. Now the carbonara was disappearing at an alarming rate, sauce dripping down his chin, cheese smearing across his fingers.
More.
He reached for another container — penne arrabbiata, the spicy tomato smell making his mouth water — and popped the lid off.
The front door crashed open.
"Move, move, MOVE—"
Five bodies poured into the restaurant.
"Holy shit," one of them breathed. "Look at all this food—"
"Grab what you can. Quick. We don’t know how long this place will stay clear—"
Footsteps with frantic movement. The sound of refrigerator doors being wrenched open, containers being snatched, plastic bags rustling.
Lucian kept eating.
The penne was good and spicy. The heat spread across his tongue, a welcome contrast to the copper-iron taste that had dominated his diet for two weeks. He chewed slowly, savoring it, letting the flavors sit on his taste buds.
"Yo, check this out— frozen meat. We can cook this back at the—*"
"Shut up and grab it. We’re not the only ones who know about this place—"
The five survivors were working themselves into a frenzy, stuffing bags with everything they could carry, driven by the primal instinct to hoard resources in a crisis.
Lucian finished the penne and reached for a container of tiramisu.
"Hey."
A hand landed on his shoulder.
"Oi, kid."
Lucian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look up. The tiramisu was right there — layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream, dusted with cocoa powder. He’d been looking forward to this.
"What are you doing hoarding our food all to yourself?"
The hand squeezed his shoulder.
Lucian took a bite of tiramisu.
"Get your hand off my shoulder."
His voice was cold.
Silence.
Then —
"Hahahaha! Did you hear that, guys?" The hand on Lucian’s shoulder shook with the man’s mirth. "The kid thinks he’s some kind of movie character! ’Get your hand off my shoulder—’" He pitched his voice higher, mocking. "What are you gonna do, cry about it?"
His friends laughed too.
"Just leave him, Marco," one of them said. "He’s just a kid. Probably in shock—*"
"No, no, no." Marco’s grip tightened. "I don’t like being disrespected. Especially not by some silver-haired little shit who thinks he can—*"
He stopped.
Because his hand was no longer attached to his arm.
It took a moment for the brain to process what the eyes were seeing. One second, Marco’s hand was on Lucian’s shoulder. The next, it was on the floor.
Then the pain hit.
"AAAAAHHHHHAHHHH—!"
Marco’s scream split the air like a knife. He stumbled backward, clutching his wrist to his chest, blood pumping between his fingers in spurts that painted the white tile floor red. His face went white, then grey, then a horrible mottled purple as shock set in.
"WHAT THE FUCK— WHAT THE FUCK— MY HAND—"
Lucian finally looked up.
Tiramisu spoon still in hand. Face utterly expressionless.
"He’s a cultivator!" one of the other men screamed — the one who’d suggested leaving Lucian alone. His face had gone white, all the bravado drained away in an instant. "RUN! HE’S A FUCKING CULTIVATOR—*"
They ran.
All four of them — scrambling over each other, knocking over chairs, sprinting for the door with the desperate speed of prey animals fleeing a predator.
Lucian sighed.
He looked down at the tiramisu. At the spoon in his hand. At the beautiful, perfect layers of coffee and cream and cocoa that he’d been about to enjoy.
Then he looked at Marco, who was still on the floor, still screaming, still bleeding.
"P-please—" Marco gasped, tears streaming down his face, his voice barely audible over his own shrieks. "Please— my hand— help me—"
"You ruined my meal."
Lucian stood.
The movement was too fast for Marco to track. One second, Lucian was sitting on the floor. The next, he was there — crouched in front of Marco, face inches away, silver hair falling forward to frame his features like a curtain.
Marco’s screaming stopped. Not because the pain had lessened, but because his throat had locked up with terror.
"Wh— what are you—*"
Lucian’s fangs extended.
"No— NO—"
Lucian’s mouth found the stump of Marco’s wrist.
The blood that flooded into his mouth was exquisite. Fear-laced, adrenaline-pumped, hot with the coppery sweetness that only human blood could provide. It wasn’t the refined vintage of a powerful cultivator — Marco was a normal human, probably F-rank at best — but after two weeks of beast blood, it tasted like ambrosia.
Marco’s screams resumed, higher, more desperate, but they faded as Lucian drank. The man’s struggles weakened. His heartbeat slowed.
Lucian pulled back before the heart stopped entirely. He didn’t need all of it — just enough to top off his BE and wash away the taste of ruined tiramisu.
Marco slumped to the floor as he died there.
The other four hadn’t made it far.
Lucian caught the first one at the door — a heavyset man with a beard, who had the misfortune of being the slowest. A Light Blade through the spine paralyzed him instantly, and Lucian drank from his neck as the body slid to the ground.
The second tried to hide behind an overturned table. Lucian pulled the table away with one hand and drained him in three seconds flat.
The third made it to the alley behind the restaurant. Lucian was faster.
The fourth — the one who’d first recognized Lucian was a cultivator — had gotten the furthest. He was fifty meters down the street, sprinting for his life, when Lucian appeared in front of him like a ghost.
"Please—" the man begged, skidding to a halt. "I didn’t do anything— I said to leave you alone—"
"I know." Lucian’s voice was soft. Almost gentle. "You were smart. The others were stupid."
The man’s face flooded with desperate hope. "Then—"
"But you saw my face."
Schlick.
The body hit the ground.
Lucian wiped his mouth and looked down at the corpse with mild annoyance.
"You guys really ruined my meal."
╔══════════════════════╗
║ ⚔ COMBAT NOTIFICATION ⚔ ║
║ Normal Human slain: +5 EXP ║
║ Normal Human slain: +5 EXP ║
║ Normal Human slain: +5 EXP ║
║ Normal Human slain: +5 EXP ║
║ Normal Human slain: +5 EXP ║
║ TOTAL EXP GAINED: +25 EXP ║
╚══════════════════════╝
╔══════════════════════╗
║ SYSTEM LEVEL: 4 ║
║ EXP: 445 / 500 ║ ╚═══════════════════════╝
Fifty-five more.
Lucian dismissed the notifications and walked back into the restaurant. The tiramisu was still there, but the mood was ruined.
Instead, he opened the refrigerators and started grabbing.
Packaged foods. Sealed containers. Anything that wouldn’t spoil, anything he could store. Canned tomatoes. Dried pasta. Vacuum-sealed meats. Packages of cheese. Bottles of water.
He reached into the shadow pooling beneath the counter and shoved it all inside.
The Shadow Storage was cold — that biting, unnatural cold that made his fingers ache — but it worked. Container after container vanished into the darkness, swallowed by a pocket dimension that existed outside normal space.
By the time he was done, he’d stockpiled enough food to last a normal human two weeks. For him, with his reduced need for conventional sustenance, it would last much longer.
He took one last look around the restaurant. The bodies would attract zombies eventually. The smell of blood was already thick in the air, and those things seemed drawn to it like flies to rotting meat.
Time to go.
The car was a sedan — old model, pre-Cataclysm design retrofitted with a mana-powered engine. The keys were still in the ignition, the driver’s door hanging open, the seat stained with something Lucian didn’t want to identify.
He slid behind the wheel and turned the key.
The engine hummed to life.
Lucian pulled out of the parking spot and onto the street.
The city was a maze of destruction. He navigated by instinct and memory, avoiding the worst of the fires, weaving around abandoned vehicles and debris, staying away from the clusters of zombies that shambled through the intersections.
Old Town was on the other side of Lyon — the historic district, where the buildings were older, the streets narrower, and — crucially — where the Dawn’s Light Orphanage was located.
Two hours later,
The sedan’s headlights cut weak beams through the smoke-choked air. Lucian kept them on — the alternative was driving blind, and while his night vision was excellent, it wasn’t infallible.
He was passing through a narrow street in Old Town when the first zombie appeared.
It lunged out of an alleyway with arms outstretched — and slammed into the side of the car with a thud that rattled the windows.
CRUNCH.
More followed.
They poured out of the buildings on either side — dozens of them, maybe hundreds, drawn by the sound of the engine. Grey bodies collided with the sedan from all angles, their fists pounding on the hood, the roof, the doors.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Shit."
Lucian floored the accelerator.
The sedan lurched forward, tires squealing, and plowed through the mass of bodies. The impact was jarring — bam, bam, bam — as zombies bounced off the front bumper, their brittle bones snapping under the force.
But there were too many.
The car slowed. The engine whined in protest as the weight of bodies accumulated around the wheels. A zombie climbed onto the hood, its milky eyes staring through the windshield, its mouth opening and closing in a mindless chewing motion.
Then Lucian felt it — a heavier impact. Not the weak, flailing strikes of normal zombies, but something stronger.
BOOM.
The windshield cracked.
An Early Neophyte Realm zombie had appeared — this one still wearing the remnants of a Hunter Guild uniform, its body glowing faintly with residual mana. It had jumped onto the roof of the car and was now stomping, trying to cave in the ceiling.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
"Fuck this."
Lucian threw open the door and rolled out.
The moment his feet hit the pavement, he was moving — Light Blade forming in his hand, Light Shield sparking to life on his left arm as a grey hand reached for him from the crowd.
Schlick.
The hand came off at the wrist. The zombie didn’t seem to notice.
Schlick. Schlick.
Two more went down, heads rolling. But the crowd was thick — pressing in from all sides, a wall of grey flesh and grasping hands and moaning mouths.
The Neophyte zombie dropped from the car roof, landing in a crouch, and charged.
Lucian’s Light Shield caught its fist.
CRACK!
The impact sent him sliding backward — this one was stronger than the others, its mana-enhanced muscles still functioning even in death. It pulled back for another strike, and Lucian ducked under it, driving his Light Blade up into its chin.
Schlick.
The head came off.
But more were coming.
He could see them — more glowing figures in the crowd, more Early Neophyte zombies pushing through the normal ones. Three. Four. Five.
Lucian charged forward, Light Blade flashing, Light Shield raised. He cut a path through the horde — not killing all of them, just enough, just enough to create a gap he could slip through.
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.
A normal zombie went down, then another, then a third. An Early Neophyte lunged at him and he sidestepped, letting it stumble past, then took its head from behind.
Schlick.
The gap widened. Lucian dove through it — coming up in a sprint — and kept moving. The zombies behind him howled in mindless fury, but they were slow, so slow, and he was fast.
He vaulted over a overturned car, leaped onto a pile of rubble, and scrambled up the side of a building. His fingers found handholds in the cracked masonry, his vampiric strength propelling him upward with ease.
Rooftop.
Lucian paused at the edge, looking back.
The street below was a sea of grey — hundreds of zombies pouring in from every direction, filling the road, climbing over the abandoned sedan, mindlessly following the path of their escaped prey.
And beyond them, more. More zombies. More glowing Neophyte figures.
A whole fucking horde.
Lucian turned away from the edge and started running.
Rooftop to rooftop, leaping across gaps that would have been impossible for a normal human, his silver hair streaming behind him, his eyes scanning the city below for landmarks.
The system pulsed.
╔═════════════════════════╗
║ COMBAT NOTIFICATION (PENDING) ║ ║ Targets eliminated during escape: ║
║ • Normal Zombies: 6 ║
║ • Early Neophyte Zombies: 2 ║
║ Note: EXP will be awarded upon ║
║ combat conclusion or safe zone. ║
╚═════════════════════════╝
Lucian dismissed the window and kept running.
Behind him, the horde gave chase — a wave of grey flowing through the streets below, following the sound of his footsteps, the scent of his blood.
But they were too slow.
