With a vertical slash of his sword, he cut through the monster's flesh, severing its left arm.
Thick black blood burst out, splattering the ground with sticky drops.
The creature did not scream—it couldn't, for it had no lower jaw, only a hoarse, guttural moan.
Its pale, empty eyes—dead and lifeless—stared at Endel, as if pain meant nothing to it.
A sharp horizontal swing.
The right limb flew off as well.
Endel kept striking—short, quick, precise blows.
Here and there, silver flashes sliced through the air, biting into flesh, cutting tendons, flinging chunks of meat aside.
Blood sprayed everywhere.
Armless, the zombie staggered but kept moving forward, as if its body had forgotten what exhaustion was, refusing to realize it was already falling apart.
Endel inhaled deeply.
His lungs burned, his muscles ached with fatigue—he had been fighting like this for hours, each battle draining him drop by drop.
The armless zombie lurched again, but its steps were slower now than those of the exhausted Endel.
The white blade gleamed.
One almost lazy-looking swing.
The creature's head flew off.
The body collapsed with a dull thud.
A foul stream of black blood poured from the stump, soaking into the cracked asphalt.
[You have slain a Zombie — Rank F]
Endel shook his sword, flicking off the sticky dark blood.
Sweat trickled down his face, but he remained calm.
Turning his head, he saw the same kind of monsters he had just slain.
What struck him most—every single one was dead in the exact same way.
All their heads had been cut clean off.
"Ha…" he exhaled wearily, his throat parched from long hours of fighting.
These zombies were weaker than the artlaps, but they were too many—and he was alone. Each fight drained his strength further.
And to truly kill them, you had to cut off the head.
He looked up. The quiet sunset descended upon this hellish city—a place that had once been beautiful.
It had been several days since he returned from the dungeon, and in all that time it felt like he had wandered through a nightmare.
He had ended up on the other side of the city—far from his home, his friends, his parents. And instead of rescue, he had found a nest of the walking dead.
He recalled the system's note: "You will regret your choice…" Now he understood what it meant.
Not only had he been thrown into the very heart of the zombie swarm, but also far away from the original place where he'd entered the dungeon.
"Heh…" all he could muster was a bitter, ironic chuckle.
And yet, he had no regrets. Everything he brought back from the dungeon was worth it.
"Can't argue with that," yawned the Third, lazily eyeing the white blade in Endel's hands.
It was a white one-handed sword, about seventy centimeters long.
It weighed around two kilograms, yet was surprisingly sharp.
Endel opened its description.
[One-Handed Sword — Rank C]
Description: Its blade is thin and straight, as though cut from light itself. It slices through flesh effortlessly and severs the bones of lesser monsters as easily as dry twigs. Its sharpness exceeds its rank—closer to a B-class weapon—though its durability remains that of C. An ideal weapon for a beginning swordsman.
It was one of the two bonus rewards granted to him as the most useful participant in the dungeon raid.
For a while, he admired the weapon, and it was only natural—this was his first true blade in this new life, already in his third regression…
"Stop looking at it like it's your soulmate. Or is that what you really think?" sneered the Third.
Even he himself no longer understood.
Was this truly how Endel used to be before he appeared here?
Or had watching himself from the outside changed his own perception? The Third wasn't sure anymore.
Hearing the mocking remarks, Endel awkwardly averted his gaze, pretending to look elsewhere—as though the words hadn't been meant for him at all.
"I see everything…" the Third muttered, sensing that Endel was dodging the answer.
But Endel paid him no more mind.
He stepped quickly over the corpses, heading toward the place where he had stayed the last few days.
Running through the streets, he saw only the dead—both monsters and humans.
Civilians and soldiers alike.
Some were torn apart, others half-eaten, some slain by bullets. The latter chilled him most—realizing humans were scarier than monsters.
Houses lay in ruins, entire streets reduced to rubble.
Burned-out vehicles, both military and civilian, littered the ground, and among the wreckage lay human skeletons.
Though Endel had already seen death, his own neighborhood—where his home was—had been relatively calmer. There had been destruction there too, but not on this scale.
"You know… there were probably more monsters here than near our house," the Third remarked, realizing this place had suffered far worse.
Endel gave a heavy nod, suppressing the shiver running down his body as he imagined what must have happened here.
"But where did all those monsters go?" the curious Third asked.
"How should I know…" Endel muttered, deep in thought.
He understood as well—if such horrors had taken place here, then where had all the monsters that caused it gone?
Zombies were terrifying, yes, but they couldn't have caused this much devastation. They could be dealt with—even by laser rifles, the kind he once had.
Orе even ordinary firearms.
And yet, these past few days, all he had fought were zombies while scouting the area.
No other monsters.
No people either. Empty.
As if they had all simply vanished.
"Or died," the Third whispered, staring at the corpses, his words pressing the harsh reality even harder.
But logically speaking—there weren't enough corpses. As brutal as it sounded, there were too few to account for the complete absence of survivors.
If everyone had died, the streets should have been piled with bodies.
And yet, the duo found no answers.
Some time later, Endel stood before a twenty-five-story building, staring at it with a conflicted gaze.
It was here he had appeared when the dungeon timer hit zero. Just as promised, he had been expelled and found himself on the seventh floor, receiving his rewards.
But he had ignored them for the moment, searching the area instead, trying to understand where he was—and whether any people remained.
He had found none.
But he did learn where he was.
And that knowledge did not please him.
To reach the safe zone—where his friends and parents were—he would need several days on foot.
If, of course, nothing unexpected happened.
Now he stared at the building again.
Though parts of it had been destroyed, as if bombed, it still stood, though it looked ready to collapse at any moment.
Some sections were burned, entire floors missing apartments altogether.
At first, he thought to leave, to find a better place. But this was the tallest building nearby.
Endel had chosen it for that reason alone—to get a view of the surroundings and maybe spot someone.
"Or something…" the Third muttered with unease.
As always, his words went ignored.
Climbing the stairs, there was no electricity—and even if there had been, Endel wouldn't risk turning it on.
The sights were the same every day he climbed—corpses, this time only of humans.
Blood smeared across walls and floors, painting a grotesque picture of horror.
And finally, he reached the top floor, opening the door to the apartment he had been staying in all this time.
The moment he stepped inside, he froze.
Four men.
And the cold sensation of metal pressed against his temple.
He went still.
One was young, about twenty. Very fat and filthy, with messy hair and a greasy face, sitting lazily on the couch with a cigar.
His gaze was sluggish, yet filled with greed.
"Whoa, how is he that fat?" the Third exclaimed indignantly. "How much does someone have to eat for that?"
But Endel had no time for that thought.
Two others stood behind the fat man, like bodyguards. One was tall and gaunt, with sharp features and a cold stare; the other was of average height, muscular, looking ready to follow any command.
Their faces were weary, but armed, they still radiated danger.
And the last?
"Boy, take your hand off the sword, or I'll have no choice but to kill you," said a quiet voice—tinged with sadness, as though the speaker didn't want this, yet was forced into it.
It was the fourth man, holding a pistol against Endel's head.
He looked about forty-five, with black hair and tired brown eyes. In them lay both weariness and determination. His presence alone carried authority—without needing a single sudden move.
Endel tensed. He hadn't expected this. He began thinking fast, but no solution came.
His hand gripped the sword's hilt tightly.
"Bad idea!" the Third shouted in alarm.
Everyone noticed.
The two bodyguards raised their weapons in panic. The fat man tensed, his greasy face quivering.
The cigar fell from his hand, burning into the couch.
The man with the gun at Endel's head stiffened too, though less than the rest. Still, he spoke quickly:
"Kid! I don't want to kill again, so let go of that sword!"
"Endel, don't do anything reckless!" the Third pleaded, sweating from the tension.
Endel too was drenched in sweat. Yet among all of them, he was the calmest.
He met each of their eyes.
Part of him wanted to do it like in the movies—cut off the hand holding the gun, use the man as a shield while the others fired, then escape.
But…
This wasn't a movie. It was reality.
And though he knew he might one day be strong enough for such a stunt, right now he was far too weak.
He couldn't act recklessly—or he'd be forced into his fourth regression.
Breathing out slowly, the others tensed even further. Endel lowered his sword, raising his hands.
"I surrender," he said calmly.
"Phew…" the Third exhaled, relieved, for he had truly believed Endel was about to try it—even forgetting to read his thoughts.
The four men also sighed, though their weapons stayed trained on him.
The fat man, who had been silent until now, his greedy gaze fixed on Endel—clean, armored in silver, with a sword at his side—finally let out his pig-like voice.
"Doberman, bring me the sword," he said greedily, forgetting how he had just cowered like a swine.
The bodyguard hesitated, but obeyed.
Approaching Endel, he didn't dare meet his icy blue eyes. Quietly, he took the sword and handed it to the fat man.
The man examined it hungrily, touching it with his filthy hands, licking his lips.
Endel's gaze turned murderous.
"Easy, boy!" the Third panicked, terrified Endel might lose control over the weapon.
"You know… we've been waiting a long time for this," the fat man sneered, savoring his triumph.
The floor creaked under his weight, and he even wheezed after walking just a few steps.
It felt like an eternity before he reached Endel.
The first thing he did—was point the stolen sword at him.
Endel remained still, silent, listening closely, trying to grasp what they wanted—and gather information.