Watching Miranda's retreating figure, Bryan glanced toward the classroom Sarah had entered, then stepped into his own assigned room.
The children inside were chattering and horsing around. No one paid any attention to the new face.
That was hardly surprising. With one or two hundred students packed in here, and only a week of acquaintance, how could anyone possibly remember every face? Besides, seating was open—everyone sat wherever they wanted, with different neighbors every day. Getting to know each other was practically impossible.
Bryan swept his gaze across the classroom without rushing to find a seat. Instead, he looked up at the ceiling and the four corners. Sure enough, surveillance cameras were mounted in each corner. Obviously, someone was watching everything that happened here.
Noted.
He continued forward, heading straight to the back of the classroom where a row of bookshelves stood in neat formation.
Scanning from left to right, he found textbooks, world classics, various encyclopedias, and comic books—though the selection was limited.
He even spotted a few fashion magazines with scantily clad women in provocative poses on the covers. Judging by the gaps behind them, some had already been taken.
This discovery made Bryan click his tongue. He couldn't understand why such magazines would be here. These were hormone-fueled teenagers, after all. The people running this place really would put out anything.
The comics and novels sections had also been heavily picked over. Meanwhile, the educational materials and encyclopedias had barely been touched.
His eyes continued searching the shelves until he found two books worth reading: one on human anatomy and another on close-quarters combat. In this apocalyptic world, the opportunity for continued learning was precious. He needed to absorb as much knowledge as possible and grow stronger as quickly as he could.
Hugging the books to his chest, he found a seat near the back of the classroom by the window. No one sat nearby—perfect for reading in peace.
He placed the books on the upper left corner of his desk and instinctively reached for the combat manual. But halfway there, he paused. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the anatomy book instead.
He'd just realized something. His body was only thirteen years old. Even if he studied combat techniques, with his current physique and strength, he'd only be performing flashy moves with no real power. And he wouldn't need those skills in the short term anyway.
Better to understand human anatomy first. Beyond the commonly known vital points, what other vulnerable areas could incapacitate someone quickly? That knowledge would be far more useful.
Bryan opened the book, studying the diagrams of the human body with lines connecting to descriptions of various body parts on either side. He located the corresponding pages and began reading carefully, gradually becoming absorbed in the material.
Before long, a middle-aged man walked in carrying a newspaper. His eyes swept over the few children still roughhousing.
The moment they noticed him, the rowdy kids scrambled back to their seats—though they continued whispering to each other.
The man didn't seem to care. He simply plopped down in a chair by the door, crossed his legs, and opened his newspaper. His job was just to maintain basic order. Everything else wasn't his problem.
As the clock on the wall slowly ticked forward, two hours slipped by unnoticed.
Just before three o'clock, the middle-aged man looked up from his newspaper, checked the time, and set it down. With an almost gleeful expression, he addressed the class: "Afternoon physical training is about to begin. Head to the athletic field and assemble."
Though there were no formal classes yet, all students were required to undergo daily physical training.
This was the apocalypse. The outside world was overrun with Infected. When these kids grew up—whether they became soldiers or workers—they would inevitably leave the QZ for missions at some point. If they encountered Infected, having a strong, fit body capable of fleeing could mean the difference between life and death.
"Ughhh—!"
The announcement triggered a chorus of groans throughout the classroom. Hearing it, Bryan was reminded of his past life—the collective despair whenever the homeroom teacher commandeered P.E. or computer class.
Slowly raising his head, he watched as everyone rose from their seats and surged toward the front and back exits.
He noted the page number he'd reached, folded a small corner to mark it, then slipped both books into his desk drawer. Rising, he followed the crowd out.
The school had two athletic fields. One was next to the academic building—Bryan noticed that all the children under ten were heading there.
That made sense. Children under ten were still growing. Moderate exercise was fine, but overexertion was harmful. Their training regimen would naturally differ.
The other field was beside the cafeteria. More than a simple athletic field, it was a streamlined stadium with bleachers on both sides, capable of accommodating thousands.
The snow and ice had been completely cleared from the grounds. A dozen soldiers in military uniforms stood at attention in the center, their expressions stern, eyes fixed forward, waiting for everyone to assemble.
The crowd gradually converged in the middle, forming square formations by class. Bryan did a quick count—over a dozen formations, four thousand students at most. Adding in the other field, the entire school couldn't have more than six thousand.
This revelation surprised him. Atlanta had nearly six million residents before the outbreak. Yet the QZ's only school had fewer than six thousand students.
Now he truly understood why Atlanta had been designated a severe infection zone. He could only imagine the horrific conditions under which this Quarantine Zone had been established.
The number of people who had survived until the QZ's creation and actually made it inside was pitifully small. There might actually be more soldiers than civilians now—a sparse population spread across a vast area. No wonder they'd needed to request population support from other quarantine zones.
The training itself was nothing special—basic military drills. After warm-up exercises, they went straight into a 5,000-meter run. Fortunately, Bryan had developed a morning jogging habit since the apocalypse began, so this was almost too easy.
But then came push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, and parallel bars. While these were standard exercises, the required numbers were significantly higher. Still, the instructors understood that training had to be progressive, so they didn't push anyone to complete exhaustion.
Even so, by the time the full circuit was done, Bryan was gasping for breath, sitting on the ground and frantically wiping sweat from his forehead.
Now he understood why everyone had looked so dejected at the mention of field assembly. This kind of training really was grueling.
Apparently, this regimen had only started a couple of days ago. Most people hadn't adapted yet—no wonder they were all complaining.
After resting for a while, Bryan suddenly felt a familiar warmth rise from his abdomen, spreading comfort through his body. He pressed a hand to his stomach, finding the sensation peculiar.
Ever since his first run back in Dallas, every workout session produced this strange heat in his abdomen that flowed to his limbs. Though subtle, he could feel his stamina and strength steadily increasing.
But as he continued his daily morning exercises, this warmth had gradually weakened until it stopped appearing altogether. He'd understood then that he needed to intensify his training—but surrounded by Infected and without adequate food, how could he possibly exhaust himself completely?
Yet when he'd carried Sarah into the QZ and depleted every ounce of his energy, the warmth had returned—and that time, it was especially soothing. Like soaking in a hot spring, warmth spreading through his entire body, even easing his discomfort.
He spread his hands and stared at them, murmuring: "What... is happening to me?"
But no matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn't figure it out. Eventually, he chalked it up to some kind of transmigration perk.
"Could I actually be... the legendary protagonist?"
At this thought, Bryan's lips curved slightly. His mind drifted to the novels he'd read in his past life, and for once, he let himself indulge in a bit of fantasy.
But he was fundamentally a rational person. After a brief moment of daydreaming, he snapped back to reality. He slowly rose to his feet, stretched his muscles, and—listening to the groans echoing across the field—began searching for Sarah.
...
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