"CHAPTER 1: THE APOCALYPSE DESCENDS

Headache. That was the first sensation crashing over Tian Qin once again as he clawed his way back from drunken oblivion. How many times had this happened? He’d lost count. Alcohol was the only anesthetic capable of drowning his suffocating pain, day after day. He longed to pull himself together, to reclaim a shred of dignity, but it was hopeless. Another heartbreak had shattered him. Men drowning their sorrows in liquor weren’t uncommon. Tian was just one of them. This was his third heartbreak, and the raw ache still clawed at his insides, impossible to banish. Without the numbing haze of alcohol, how could he ever find sleep?

He dragged himself into the bathroom and stared at the reflection staring back: hair wild, stubble darkening his jaw. He splashed water haphazardly on his face before staggering back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch. His gaze drifted to the empty liquor bottles littering the table. He picked up the cigarette pack—empty. Even the ashtray offered no reprieve; not one usable butt remained. A bitter smirk twisted his lips as he slipped on sandals and stumbled outside.

Exiting the apartment building, Qin was met with streets choked with garbage. Another building management strike? Worse, several cars were engulfed in thick, choking smoke. He pulled out his knockoff phone, dialing 999. Only a relentless busy tone. 888? Same result. ""Security!"" Qin shouted, his voice swallowed by eerie silence. He clamped a hand over his nose. The air reeked of something foul, something that clawed at his throat.

He hurried into the supermarket aptly named ""The Only Market Within Ten Miles."" It was unnaturally deserted—no customers, not even the familiar figure of the cashier, Sister Plump. Grabbing several bottles of beer and a few bags of chicken feet, Qin walked to the counter. ""Sister Plump? Toss me two packs of smokes, will ya? Sis? Hello? If no one’s here, I’m walking out with this!""

Silence answered him. Shrugging, Qin helped himself to two packs of cigarettes from behind the counter. He pulled out cash, roughly calculated the total, and slapped the bills onto the counter. ""Money’s right here, Sis. Charge me the difference next time."" Still nothing. He picked up his loot and turned to leave.

As he stepped outside, a crushing stillness slammed into him. The usually vibrant metropolis was engulfed in a suffocating silence, heavy and unnatural. Breathing felt laborious, as if making a sound meant death. The bustling streets were empty; the surrounding buildings, hollow shells. It was as if everyone had vanished overnight.

Qin stumbled into the middle of the road. ""Anybody here?"" The silence mocked him.

Fear seized him. Let this be a dream, he pleaded internally. Hands trembling, he tore open a pack of cigarettes, placing one between his lips. Before lighting it, a frantic thought struck him. He bolted back into the market, snatched the money he’d left on the counter, and sprinted home.

Slamming the door shut, he dumped his haul on the table and collapsed onto the couch. Grabbing a bottle of beer, he drank it down in frantic gulps. Empty bottle discarded, his eyes landed on the high-powered telescope by the window—the one he used to peer into neighbors' late-night dramas. He ripped the curtains open, scrambled over, and trained the lens on the city outside.

Everywhere, buildings belched thick smoke. Bodies littered the streets—motionless, broken. Qin adjusted the focus. They weren’t just bodies; they were corpses. Gruesomely so. Guts spilled onto pavement. Heads shattered like dropped melons. Some were scarcely recognizable as human. Movement. A figure flitted past the lens, then stopped, wildly waving arms toward his direction.

Did they see the lens flare? Did they know I was watching? Qin’s view filled with fresh horror. Several figures—faces smeared crimson—lunged at the waving man. They tackled him. Frenzied, teeth tore into flesh. Fingers gouged eyes, then yanked. The head ripped clean off, blood geysering from the neck. The others descended, ripping meat from the body. One figure reared back, chewing a chunk of bloody flesh. The victim's desperate hand, moments ago signaling for help, went limp. One attacker knelt, then twisted its head—Qin froze. It was devouring the dead man’s severed genitals, blood dripping as it swallowed. Qin gagged, vomiting stomachfuls of cheap beer across the floor.

After staggering upright, Qin dialed his parents’ number frantically. No signal. The landline: only the mocking drone of the busy tone. What the hell is happening? Answers felt vital, primal. The TV screen remained blank. His laptop: ""Connection Failed."" Now, he craved not just answers, but sound—proof he wasn’t utterly alone.

sudden roar ripped through the silence outside. Qin scrambled to the window. A small plane screamed past, then slammed nose-first into a neighboring skyscraper. BOOM. Fireball. Shattering glass. Terror rattled Qin’s bones. The world outside was alien, terrifying. He wouldn’t dare leave.

Qin hid inside. Three days crawled by. Then, the lights died. The water stopped. Hunger became unbearable. He had to venture out. Food was the target. The supermarket outside. He grabbed a backpack and a large kitchen knife from his kitchen. Ear pressed against the door, Qin listened—pure silence. Heart hammering, he flung the door open and bolted down the stairs.

Inside the market, he dropped the knife and began frantically stuffing his backpack with anything edible, anything drinkable. Pack bulging, it was time to run. As he turned, a familiar shape blocked his path. Sister Plump. Relief warred with unease. ""Sis! It’s Qin! Little Qin! Look, I brought stuff. I was gonna pay! I am gonna pay!"" He slid the backpack off, dropping it to the floor. ""Calculate it, Sis. Please.""

Sister Plump’s vacant eyes locked onto him. Then, without warning, her arms shot out. She grabbed him in a terrifyingly strong embrace, shoving him down, pinning him beneath her bulk. Her mouth yawned open, teeth aiming for his throat.

Qin screamed, pure terror ripping through him. ""SISTER PLUMP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? LET GO! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!""

No one came. No one could come. He clawed at her, managing to wedge the backpack under her chin, keeping her gnashing teeth just inches away. He heaved, trying to throw her off, but her weight pinned him helplessly. Desperation flared. His flailing hand brushed cold metal—a cast-iron skillet that had fallen from a shelf nearby. With a desperate lunge, he freed one arm, snatched the skillet, and swung it with all his strength at Sister Plump's head. CRACK. The handle snapped right off. The blow sent her reeling sideways. Qin scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the door.

Outside, salvation seemed near. Police officers were approaching. ""HELP! OVER HERE! HELP ME!"" Qin screamed, sprinting toward them. Hope surged.

He was meters away when he saw their faces. Blood-smeared jaws gaped unnaturally wide. Hungry, ravenous eyes fixed on him. Not police. Predators.

Qin pivoted on his heel, fleeing back the way he came. As he ran, figures emerged—dozens of them. From alleys, doorways, cars. They moved with jerky, unnatural frenzy, guttural roars tearing from their throats. One clutched a severed human arm. Another stumbled, an iron rod protruding from its gut. A third crawled, dragging itself along the pavement, legs completely gone below the hips.

How? The question flickered and died. Survival screamed louder. Where to run? They converged from all sides. Panicked, Qin saw his only chance: a towering electrical pylon nearby. Climb! He bolted toward its steel lattice.

Scaling the tower brought new terrors. Vertigo slammed into him as the ground shrank. Worse, he’d trapped himself. The frenzied horde—zombies? infected? monsters?—massed below. They didn’t climb, but they didn’t leave either. They growled, shuffled, reached up with clawing hands. Qin clung white-knuckled to the cold metal. His arms screamed. How long could he hold?

Two hours. Still they waited. Hunger gnawed at him. Thirst parched his throat. Exhaustion threatened to uncurl his fingers. Despair settled like lead in his stomach. Nightfall cloaked the city in deeper darkness. The figures below blurred into a seething mass in the gloom. He was going to fall. He would fall. And they would tear him apart. Tears traced cold paths down his grimy cheeks.

Suddenly, light split the sky. A streak of brilliance arrowed towards him—fast. Qin instinctively jerked sideways. The light halted mid-air, hovering. As he froze, it began moving again, unerringly seeking him.

He twisted, scrambled sideways on the precarious beams. The light adjusted its path each time. It was locked onto him. It accelerated. Impact. A searing, white-hot agony ripped across his left forearm—like molten steel poured onto flesh. The pain exploded through him, a raw, involuntary howl tearing from his throat. The shock jolted his grip loose. Balance vanished. The world tumbled. He plummeted through darkness, consciousness snuffed out…

One Year Later

Night blanketed the city in desolation. Only two words sufficed: utter ruin. A brilliant meteor streaked across the starless sky, ignored by the shambling figures infesting the corpse of the metropolis. The rotted, hollowed-out shells of buildings offered no light. The sole observers were the infected. They had no eyes for celestial beauty. Only hunger.

The meteor plunged downward, faster, closer, finally impacting a patch of farmland clinging to the city’s ragged fringe. The impact carved a crater thirty meters wide into the soil. The object wasn't typical space rock. It resembled an oversized white football, standing about the height of a man. Silence reigned in the dusty crater. Then, a faint vibration. A seam appeared along its length. With a faint hiss, the sphere split open.

Inside, bathed in fading residual light, lay a man. Bare-chested. Motionless. He looked… human. Terran. Definitely Terran. But what human crashes to Earth in an alien football?

He stirred. Groaning, he opened his eyes. Utter darkness. He sat up, shivering violently in the cool night air, clutching himself. Frantic, his head whipped around, scanning the featureless gloom. Nothing but farmland, bordered by distant, lonely mounds of earth—graves? Recognition, then sheer relief flooded him. He scrambled out onto the packed earth of the crater floor. ""Hah! Haha! I’m alive! ALIVE! How? I did fall...""

heavy whoosh sliced through the silence above. A massive black bird, wingspan wide, swooped low over the crater. The unexpected sound, the shadow passing overhead—it sent jolts of primal fear through him. He dropped into a crouch, breath held. Weapon. Need a weapon. He scrambled back towards the split sphere, hands frantically searching its smooth, featureless interior walls. Empty. Nothing.

He stood again, clenching his fists, skinning his knuckles against the crater’s rocky side. Fists were all he had. Then he looked down. Something on his left forearm caught the faint moonlight. A design. Black ink… no. Not ink. Darker. More organic. A tattoo? Yet it seemed less applied than… grown. It coiled sinuously from his inner elbow towards his wrist—a dragon. Fierce, intricate, startlingly lifelike. Its tiny scales seemed to catch the dim light. Bewildered, Qin reached out with his right hand, fingers hovering over the dragon’s head poised near his wrist. He touched it.

Instantly, light erupted from the tattoo. A searing, blinding flash of white light shot out from the dragon’s form. Qin gasped, stumbling backwards, landing hard on his backside in the dirt. The light coalesced, resolving into a rectangular screen hovering a few inches above his arm—glowing, approximately 4.3 inches wide. On it, the face of a woman materialized. Stunningly beautiful. Alarmingly familiar, tugging at the edges of Qin’s fractured memory.

The woman’s digital lips moved. Her voice, crisp and clear despite the bizarre delivery, filled the silent crater: ""Tian Qin. Hello. I am Zhao Ying."""