"Chapter 1: Reborn!

March 31, 2012. News no less explosive than a nuclear detonation spread across the globe at breakneck speed.

""Hoho, everyone! Welcome back to Scientific Genesis, our daily science program. Today, we’re honored to have Dr. Charles, Tech Advisor from M Corporation!"" On the facade of a department store, a massive screen broadcasted information electrifying enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine.

Beneath the display, a crowd had swelled to over five thousand onlookers. Thankfully, the pedestrian-only street was broad enough to avoid gridlock.

The screen cut to a bespectacled middle-aged man in a blue suit, nodding calmly. ""Hello, I am Dr. Charles, Tech Advisor for M Corporation.""

The feed switched again. The hostess and Dr. Charles now shared the screen. ""Dr. Charles,"" the hostess asked, holding up a vial of green liquid, her voice thrumming with excitement, ""can this ‘God’s Gift’ truly extend an average person’s lifespan by ten years?""

Dr. Charles adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his tone definitive. ""Absolutely. Our research confirms ‘God’s Gift’ is a neuro-stimulant that targets cellular activity. It grants primordial cells one additional division cycle.""

He elaborated, ""Human cells have a finite division limit. Picture a cell’s division count as ‘8.’ After dividing once, it halves to 4, then to 2. Each division reduces cellular potency. When vitality drops too low, cells begin to decay.

‘God’s Gift’ doubles the foundational cell count. So, where an ordinary cell divides eight times, a subject treated with our formula gains a base of sixteen divisions—effectively doubling their vitality!

Yes, secondary cell differentiation slightly diminishes energy output from the extended cells. Still, our data confirms it reliably adds eight to ten years of life!""

The hostess feigned shock, pressing a hand to her mouth. ""Good heavens! Can such a miracle truly exist?""

""Damn!""

young voice snarled from beneath the screen. The speaker lowered his head. Ice-cold eyes contrasted sharply with his handsome features, lending him an unsettling magnetism.

girl in hot shorts nearby shot him a puzzled glance, watching the strange youth clench his fists. Her attention swiftly snapped back to the screen. Ten extra years… That revelation was pure dynamite!

""The side effect is turning into flesh-eating zombies,"" the boy muttered to himself. ""Just joking, of course."" He turned—but didn’t leave. Instead, he strained to listen as Dr. Charles spoke.

The girl eyed him again. The boy fell silent, head bowed, knuckles white.

Standing close, she’d caught his bizarre remark. But he wore cheap clothes—no trust-fund kid here. She dismissed him without a second thought and refocused on the screen.

""One more question, Dr. Charles,"" the hostess pressed. ""If someone’s body can’t tolerate this serum—what are the side effects?""

Dr. Charles sipped mineral water, chuckling. ""Adverse reactions are exceedingly rare. The formula is exceptionally mild, targeting cells without triggering discomfort.""

He paused dramatically, a twinkle in his eye. ""If I must list a side effect…"" He flashed a mischievous grin. ""They might turn into flesh-eating zombies! But really, I’m only joking.""

The crowd erupted in laughter. ""Oh, Dr. Charles, you’re such a wit!"" The hostess laughed along, though inwardly she sighed. Only a national treasure could crack jokes during breaking news like this.

With immortality dangling before them, everyone treated the ""zombie"" gag as just that—a joke. The hostess giggled; the crowd basked in euphoria. All except the hot-pants girl. Her eyes widened as she stared at the boy… who was walking away. Disbelief etched her face.

He knew.

Before Dr. Charles said it.

Mu Tian pushed through the throng, glanced resolutely toward the rising sun, and vanished down the pedestrian avenue.

*---

In a cramped, 100-square-foot rented room, Mu Tian’s face was tense. He slowly extended his left hand. On his palm, a violet scabbard—about half a finger long—materialized, its form faintly glowing.

What the hell is this?

He frowned, recalling last night’s unnervingly long ""dream.""

In the dream, this exact day: M Corp unveiled ""God’s Gift"" for mass distribution. And within a month, every inoculated person transformed—in staggered intervals—into Gen-Zero Zombies.

By the time governments reacted, it was too late. Gen-Zero proved impossible to contain. Why? Later zombie generations—Gen-Two through Gen-Thirty—spread only via bites or open wounds.

But Gen-Zero? They infected through the air. Schools. Hospitals. Offices. Malls. Massive, silent transmission chains ignited globally… and Gen-Zero carriers hibernated longer than anyone realized.

Lower-gen zombies converted victims in three hours. Gen-Zero’s incubation stretched to a horrifying thirty days.

Two months in, world leaders finally grasped it: Quarantines had failed. A species-threatening bio-apocalypse arrived.

Four months post-outbreak, nations scrambled to erect fortress-cities. Walls rose against the endless tide.

One year later, over four billion zombies pushed humanity—less than one billion—to the brink of extinction. Oppression breeds defiance? Truth. Just as mankind teetered, a new breed arose: Bio-Soldiers.

Publicly, they were heroes. Privately? Infected mutants who resisted zombification.

They retained human minds, bodies, identities. Only hatred fueled them—hate aimed at their mindless, cannibalistic cousins.

But zombies adapted too. After brief dormancy, legions of evolved zombies emerged worldwide, clashing with Bio-Soldiers.

Zombies boasted immense strength. Enhanced senses—hearing/smell far surpassing humans. Often, one zombie could kill two special forces operators… or five civilians. Their power source? The virus. ""God’s Gift.""

Bio-Soldiers also drew strength from infection—but theirs was cleaner. Refined. They were the ""winning"" evolutionary branch. Speed. Strength. Reflexes exceeding zombies. One Bio-Soldier could punch a zombie’s skull apart.

Punch.

Not slash with blades. Not even a brute swinging a machete could cleanly decapitate a zombie. Bio-Soldiers needed no weapons. Pure kinetic fury.

Beyond these two factions? Another group thrived amid the undead wasteland: True Martial Artists.

Not stage performers. These warriors wielded authentic neigong internal energy. A skilled Martial Artist could carve through fifty zombies singlehandedly—if not surrounded.

But encircle them? Even the strongest had to flee. Numbers overwhelmed art.

In the dream, Mu Tian was just a grunt. A mercenary who’d survived fifteen years in hell. He’d mastered scavenging. Sustained himself. Avoided glory or greed.

Thirty-three years old. Zero illusions. He saw the world clearly: One zombie faction was manageable. Humanity held a fifty-fifty chance. Then came the Beast Kin… and the Ocean Kin—whose numbers dwarfed humans and zombies combined.

His ""coast till I die"" plan never changed.

Until that day. The day of the Four-Faction War. Human vs. Zombie vs. Beast vs. Ocean.

He’d never forget what he witnessed. Sublime. Ethereal. Something he’d glimpsed only on pre-apocalypse CGI screens.

Four colossal celestial bodies intertwined. They eclipsed half the sky. Colliding. Flashing. Colliding again. Then, like a seam ripping, a shard of golden light tore loose from the cosmic knot…

And struck Mu Tian. Hidden in the crowd. Watching.

Thud.

He jolted awake. Back in this tiny room. The familiar wallpaper. The dream… had felt so real. The memories so visceral. Had fifteen years of hell only been neurons firing?

He’d almost convinced himself. Almost found peace. After all, this timeline meant no starvation. No nightly terrors.

Until this morning. Until the violet scabbard bloomed on his palm. Until he walked downtown… and saw M Corp’s screen. Replaying the exact broadcast from his ""dream."" Decades ago.

His last shred of hope evaporated. He was back. Back before the end.

""…Shit.""

Mu Tian sighed. Dropped his hand. The scabbard tattoo faded.

SLAM!

The door crashed open. A meaty landlady barreled in, clutching a trembling Chihuahua. ""Mu Tian!"" she shrieked, jowls quivering. ""If rent ain’t in my hand by sundown? Pack your shit and scram! I don’t run a charity here!""

For a surreal moment, Mu Tian’s mind didn’t register disgust at her blubbery mass. Instead, bizarrely:

Damn. Some nightmares you carry back."