Fenric moved fast.
Sniper rifle slung, he crossed with the zombie "umbrella," entered a building opposite Boston Police HQ, climbed to the fifth floor, smashed out a window, and set up the rifle on the sill.
His crosshairs settled on the police rooftop—on Solis.
Shura isn’t a good man, Fenric thought. You threaten me? You die.
And he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t greedy for that blade.
On the HQ roof, Solis was a blur—Black Sword Shusui rising and falling, carving zombies cleanly in halves. Melon‑slice strokes. In seconds, bodies piled around him.
Fenric’s greed sharpened. That sword wasn’t all bluff.
"..."
He exhaled. Settled the crosshairs on the thigh behind the shield line. Squeezed.
Bang!
The round streaked across the short gap. Through the scope, Fenric watched it punch into Solis’s left leg. Blood sprayed; the D‑class staggered and dropped to a knee.
He’d been barely holding off the swarm before. Now wounded, he had no chance.
"YOU BASTARD!!!"
Within heartbeats the zombies swarmed him, shield ripped aside.
At the last instant, Solis whipped his head toward the shooter’s building—eyes blazing—and saw Fenric in the window.
Fenric raised his hand and waved.
"AHHH!" Solis’ roar broke as the horde dragged him down. Then he vanished beneath clawing bodies.
"..."
Fenric stayed with the scope until movement ceased. Then he lowered the rifle and sat back, jaw tight.
First human death caused by him. Not an accident. A deliberate shot.
It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel heroic. It felt necessary.
Do it again? Yes. In the Samsara Tower, mercy got you killed. Someone coming for your head deserved worse.
"Haaa..."
He breathed out. Time to collect the loot.
He descended, walked the street (zombies parting), and re‑entered the HQ. Up the stairs, out to the roof.
No body found—zombies had stripped Solis clean. Only his gear remained, scattered in gore.
The Black Sword Shusui lay slick but intact.
"Miserable," Fenric said—pure hypocrisy—and bent to pick it up.
Ding! Special item detected!
Notice: Special items can be moved from this dungeon world and used in other instances.
His eyes lit up with joy. He gripped the hilt and lifted. Heavy—at least 10 kilos—but manageable with his stats.
He cut twice through empty air, then tested on a nearby zombie that had dragged itself across the roof.
Swish.
The body split like fruit.
"Good sword," Fenric breathed.
Sometimes the fastest path to riches really was killing the competition.
Ding—!
A global system broadcast echoed across all surviving Samsara players:
Attention: 30 minutes remain in the mission window.
Fenric wiped the blade, sheathed it across his back, and headed down. He found a secure office inside the HQ, barricaded the door, and collapsed onto a sofa.
The virus fever burned. The drug boosters hammered his system. Every muscle trembled.
No more killing. He didn’t need it. His zombie count had long since broken the sky—well past one hundred thousand confirmed. His evaluation tier was assured.
Outside, millions of infected still churned—but none dared cross his scent marker.
He closed his eyes and waited out the clock.
Thirty minutes later, when the timer hit zero, all surviving Samsara players would be forcibly extracted.