The reset hadn't lasted long.
Most people would panic, cry, beg the system for a redo, but he didn't. He walked through the ruins of the city like someone exploring a museum—silent, precise, calculating. Every overturned car, every cracked street, every abandoned building was a line in a code only he could read.
"Phase one complete," he muttered under his breath. Not that anyone could hear him. Not that anyone needed to.
The system had already pinged in his head.
New objective detected. Survival rate: 23%. Reward: minimal.
He snorted. Minimal. The system didn't know. It never did.
He moved faster than a normal human, or maybe it was just experience speaking. He had done this before. Not once. Not twice. He had lived through the apocalypse, the betrayals, the slow grind of rebuilding from nothing. And now, armed with memory of every mistake, every shortcut, every hidden path—he was untouchable.
Passing a half-collapsed overpass, he spotted a scavenger group. Four of them, poorly armed, eyes wild with desperation. The system immediately flagged them as hostile. Survival rate? 16%.
He tilted his head.
Step one: Observe. Step two: Decide.
The four didn't notice him. They were busy arguing over a tin of beans, arguing like children over a treasure they couldn't even eat properly.
He smiled—cold, thin.
By the time they looked up, he was already behind them.
No violence yet. Not needed.
One wrong word, one wrong glance, one misstep—they would fold, and he'd have information.
He let them chatter, let them panic themselves into mistakes.
Then, casually, he spoke. Just loud enough for the nearest one to hear.
"You're standing on a minefield."
The man froze, then laughed nervously. "What minefield?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Your choices."
The panic hit then. Screams, fumbling weapons, one shot fired by accident. The system would classify this as high threat, high chaos, low reward.
He walked through the chaos like it was a dance. Not a scratch, not a misstep, just efficiency.
By the time he left, the four survivors were either unconscious or running, traumatized, barely alive. Their supplies lay scattered.
Acquisition complete, the system buzzed quietly in his skull.
He ignored it. He didn't need confirmation. He already knew.
---
Hours later, he reached the old library. Not that it mattered—it was empty, books rotting, dust thick enough to write names in. But here, at least, he could think. He could plan.
The system flashed again. Level up available. Current skill points: 5.
He laughed softly. Level up? The system doesn't know what I already mastered.
He didn't touch the points. Not yet. There was more to do. The system always wanted him to react immediately, to chase the obvious path. But he didn't play by its rules. He created his own path.
Opening a tattered journal he'd taken from a previous loop, he flipped pages filled with notes—strategies, enemy behaviors, safe routes. Most people would call him paranoid. He called it prepared.
Something outside caught his attention. Movement. Quick, silent.
A kid. Alone. Not more than twelve. Dirty, thin, terrified.
The system pinged. Potential ally detected. Recruitment possible.
He crouched behind a collapsed shelf, watching. The child had a backpack, heavy, but empty enough to be useless. Survival rate for the kid? 5%.
He could leave it. Ignore it. Let the system do its calculations.
He didn't.
"Come here," he said softly. Not a question. Not a command. A fact.
The child froze, then ran—straight into his hands. Not out of trust, but out of pure desperation.
He checked the kid quickly. No injuries, no illness. Basic survival skills—nonexistent. But that didn't matter. He had time. He had memory. He could teach, he could shape.
Useful.
---
By nightfall, he had a small fire going. The kid sat across from him, trembling.
"You survived because you don't know fear," he said. "I've been where you are. And worse. You either adapt or you die."
The child's eyes widened. He wanted to speak but couldn't. Fear had robbed him of words.
He handed him a piece of stale bread. "Eat. Quietly. Learn."
Then he leaned back.
Step two: long-term planning. Step three: dominance.
The system buzzed again. Threat level rising. Nearby hostile groups: 7.
He didn't flinch.
The world was crawling with threats. Humans, yes, but also remnants of automated defenses, rogue scavengers, rogue mercenaries. All the system counted as data points. But he? He counted as control.
By sunrise, he had mapped a new route through the city—safe zones, dangerous zones, potential loot, escape points. He even calculated the probability of encountering other survivors, hostile or not, in each sector.
The kid tried to peek over his shoulder at the notes.
"Curiosity kills the unprepared," he said. Not a warning, just a statement.
The kid shivered but obeyed. He had no choice. Not yet.
---
By midday, he encountered the first serious resistance. A scavenger gang, heavily armed, marking territory. The system screamed at him—High probability of conflict. Survival rate: 12%. Recommended action: avoid.
He smiled.
Avoid? You think I care about recommendations?
He watched, silent, analyzing. Their formation, weapon distribution, reaction times. He even noted the weak link—a boy barely fifteen, carrying a shotgun too heavy for him, looking nervous.
Then he acted.
One movement. Two seconds. Three precise strikes. Chaos erupted. Guns fired, screams echoed.
By the time the dust settled, he stood alone, surveying the field. Not a scratch. Not a loss. Not even adrenaline. Just results.
The kid stared, wide-eyed, speechless.
"Lesson one," he said. "Rules exist for the naive. You don't need rules. You need control."
---
Night fell again. The city burned faintly in the distance. Smoke, ash, despair—all the ingredients the system counted as "danger."
He sat atop a ruined rooftop, kid next to him. Silence stretched. He didn't break it. He let the city talk. Let the chaos speak.
Then a notification pinged. Not in his head. Not from the system. Something else.
A message. One line. Clear.
You're moving too fast. We see you.
He smiled. Not a nervous smile. Not a playful one. A predator's smile.
The system didn't know. The other players didn't know. And most importantly, he already knew what he had to do.
The game was changing. But he had always been a few steps ahead.
And now?
The first real threat was coming for him.
---
End of Chapter 2 –