Lords I

Jon's abrupt declaration, "Let's continue," hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

The group froze, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock and unease. Jenny, her brow furrowed with concern, opened her mouth to probe about the tragedy that had recently shattered Jon's world, but Cynthia's subtle headshake stopped her.

It was a silent plea to let Jon process his grief in his own time, just as they had with Alexa. Forcing him to confront it now would only deepen the wounds. The massacres that trailed in the wake of his sorrow were impossible to ignore, a grim testament to the storm raging within him.

The air around them was heavy, saturated with tension that clung to their skin like damp fog.

The survivors exchanged wary glances, each processing the transformation in Jon. He wasn't the same person. His voice, once steady and warm, now cracked like a radio struggling to find a signal, each word jagged and raw.

His appearance had shifted too, his features sharper, as if carved from stone, his frame leaner yet radiating a newfound strength. His aura had changed most of all, an almost palpable force that sent shivers down their spines. Behind him lay a grim tableau: bodies strewn across the ground, blood pooling in crimson patches, a stark reminder of the violence he was capable of. The sight made their stomachs churn, their knees weak.

When Jon spoke, his words carried a weight that silenced the group. Most of the survivors had only just regained consciousness, their faces pale and eyes wide with lingering terror. Jon's gaze swept over them, and they shrank under its intensity, their fear palpable.

He sighed, a sound heavy with resignation, and said, "You can leave if you'd rather not continue."

His words weren't aimed at any one person but at the entire group, an open invitation to walk away from the danger that lay ahead. The survivors hesitated, grappling with the choice. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, their minds racing to process the carnage, the loss, and the man standing before them who seemed both savior and harbinger of death.

A young man stepped forward, his round frame trembling as he moved. His black hair was matted with sweat, and his brown eyes darted nervously. His light complexion was flushed, his body shaking so violently it was a wonder he could stand.

"M-my name is R-Ronald," he stammered, bowing his head as if confessing a grave sin. The group stared, baffled. If he was so terrified, why step forward at all? He could have slipped away quietly, as Jon had offered. But then Ronald's voice grew louder, each word gaining strength. "I-I'm scared, but I want to continue!"

The declaration stunned the group, their eyes widening in disbelief. Cynthia, her curiosity piqued, tilted her head. "Why?" she asked, her tone laced with genuine puzzlement. "You're terrified. You could die. Why push yourself like this?"

Ronald's voice quivered but held firm. "I-I know it's dangerous," he said, his hands clenching into fists as he fought to steady himself. "But I have to become strong. I have to survive." His words echoed in the stillness, a raw admission of vulnerability and determination that left the group momentarily speechless.

Cynthia paused, then offered a small, approving smile. Jon, however, merely nodded, his expression unreadable. To him, Ronald's resolve wasn't bravery, it was necessity.

'Tunde would be here if bravery were enough,' Jon thought bitterly, the memory of his lost friend cutting like a blade. Tunde's absence was a wound that hadn't healed, and Jon's grief had hardened into something colder, more resolute.

Ronald's words, however, had shifted the group's dynamic, like a dam breaking under pressure. Murmurs rippled through the survivors, many frowning, unimpressed by his speech. To them, Ronald's trembling declaration was a reckless challenge, threatening to drag them all deeper into danger.

The chance to flee this perilous place, to return to the relative safety of their makeshift refuge was slipping away, all because of one frightened boy's resolve. The air grew taut with resentment, the unspoken question hanging heavy: Who would dare be the first to admit they wanted to leave?

A lone voice broke the silence. "I'll go back," a young woman said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

The group collectively held their breath, waiting for Jon's reaction. To their surprise, he simply nodded, his face devoid of judgment. He understood their fear, how could he not? The pain of losing someone close was a wound he carried too, and he wouldn't begrudge anyone the chance to avoid it.

Unlike the others, who cast disdainful glances at those choosing to leave, Jon's heart held no contempt. His newly awakened abilities could have let him peer into their minds, discerning their true intentions, but he chose not to. Some things were better left unseen.

One by one, the hesitant followed the young woman's lead, their footsteps heavy as they turned back. The remaining survivors watched them go, their expressions a mix of pity and scorn. To those staying, the defectors lacked resolve, their cowardice seemed like a betrayal of the group's struggle.

'Weren't we all risking our lives to make this place safer?' they thought. And now they're too scared to fight for it?

With farewells exchanged, some curt, others tinged with regret, the group split.

Only thirty remained, including the twenty who had scouted the first perilous mission. Most were students, their faces hardened by necessity despite their youth.

The staff, once the authority figures, had faded into the background, their resolve were too weak to face the dangers yet they still clung to the illusion of control, issuing orders from the safety of their bunkers. But now, their influence had waned. The world had changed, and so had the hierarchy. Tunde had tried to tell Jon about this shift, about the need to challenge the old power structures, but Jon had been absentminded. 

The remaining group pressed forward, their footsteps crunching against the shattered pavement. Jon led the way, his presence a quiet storm at the forefront.

...

Two young men sprinted through the ruins of the campus, their breaths ragged as they navigated a labyrinth of debris, twisted metal, shattered fences, and overturned vehicles. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with terror. "W-What the hell was that!?" one shouted, his voice breaking.

"Just keep running!" the other barked, his teeth gritted. "We need to report this!"

For two agonizing minutes, they dodged obstacles, their hearts pounding as they fled from whatever horror they'd encountered.

Finally, they reached the towering administrative building, a ten-story building that loomed over the campus. Fifty meters around it still stood untouched by the destruction that had ravaged the rest of the school, its pristine facade an eerie contrast to the chaos. Like Jon's dormitory, it seemed to defy the apocalypse.

The pair burst through the entrance, ignoring the grand lobby as they raced for the stairs at the far end. They climbed without pause, their footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell until they reached the top floor. A long corridor stretched before them, leading to a single, imposing door. The scouts exchanged nervous glances, steeling themselves before approaching.

Two guards blocked their path, their expressions cold and unwelcoming. "What do you want here?" one demanded, his voice sharp.

"You're not supposed to be here. Go back," the other added, his hand morphing into a gleaming blade, a display of his ability that sent a chill through the scouts.

"W-wait!" one scout stammered, his voice trembling. "We need to see the Lords. We have to tell them what we saw!"

The guards exchanged mocking glances, their lips curling into smirks. "What, a zombie scare you that bad?" one teased, chuckling.

"N-no! It wasn't a zombie!" the scout cried, his panic rising. "It was—"

"Shut up," the second guard snapped. "You don't want to disturb the Lords."

But it was too late.

A booming voice thundered from beyond the

door, shaking the walls. "YOU OUTSIDE! COME IN HERE OR I'LL KILL YOU MYSELF!"

The guards froze, their bravado evaporating. The scouts, trembling, pushed past them and opened the door, stepping into a room that was a stark contrast to the desolation outside.

The chamber was spacious and opulent, filled with plush chairs, soft beds, and every comfort imaginable, a sanctuary in the apocalypse. But the grandeur was overshadowed by the figure striding toward them.

He was a giant, standing at 6'8", his shirtless torso covered in thick, coarse hair. His presence exuded raw, primal power, his eyes burning with barely restrained fury. Known as the Beast Lord, his ability, Beast Transformation had earned him a fearsome reputation. At 23 or 24, he was young, but his size and strength made him seem more beast than man.

One scout, fighting to stay composed, dropped to his knees. "Beast Lord, please forgive us for disturbing you, but we've seen something important."

The Beast Lord's eyes narrowed, his fist raised to strike. "I DON'T GIVE A DAMN. YOU DIE NOW!" he roared.

"STOP."

A second voice, calm yet commanding, cut through the chaos, freezing the room in its tracks.