A sharp voice cut across the staging room.
"Hello everyone! Quick intro: name’s
Solis Armand
.
D‑class
samsara."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
D‑class?!
World War Z
was the
first Tower floor
—meaning everyone here was transitioning up from the Safe Zone. Getting one’s
overall strength to D
before
ever touching the Tower? Brutal grind. This guy wasn’t ordinary.
Solis lifted his sleeve. The glowing full‑moon sigil on his wrist clearly showed a bold
D
.
(System evaluation scale: S > A > B > C > D > E ...)
He soaked in the reaction, smiling.
"We all know how dangerous Floor One is," he continued. "So here’s my proposal:
form an alliance
. We sign a system pact. After mission clear,
rewards split evenly
."
He gestured wide. "More people, more firepower. Hold a defensible high point, cover each other, survive longer, finish the objective easier. What do you all think?"
"..."
Fenric listened—and dismissed it.
An alliance. Again.
On paper, sure: safety in numbers, shared kills, maybe gear pooling. In practice? Hidden agendas, loot splits, betrayal, dead weight. And why would a D‑class carry random strangers unless
he
got something big out of it?
There’s no free lunch in the world, especially in Samsara Space.
Judging from the lack of response, most veterans here knew it too. The crowd stayed cool.
Still, there were always optimists. A handful drifted forward—several were young women—agreeing to join Solis’s party.
Fenric shook his head.
Your funeral. Or his.
"Anyone else?" Solis asked, scanning the room.
Silence.
He shrugged and turned to his new party to discuss strategy.
Ten minutes later the overhead system boomed:
"Teleportation countdown beginning: 10... 9... 8..."
Red light built under their feet.
"3... 2... 1."
The white room vanished.
Spawn — Boston, United States.
When vision returned, Fenric stood in the middle of a bright, bustling
metropolis
. Traffic flowed, pedestrians laughed, sunlight poured between glass towers.
A roadside sign gave the location:
Boston
.
Atlantic coast, Northeastern United States. Capital of Massachusetts. Harvard, MIT... academic capital—soon to be viral hell.
Ding—!
Then came the mission cascade:
Mission Released!
Main Objective:
Survive
10 hours
in this city
and
kill
at least 10 zombies
.
Timer:
10:00:00
Failure:
Obliteration.
11
Restriction:
Do
not
leave the urban boundary. Exit = obliteration.
Scoring Hint:
More zombie kills = higher evaluation.
Outbreak Notice:
Virus event begins in
30 minutes
. Prepare accordingly.
Text faded.
"..."
Fenric’s pulse sharpened.
Thirty minutes prep window. Then outbreak. Need weapons, choke point, escape routes.
Around the city, freshly dropped samsara players scattered. Some bolted for rooftops. Others raided vehicles, grabbed improvised clubs, flipped dumpsters for barricades.
Fenric ignored all of them.
Instead, he slipped into a side alley, vaulted a window, and entered a residential townhouse.
Inside: a middle‑aged white couple. The husband rushed forward angrily—maybe assuming home invasion, maybe just shocked.
Fenric met him with a short, heavy punch.
The man dropped—out cold.
At
Strength 25
, Fenric hit more than twice as hard as an average adult. Most people couldn’t eat one clean shot.
"Ahhh!" The wife shrieked.
"Quiet," Fenric snapped in crisp English. "Scream again and I break those nice teeth."
She froze, shaking.
"Please don’t hurt us—I’ll give you money," she stammered.
"No money." Fenric shook his head. "
Guns.
Where are they?"