Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is purely a fanfic for enjoyment.
Cross-over from various games, books, anime, manga, and movies.
The familiar characters you see here belong to their respected authors and owners.
"Speech"
Time*
Arc 1: Mental Illness - Chapter 2
I stare at the closed journal with a heavy, lingering gaze. In the silence, the sounds from the neighboring buildings bleed through the walls—people shouting at one another, careless and afraid, their voices drawing in more zombies. Panic follows, louder than before, then more yelling. The same vicious cycle repeats, grinding on without end.
Tapping my fingers against the armrest to my right, I force myself to ignore the chaos outside—the screams, the desperate pleas for help, the guttural roar of beastly rage. Cries of pure horror echo through the street below, overlapping and fading in and out as the first day of the zombie apocalypse drags on, showing no mercy and no sign of stopping.
I take out another journal and open it, flipping to the very first page. It's filled with only one thing—a single, stark sentence. The only official rule I ever established to deal with my sleeping problem.
I pick up my pen and begin to write.
2nd Official Rule: It's normal for those who have been isekai'd into a fictional world—especially with knowledge of early plot events—to have a much higher chance of encountering the main cast. Along with that comes the so-called plot armor: life becoming inexplicably easier in small, infuriating ways. Unspoiled food turning up at just the right moment. Ammunition that perfectly matches one's firearms appears in random places—inside a washing machine, tucked away in some abandoned stranger's home.
As I finish the sentence, my right eye twitches ever so slightly. Somewhere deep inside, I feel something snap neatly into place, like a final confirmation I didn't want, but needed.
I place both journals back into the briefcase, snap it shut, and begin searching the house room by room. Before long, I find a couple of boxes of ammunition that just happen to match the requirements for my handgun.
I store them neatly inside the briefcase and give a small, satisfied nod.
I walk over to a nearby window and peer outside, checking how everyone is handling the zombies now roaming freely. I spot a couple of people already being eaten alive, their struggles brief and futile, while others sprint down the street, screaming at the top of their lungs for help. The noise only makes things worse—each cry acts like a beacon, drawing even more zombies toward them in a slow, inevitable convergence.
I pull out my handgun and check its condition, confirming everything is in working order. Satisfied, I put it back into my briefcase and head to the fridge to make more food. I need to eat as much as I can while the power is still on—once it goes out, it'll only be a matter of time before everything inside spoils and becomes useless.
Afterward, I pause and think it over for a moment, my thoughts drifting to a dangerous consideration—choosing another mental illness to take on.
I sit back down on the couch, exhale slowly, and steady my breathing. Then I focus on two specific mental illnesses I want, isolating them in my mind. Piece by piece, I begin converting them into usable powers, shaping the consequences just as carefully as the abilities themselves.
Perfectionism. Insomnia.
Like yesterday, my perception shifts violently, the change instant and unmistakable. The world feels sharper, tighter around the edges. However, just like the other three mental illnesses, I still need to figure out what these new ones actually do—their costs, their passive effects, their active abilities. Even their names. Power without definition is just another liability.
I rub my forehead, frowning.
Five mental illnesses.
Yeah, this is definitely going to give me constant headaches. Best to remove some of them eventually or learn to live with the pressure before it crushes me.
I take out my journal again and start writing.
I swear I am normal!
I can get rid of these mental illnesses whenever I want!
I just need to rely on them for the time being!
I ain't crazy! I am not!
I need every advantage I can get!
Believe me!
I ain't crazy!
I stop, staring at the page for a moment longer than necessary.
Side Note: I wonder if there's a mental illness that would let me travel to other worlds. If there isn't… can I just make one up and have it work anyway? Does it even need to be a medically recognized condition, or is belief enough to force it into existence?
I also need to figure out the best time to remove these mental illnesses before they sink in too deeply and become permanent.
And now that I think about it… forced plot armor or not, who actually owns this house? Where did they get their ammunition? I'm only alive because I arrived in this world with a handgun and the ammo I got from the gun store yesterday morning, before getting isekai'd. Otherwise, dealing with zombies would've been far more difficult.
I pause, reread what I've written, then nod to myself.
The journal goes back into the briefcase. I stand, pull out another magazine, and slide it into my pocket alongside the others. After closing the briefcase, I take out the handgun again, and I carry the briefcase and head toward the door.
I need to scout the area before deciding whether this place is safe enough to sleep in for the night.
I close the door behind me as quietly as possible, easing it shut until the latch clicks into place with barely a sound. Then I crouch slightly, keeping my profile low and my movements silent, as I begin scouting the neighborhood with cautious, measured steps.
Just as I'm about to slip out through the front gate, something catches the corner of my eye. I pause and turn my head, spotting a longbow in surprisingly good condition, along with a quiver filled with arrows resting nearby—as if it had been placed there on purpose.
I stop in my tracks and turn back, carefully placing the briefcase on the ground while keeping my handgun in hand just in case.
With my free hand, I pick up the longbow. It's slightly heavier than I expected, but not unwieldy. Still usable. Reliable enough.
Next, I check the arrows one by one, pulling them from the quiver for inspection. Some are worn—scratched shafts, slightly frayed fletching, but nothing immediately fatal. They'll last a few more shots before becoming useless, unless I can find proper materials to repair them. Still, all twenty arrows are serviceable for now.
I think it over for a split second before deciding to test the longbow and arrows, taking aim at a few zombies shambling in the distance.
I shoot arrow after arrow. More than half of the twenty shots miss their heads, some striking shoulders, ribs, or tearing through decaying flesh without stopping them. Still, the remaining shots land cleanly—arrows punching straight through skulls and dropping those zombies instantly.
The rest stagger on with arrows protruding from their bodies, unfazed by wounds that would have been catastrophic under normal circumstances. If these zombies were still human, most of those hits would've been fatal without immediate treatment. Here, though, they're little more than inconvenient punctures.
Rather than rushing to retrieve any of the arrows, I resist the urge and make the smarter call. I pick up my briefcase, tighten my grip on the handgun, and move off in the opposite direction, purposely increasing the distance between myself and the zombies before they can detect me.
Thanks to the 2nd Official Rule, I come across a metal bat lying abandoned in someone else's front yard, as if it had been left there just for me. I pick it up without hesitation and deal with the remaining zombies one by one, crushing skulls and silencing their groans before they can fully surround the house I'm planning to use as shelter.
When it's over, the yard is quiet again, or at least around my area compared to elsewhere, and the path back inside is finally clear.
Too bad the metal bat bends after bashing in a few zombie heads. Low quality—figures.
I ditch it without a second thought, just like I did with the longbow, and resume scouting the neighborhood. From here on out, I move carefully, killing any zombies I come across as silently as possible, using whatever means are necessary to keep the noise and attention to a minimum.
Lucky for me, I keep finding more boxes of ammunition tucked away in unexpected places. Otherwise, I would've run dry by now, considering how many zombies I've already put down.
It makes me wonder if gun laws in this parallel version of Japan are completely different. Plot armor or not, there shouldn't be this many bullets scattered around a single neighborhood. The thought lingers, unsettling in its own way.
Still, I don't dwell on it for long. I finish scouting a couple more blocks, staying cautious and quiet, before slowly making my way back toward the house, ready to settle in for the night.
Just as I'm about to reach the house, a sudden burst of noise stops me cold. A woman in her mid-20s stumbles out of a nearby house, barely dressed and screaming at the top of her lungs. Panic twists her features as a couple of zombies, all men, slowly spill out after her, drawn by her voice and closing the distance step by step.
I stare blankly as the woman, clearly caught in the aftermath of what had been an orgy, stumbles outside. Realization must have hit her all at once: her so-called boy toys had already turned. She trips over her own feet, barely managing to get a few steps away as panic takes over.
I don't hesitate.
I raise my gun and put them all down—every last one of them. The zombies first, then the woman herself. I had already seen it in her movements, the delay in her reactions, the deadness creeping in. She was already in the middle of turning.
I pause mid-step, a strange instinct stopping me as I start counting the bodies. My brow furrows.
Something's off.
I quickly move to the corner of the block, where I spot another zombie—a female, lurking just out of sight. One shot drops her, clean and final. I drag her body over to the others and line them up before counting again.
This time, it adds up.
4 male zombies. 2 female zombies. All dead.
I nod in quiet satisfaction, the unease settling back into place as I finally turn away.
I walk away, then stop, turn back.
Carefully, I push the bodies to the side of the street, arranging them with their arms resting at their sides and their legs straightened. I take my time, adjusting positions until everything lines up properly. I double-check for anything uneven or out of place.
There's still the torn flesh, the mess I can't fix, no matter how much I want to. That bothers me more than it should. The irritation lingers, sharp and irrational, before I finally force myself to step away again.
I slow my pace as I get closer to the house, then divert into a nearby front yard enclosed by a fence, the gate firmly closed. I already cleared this place of zombies earlier, making it temporarily safe—for now.
I take advantage of no one being around, nor are there any zombies to jump me. Sitting low, I pull out my empty magazines and methodically reload them with fresh rounds.
Fully reloaded, I secure everything back in place and stand up. With one last glance around the yard, I leave and continue toward the house, ready to rest for the night.