The world was quiet—not the scholarly silence of a Czech library, but a heavy, oppressive hush that felt like the planet was holding its breath. Beneath the ruins of St. Jude's High, in a reinforced bunker that had once been a drama prop closet, a youth stirred.
He looked remarkably like Chen Feng, perhaps a few years younger, with the same sharp features and a mess of dark hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb since the fall of the Roman Empire. He sat up, groaning as his spine made a sound like a bag of dry sticks.
"My head feels like it was used as a percussion instrument in a very aggressive jazz band," he muttered.
As his eyes struggled to focus, the air in front of him shimmered. A translucent, floating screen appeared, glowing with a neon-blue light that was entirely too bright for someone with a monumental hangover of the soul.
The youth blinked. The screen wasn't a physical object; it was burned into his retinas. At first, it was a mess of scrolling data, but slowly, text began to form.
[Initialization Complete.]
[System: Apocalyptic Guide – Version 1.0 (Beta)]
[User Identified: ...Identity Error... Provisional Name: Chen.]
"Chen?" the youth whispered, the name feeling like a familiar coat that didn't quite fit anymore. "That sounds... short. Was I a minimalist?"
The screen flickered, providing a rapid-fire summary of the world. It detailed the Pale Fever, the rise of the Sanguine Lords, and the emergence of the Lycans. It confirmed that every horror movie trope and mythological theory humanity had ever invented was now, unfortunately, scientifically accurate.
If a book said a werewolf was weak to silver, it was true. If a legend said a vampire couldn't enter a home without an invitation, the Sanguine Lords were currently very annoyed by that specific biological loophole.
The system then displayed a ranking system that looked like it had been designed by an avid gamer with a penchant for shiny metals. It categorized every living thing on Earth into a hierarchy of power:
Bronze: The common scavengers and basic "Pale" zombies. Essentially the "interns" of the apocalypse.
Silver: Elite Lycan hunters and seasoned human survivors.
Gold: Regional commanders and minor Mythic Aberrations.
Platinum: Sanguine Aristocracy and High-Alpha Lycans.
Diamond: Natural Disasters with legs.
Saint: The stuff of nightmares. Entities that can rewrite a local zip code's laws of physics.
"Saint?" Chen muttered, rubbing his eyes. "That sounds like a lot of responsibility. Can I opt for 'Bronze' and just find a nice place to nap?"
[Negative,]
[User 'Chen' has been ingrained with 'Primal Martial Awareness' and 'Great Potential.' You are a Pillar of Humanity. Or at least a very sturdy fence post.]
Chen felt a strange tingling in his muscles—a phantom memory of movements he didn't remember learning. His body felt like a high-performance sports car that had been left in a garage for ten years; the engine was there, but he couldn't find the keys.
[Mission 1: The First Breath]
[Objective: Exit the Bunker and breathe the air of the New World without screaming.]
[Reward: Basic Skill – 'Sovereign's Intuition' (Rank: Unknown)]
"Sovereign's Intuition?" Chen frowned. The word 'Sovereign' sent a jolt of static through his brain. He looked around the dusty room. He saw a rusted mop, a pile of crates labeled "Strawberry Milk (Expired 2026)," and a single, tattered red thread caught on a nail.
Everything felt out of place. He felt like he should be holding a book, or maybe a scepter, or perhaps a very expensive cup of coffee. Instead, he was wearing a dirt-smudged grey hoodie and cargo pants.
"System," Chen said, standing up and testing his weight. "Why do I feel like I'm overqualified for being a 'Pillar'?"
[Data Corrupted,]
[Focus on survival. Gain power. Complete missions. Also, please note: Your current 'Charisma' stat is unusually high for someone who has been asleep in a prop closet for a decade. Beware of jealous Lycans.]
Chen sighed, stepping toward the heavy, rusted metal door of the bunker. "High charisma in an apocalypse. Great. I'll be the best-looking snack in the wasteland."
He placed his hand on the lever. His martial awareness kicked in—not as a conscious thought, but as a subtle adjustment of his feet, a tightening of his core. He didn't know how to fight, but his body seemed to think it could take on the world.
"Well," Chen whispered, pulling the lever. "Let's see if the 'Saint' level entities are ready for a Salted Fish who's lost his salt."
The door creaked open, revealing a world of jagged ruins and a sky the color of a bruised plum. The air was cold, smelling of damp earth and something ancient. Chen stepped out, and for the first time in ten years, the Sovereign—though he didn't know it yet—took a breath.