After completing the quest, Aiden wandered back toward the edge of the abandoned parking lot, where an old, dust-covered sedan sat quietly beneath the shade of a twisted oak. He caught his reflection in the cracked side mirror, pausing for a long moment to take himself in.
The man staring back at him looked more like a shadow than a survivor—clad in a black canvas tactical jacket, fitted snug across his broad shoulders, the material rugged and worn from travel, yet still resistant to the occasional rainfall. Deep grey, water-resistant cargo pants hugged his legs, their many pockets bulging slightly with supplies and gear. The pants were splattered with dried mud, telling the story of the terrain he'd just endured.
Beneath the outer layers, a black thermal undershirt and compression gear molded to his frame, offering warmth and support in equal measure. Thick wool socks peeked out just above the lip of his well-worn, insulated hiking boots, which were built more for function than fashion—scuffed and dirt-caked, but still dependable.
His gloved hands flexed as he adjusted the fit of his backpack—black, tactical, and tightly packed with the bare essentials: rations, tools, a first aid kit, and a worn notebook filled with maps and sketches. The gloves themselves were reinforced at the knuckles, hardened against the impacts of a fight, but supple enough to keep his grip steady on any terrain or weapon.
Then there was the balaclava—a black, close-fitting face cover that concealed all but his intense, storm-hardened eyes. It had seemed like a practical choice at first—protection from the cold, the wind, and the dust storms that haunted the wastelands. But now, staring at himself, he couldn't help but smirk under the mask.
"Man… I kind of look like a knock-off ninja," he muttered to his reflection, voice low and dry. "If I ever meet people out there, they're gonna think I'm some kind of bandit."
The idea didn't sit well with him, but he shook it off, adjusting the straps across his chest and shoulders. He wasn't dressing for looks—he was dressing to survive. And if that meant being mistaken for something he wasn't, so be it. The world didn't care about appearances anymore.
"Whatever," he mumbled, turning away from the mirror. "I'll deal with it when I get there."
With that, Aiden stepped forward, his silhouette blending once more with the shadows of the ruined city, every piece of gear a testament to the life he'd chosen—and the battles yet to come.
Once the final echoes of the quest faded into silence, Aiden didn't waste a moment. He slipped deeper into the crumbling city block, guided by the low, instinctual hum of tension coiled in his chest. The air was thick with dust and decay. Somewhere out there—among the leaning streetlamps, rusted-out cars, and shattered windows—eleven walkers still roamed. Mindless. Rotting. Dangerous.
He dropped low behind an overturned delivery van, the jagged remains of its windshield glinting faintly in the cloud-muted light. The scent of oil and mildew clung to the vehicle, masking his presence as he scanned the deserted road ahead. Each shadow and crevice could conceal a threat, but Aiden's breathing remained steady. Slow. Controlled.
His right hand rested on the hilt of his bowie knife—a brutal piece of steel, twelve inches long with a full tang and a blood-grooved edge honed to a razor's bite. It was stained along the blade with a faint tarnish—permanent reminders of the dozens, maybe hundreds, he had already silenced. And now, eleven more.
The first walker appeared near the far side of the block. It was hunched over, one leg dragging behind it, the shinbone snapped and twisted outward like shattered wood. Its mouth gaped open, letting out wet, irregular gurgles as it wandered toward a collapsed storefront. Aiden moved like smoke across the ground—low, quick, silent. He slipped between debris, skirted broken glass, and approached from behind with calculated precision.
Schlk.
The blade drove upward through the base of the walker's skull, splitting the soft rot of its cranium with a quiet, sickening crunch. Its body seized for a second, then went slack in Aiden's arms. He eased it down silently, eyes already searching for the next.
Behind a burned-out sedan, two more. They shuffled aimlessly, bumping into one another like puppets with tangled strings. Aiden took a slow breath through his mask and circled around the wreckage, keeping to the edges where broken stone and weeds offered just enough concealment. He gripped the handle of the knife in reverse now, its blade flush along his forearm as he lunged forward with predatory grace.
The first never even turned—its neck split open in a fountain of blackened rot. The second wheeled around at the scent of blood and met Aiden's eyes just in time for the steel to slide between them. Another death. Another breath.
He dragged the bodies out of view, hiding them beneath a collapsed sheet of corrugated metal.
Now eight.
The block opened up into a small courtyard, once a green space between residential complexes. Now, it was a minefield of trash, moss-eaten benches, and skeletal trees. A shopping cart lay on its side near a dried-up fountain, and beside it, three walkers shuffled in a slow orbit—drawn to a distant sound that had long since faded.
Aiden waited and watched. Movement without understanding would get him killed. He timed their steps. Their spacing. When the first one turned its back and drifted near the edge of a cracked planter box, he made his move.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each strike was swift, clean, and executed with terrifying efficiency. One walker had time to groan before Aiden's hand clasped over its mouth and the blade silenced it mid-growl. He was painting the garden red, yet no one would ever hear.
He paused again to catch his breath, crouched behind a fallen tree branch. The blood smeared on his gloves was tacky now, dark and thick. His shoulders ached slightly from the repeated strikes, but adrenaline kept him moving.
Five left.
He advanced into the narrow alley behind the buildings, stepping around piles of brick and collapsed fire escapes. A rusted trash bin scraped faintly in the breeze, and Aiden froze. Ahead, four walkers—huddled together in a loose pack. A fifth crouched farther away, gnawing at the desiccated remains of something unrecognizable.
This would be trickier.
He crept onto the fire escape ladder, careful not to rattle it. From the second-story ledge, he moved across a beam and dropped down silently behind the group. This time, he struck like a ghost. One after another, he dispatched them before their groans could rally the others.
The last walker—the one feeding—turned at the sound of collapsing bodies, black ichor dripping from its jaws. It let out a shriek and stumbled toward him. Aiden didn't hesitate. He ducked the wide swing of its clawed hand, pivoted on his heel, and plunged the bowie knife beneath its jaw. The tip burst through the top of its skull like a crude crown of steel.
Silence.
The block was still again, save for the whisper of wind through ruined walls and the occasional creak of distant metal. Eleven walkers. Eleven deaths. Not a single shot fired.
Aiden leaned against the alley wall, finally allowing himself a moment to breathe. His chest rose and fell beneath the layers of tactical fabric, heat trapped under his jacket and mask. The knife in his hand dripped with gore, the air around him thick with the scent of rot and cold iron.
He pulled a rag from his belt and wiped the blade clean, then sheathed it with a soft click. Around him, the city remained a ruin—but now, a quieter one. He had turned a block of threats into a graveyard of silence.
"One block at a time," he muttered under his breath. "That's how I take it back."
And with that, he melted into the shadows once more—eyes always forward, knife always ready, and his presence as fleeting as the last echo of a nightmare
With the last walker fallen and the block momentarily safe, Aiden took a slow, measured breath. The silence was heavy now—not the oppressive, tension-laden kind he was used to, but something closer to relief. Still, he didn't let his guard fully drop. He made his way into the remains of a gutted corner store, its once-bright signage now faded and curling with age. Glass crunched softly beneath his boots as he stepped through the half-collapsed doorway and ducked behind the counter, the wreckage providing a crude shield from any distant eyes.
Only once he was out of sight did he finally allow himself to dig into his pack.
He pulled out a dented can of food—its label too torn and sun-bleached to read, but he could make out enough to guess it was some kind of stew or beans. Holding it in one hand, he reached into a side pouch and withdrew a small, foldable can opener. It was a battered old thing—military issue, compact and dull gray, but reliable. With a few precise twists and clicks, he pierced the lid and began working it open, rotating the jagged wheel around the metal rim with quiet efficiency.
The scent hit him immediately—salty, vaguely meaty, with undertones of brine and stale preservatives. Not exactly appetizing, but it was food. And in this world, that meant everything.
Aiden used a plastic spork he'd been carrying to scoop out the contents, chewing slowly, savoring the rare moment of stillness. His eyes scanned the shattered store through the slats of a broken shelf while he ate, always watching, always listening. Every creak in the distance, every groan of strained metal or flutter of a torn banner kept him alert. But his hand never paused as he fed himself.
Halfway through the can, he set it down and reached for a water bottle tucked in the side of his backpack. The label had long peeled off, and the plastic was slightly warped from sun exposure, but the seal had been intact when he found it—a rare treasure. He twisted the cap and drank deeply, letting the lukewarm liquid wash away the metallic taste of the canned meal and soothe the dryness in his throat.
He closed his eyes for a second. Just one second.
In that fleeting pause, his mind drifted—back to quieter times, cleaner times. A dinner table. Warm light. Real food. Laughter. It all felt like dreams now. Distant, unreachable.
He opened his eyes again. Cold reality returned.
Aiden capped the bottle and returned both it and the half-eaten can into his pack. Waste nothing. You never know when the next meal will come.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, he stood and scanned the store one last time. Shelves were empty. The fridge units long since pillaged. Nothing here but ghosts and echoes.
"Break's over," he whispered to himself, tightening the straps on his backpack.
He pulled his balaclava back into place, adjusted his jacket collar, and stepped out into the alley once more. The sky above was slowly darkening, clouds rolling in heavy with the promise of rain. Somewhere out there, more threats waited—walkers, scavengers, worse.
But for now, Aiden had food in his belly, water in his system, and the cold edge of his bowie knife resting by his side.
And that was enough to keep moving forward.
Aiden then quickly looked at the system.
[Quest Completed: The Streets Aren't Safe]
Title:The Streets Aren't Safe
Objective: Clear the surrounding district of walker presence (Est. 15 Remaining)
Bonus Objective: Discover the source of the recent surge in undead activity
Reward:
+120 XP
Random Weapon Crate (Tier 1)
+ 3 stat Unspent points
[22 Exp acquired from killing x11 Walkers]
[Do you wish to open the Tier 1 weapon crate?]
Then, with no hesitation, Aiden opened it.
[The host has gained a bloodstained fire axe.]
Damage; [75]
Durability; [120/120]
Bonus: [Deals 50% more damage towood-based items]
Aiden then after gaining the Bloodstained axe, looked at his stats
[Player: Aiden Smith]
Level: 3
Exp [119/300]
DEX: [10] +5
STG: [11]
ST: [9]
INT: [16]
WIS: [14]
LUK: [8]
AP: [13]
Aiden then decided to put some AP into his stats, and here is how they look now.
DEX: [10] +5
STG: [11]
ST: [10]
INT: [20]
WIS: [14]
LUK: [16]
AP: [0]
[Congratulations, host for increasing luck points to 10, host gains the new skill: lucky man]
[Skill: Lucky man]
+10% Luck when it has something to do with chance
Satisfied for now—his hunger dulled, thirst sated, and body momentarily at ease—Aiden adjusted the weight of his pack and rose from his crouch. The stillness of the ruined store behind him was a fading memory as he stepped back into the world that demanded his every sense be sharp. The scent of rust, smoke, and damp rot hung in the air like an ever-present fog. Every corner of this city was a reminder of what was lost… and what still hunted in its shadows.
He remembered something—fragments of memory, not entirely his own. Recollections threaded together like brittle old film reels from before all of this. Among them, one stood out: a public library, nestled between a municipal building and an old café, just a few blocks east. It had wide windows, stone steps, and an open rotunda design—a pre-apocalypse haven of knowledge.
More importantly, it had maps.
Street maps. City layouts. Topographical charts. If any place still held useful navigation tools that hadn't been scavenged or burnt, it would be there.
Aiden kept to the shadows as he began moving east. He stuck close to the walls of buildings, crouched low behind wrecked vehicles and heaps of debris. His boots made only the softest sound against the pavement as he picked his path with precision, pausing at every alley and intersection to listen—really listen—for the groans, dragging feet, or gurgling moans that heralded a horde.
There were plenty out here. Too many.
He spotted them in clusters—shambling silhouettes weaving through the open street like broken marionettes. Some stood still, heads twitching as if sniffing the air. Others bumped into cars, walls, and even each other, bound by blind hunger and directionless instinct. Aiden's heart thudded in his chest, but his steps never faltered. He couldn't take on a dozen at once, not here, not without a firearm or a place to funnel them.
So he didn't.
Instead, he moved like a shadow on the wind—slipping behind a broken fence, ducking through shattered windows, hopping a rusted-out fire escape to climb across a second-story rooftop. He avoided every unnecessary fight, reserving his strength and speed for the moments that truly mattered.
On one rooftop, he crouched beside a dead HVAC unit and used its rusted housing to peer across the street with a pair of compact binoculars. There it was: the library.
Time and decay had not been kind to it. The roof had partially caved in over one side, and ivy now clung to the weathered stone facade. Its arched windows were shattered, and half the front steps had crumbled into uneven rubble—but it was still standing. And it still bore the faded signage above the entrance: "Kensworth Public Library."
Getting there, however, was going to be a challenge.
Between him and the library loomed a small open park—grass gone wild and knee-high with overgrowth, trees warped by time and neglect. It was wide open… and littered with at least two dozen walkers. They drifted among the trees and playground equipment like ghosts, pulled to the lingering scents and echoes of long-lost laughter.
Aiden studied the area carefully, planning his route. He could swing south through an alley that led behind a laundromat and cut through an old parking lot to reach the library's rear side. It would take longer—but speed wasn't the priority. Stealth was survival.
He moved again, fast and silent, vaulting from the rooftop onto the canopy of a long-dead coffee shop, then down into the alleyway. Rats scattered as he landed, but otherwise the space was clear. He slipped between two dumpsters and paused at the alley's end, crouching low and watching the path ahead.
The parking lot was cracked and overgrown, half of it covered in moss and grime. The skeletons of abandoned cars stood as crude barricades and cover points. Aiden stuck to the shadows they cast, slipping between them with careful timing, always watching the silhouettes of the undead as they moved through the streets just beyond.
He reached the back of the library just as the sun began to dip behind the skyline. Twilight painted everything in eerie hues of blue and amber, making the shadows longer—and more dangerous.
The rear door was ajar, its rusted hinges creaking softly in the breeze. He drew his knife instinctively, the familiar weight grounding him as he pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.
The air was thick and musty. Paper. Dust. Mold. But also something else—something… still. Sacred, in a way.
Books.
Despite everything, many still lined the shelves, though scattered and water-damaged. The overhead lights were long dead, but shafts of golden dusk filtered through high windows, illuminating clouds of dust in the air like tiny spirits.
He was in.
The library loomed around him in near silence, the creak of wood and the whisper of wind the only sounds within. Somewhere among these halls, likely in the reference or archive section, a map waited. A path forward. A plan.
And Aiden was one step closer to reclaiming control in a world that had taken so much from him.