As You Believed (2)

The reply never comes. Neither does an attack, nor any reaction at all. It feels more like facing mannequins than living things. Yet when I look closely, I can see the proof of breathing—chests rising and falling, faint movements that mark them as alive. That only makes it more grotesque. If they had stayed completely still, it might have been easier. The sight of them forcing themselves to remain motionless feels far more ominous. Unsettling.

Part of me wants to snatch the shotgun from my sister’s back and empty ten rounds down the corridor, clearing everything in one sweep. But I don’t. We don’t have that much ammunition. There’s plenty of rifle ammo left in the car, but shotgun shells are limited even with what we’re carrying now. I don’t even know how many Ye-eun has. We can’t afford to waste them. And there’s another reason we shouldn’t shoot—something I can’t quite name, something closer to instinct than reason.

I rest my hand on the hilt at my waist and glare at them.

Suddenly, the line parts.

“Ah…” Ye-eun lets out a soft gasp. I hear my sister raise her gun. Even with the barrel aimed forward, something steps into view through the gap.

It is a variant.

A zombie in a long robe shuffles forward with heavy steps. At a glance it looks no different from a human—its skin is intact, its body whole. It wears the gentle smile of a woman. Yet I know the truth. Insight tells me so.

That is not human.

“Do not be afraid.”

It speaks with a human voice, using human words, but it is not a person. I know that. A chill runs down my spine.

Too many things don’t add up. The university is large, sure, but two variants? And ones intelligent enough to speak properly? A shiver runs through me. I feel sick. Even knowing it isn’t human, the thing in front of me looks almost exactly like one.

“We have come to offer help.”

Elegant speech. Polite tone. A soft, beautiful voice that could charm anyone who listened.

I blink once, then speak the words that rise straight from my gut.

“…Why the hell would I believe a variant? Are you an idiot?”

“Huh?”

“A variant…?!”

My sister freezes in confusion. Ye-eun startles. The gun barrel that had begun to lower snaps back up. The Prophet variant pauses, visibly taken aback.

Thinking back, a lot of things suddenly make sense. The crosses. The way they hang people and drain their blood. It might look symbolic, but something tells me it’s more than that. If the Centurion really was a special forces sniper and a shooting athlete, then there had to be some twisted logic behind it. And right in front of me is the proof.

The Prophet’s trait: Apostasy.

‘Th-that person, we are believers, believers. We are not apostates, not apost…’

The words the one I caught had stammered out. Too precise to be coincidence. There were plenty of things it could have said—denying it was a heretic, claiming its faith was unshaken—but it specifically ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mentioned apostates. That stuck with me.

I know why now. I remember the first zombie I killed. It hadn’t been tearing into corpses or wandering aimlessly. It had just been standing there, staring. Maybe it had been an apostate too.

I burst out laughing. Every gaze snaps toward me.

“Hyun-ah…?”

Ye-eun calls my name, startled by my sudden laughter, but my sister understands. Only she reacts to the faint footsteps I hear. She flinches, then moves, pulling the confused Ye-eun with her into the darkness of the corridor. I glance at them once, then rest my hand on my sword hilt again.

“This is fucking hilarious, isn’t it? The irony’s killing me.”

The Prophet doesn’t answer. It looks like it doesn’t understand the situation. Of course it doesn’t. Its Intelligence is 32—smart as hell. Physically average, but the type that overwhelms with numbers. Now I get it. That’s why no zombies showed up even after we made all that noise on the way here. They’re all the Prophet’s puppets. Apostates. And smart ones panic hard when their carefully laid plans fall apart. Just like now.

“One of you shoots anyone who comes close while protecting the people here, draining apostates until the last drop of blood to keep them from causing trouble. Meanwhile, the other one spouts pretty lies about salvation and help, tricking humans into drinking its blood and turning them into slaves. Man, the world really works in fucked-up ways.”

Humans were caught between variants, suffering. I feel no pity. These bastards are cultists. They deserve whatever hell they’ve brought on themselves.

Footsteps echo from the stairs above. The Centurion is coming. I watch the Prophet try to retreat and feel certain of one thing: variants aren’t indifferent or cooperative like regular zombies. They’re hostile to each other, just like the Serpent Father and the Preacher. Right now is no exception.

“Whatever you were planning, whatever you were offering, whatever scheme you had in mind… it doesn’t mean shit. My answer’s always the same.”

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The Prophet finally hears the footsteps too late. It spins around to flee, then stops. It isn’t far enough to run.

“Fuck off. I’m not interested.”

Only then does the variant let out a low growl and command its blood-fed servants. They move as one, raising their weapons—stained with blood. Their own blood. If even their blood counts as part of the Prophet’s body, then the blood of apostates is itself a source of infection. Just touching it is dangerous. We have to kill them all without getting hit even once.

But do I really have to do it myself?

They say the key to command is using the right person for the right job. I remember something I saw in a comic once and grip my sword hilt.

Thud. Thud. The approaching footsteps mix with the synchronized steps of the apostates. At that moment, I see the variant that has stopped on the stairs beside me.

It is a monster clad in armor. Over two meters tall, holding an extremely long rifle in one hand and a long blade in the other. The moment I see it, its name flashes across my vision.

Its stats are ridiculous. Perception 45? The trait is unclear, but this is a strong enemy. Not on the level of the Serpent Father, but still far from ordinary.

Even so, it stops when it sees me. Me, the Prophet, the Centurion—we stare at each other. More precisely, at the forty-three or so apostates between us. Numbers don’t matter right now. My hand rests on my sword hilt. The Centurion’s eyes gleam through the gaps in its armor. The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Prophet has already hidden itself among its servants.

The Centurion still looks confused, but it keeps its gaze locked on me. The Prophet doesn’t retreat either. Instead, I can faintly sense it—if there are more zombies in this basement, it’s calling them now.

So there’s only one choice left.

Make these two fight each other, then reap the benefits with minimal effort. Whatever they’re offering, whatever chaos is unfolding here, it has nothing to do with me.

I smirk.

“What are you waiting for? Gonna stand around all day? Then—”

The moment I speak, the Centurion raises its gun. An extremely long rifle with a spearhead already extended from the muzzle. A weapon that serves as both gun and spear. Its power is on the level of an anti-materiel rifle. Even I would die if hit, and the Crusader’s armor probably couldn’t stop it either.

But once is enough. If the barrel just shifts once…

So I wait quietly. I draw a breath, feel my heart pounding, feel heat spreading through my body, and curl my lips upward.

Now.

Kaang!

Thwack!

A sharp gunshot blends with a strange sound—like air compressing and bursting. The launched spearhead misses me and slams into the wall, crushing apostates in its path. In the instant the corridor is painted with blood, the Centurion’s muzzle swings sideways. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠The rifle round strikes its wrist dead-on. Blood sprays.

The rest is up to me.

I slam my foot into the floor and lean forward.

Tadol.

Whoosh. The world narrows to a single point, then expands again. I dash across the stairs. In an instant I’m right in front of the Centurion. The moment I close the distance, its body moves. The hand holding the blade shoots toward my heart.

Swish. A chilling sound, like the air itself is being torn. I twist my body, knock the blade aside with my left hand, then grab its collar and wrist. I let the knowledge flowing through my head take over.

One motion. Half a breath to block the attack, then exhale and move. A technique I’ve seen before. The ultimate technique Taewoo-ham left me.

‘No, Kang Hyun. This isn’t my judo.’

I hear Taewoo-ham’s voice from that memory—the final practice before his judo match. That voice merges with the knowledge already in my head and body. Not something meant for his larger frame, but adapted perfectly for mine.

‘This is yours. Kang Hyun’s judo.’

In the memory, Taewoo-ham smiles brightly—the same smile I once respected. His life, his blood, sweat, and tears, distilled into a single motion. In a way only I can do.

Finishing move: Lightning Pull Throw.

I twist and hurl the Centurion’s body.

Crash!

I drag it down from the half-floor height of the stairs to the ground. It rolls across the floor. Watching it skid and slam violently, I shout without thinking.

“Kang Ahyeon, Lee Ye-eun! Over here—!”

They move. The Centurion, still rolling, tries to raise its gun, but I’m faster. I pull the assault rifle from my back. Click—full auto. I hunch forward, aim, and pull the trigger.

Kakakakakaka—

Thirty rounds paint the darkness crimson. A full magazine poured out in a storm. As the Centurion raises both arms to block, the apostates caught in the crossfire turn into chunks of meat yet keep coming.

My sister and Ye-eun rush in—one with a blank expression, the other wide-eyed with shock. I slam in a fresh magazine and shout.

“We’re going up!”

“What?!”

The Centurion hacks through apostates with its blade while they swarm it in return, weapons swinging. Zombies pour from every passage in the basement.

I draw the Crusader’s sword and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠laugh.

The Prophet, the Centurion, these cultist idiots—fuck them all.

“We’re heading for the armory!”

Survival. That’s the only thing that matters. I start sprinting up the stairs.