Chapter One: The Sudden Onset of the Apocalypse

A cacophony of alarms rang out, jolting Zhou Yu from his hazy sleep. He squinted at his phone: 4:37 in the afternoon.

“Damn, overslept again. When will I ever get over this jet lag?” he muttered in frustration.

He got up and switched on the television. The news was on, and the date flashed across the screen: December 23rd, 2012—the day before the Mayan prophecy claimed the world would end.

Zhou Yu sighed helplessly, thinking to himself, “What a bunch of idiots, believing in such nonsense.”

He turned off the television and drew back the curtains. Night had already fallen, and only a handful of people were visible on the street below.

Turning away, Zhou Yu walked to his computer, booted it up, and typed in the name of a popular web novel site to indulge in some online reading.

It had been three or four years since he had graduated. In that time, he’d worked odd jobs here and there—militiaman, waiter, laborer on construction sites, kitchen help, bartender. The only thing that had remained constant was his habit of reading novels online. If all the stories he’d finished were made into physical books, they could fill a thirty-square-meter room.

Unbeknownst to him, the night slipped away. Suddenly, the internet cut out. Zhou Yu swore under his breath as he got up, glancing out the window. Day had already broken.

Strangely, he realized there was no familiar hum of traffic outside. By this time, the street was usually alive with the sound of engines.

“Ah, whatever. At least it’s quiet. Might as well step out for breakfast,” he muttered, slipping on his shoes and heading out.

Downstairs, he found the supermarket closed, the breakfast shop shuttered, the entire row of businesses silent and locked up. The street was deserted, echoing with emptiness.

“What the hell is going on? No one’s open for business, did everyone sleep in today? What were they all up to last night?” Zhou Yu complained as he turned back toward home.

Standing beneath his building, he lit a cigarette, thinking, “I’m almost out of smokes—what am I supposed to do now?”

Just then, he spotted someone staggering down from the upper floors.

The sight startled him. The person’s face was bloodless and their eyes were bloodshot.

“What the—did you stay up all night cosplaying zombies? Out here first thing in the morning, not even bothering to wash up? You trying to scare people to death?” Zhou Yu called out to the awkwardly shuffling figure.

The person ignored him, lurching straight toward Zhou Yu. Zhou Yu didn’t spare him another glance and started up the stairs.

“Are you nuts? Why are you scratching me?” Zhou Yu swore as the person reached for him.

But the man didn’t answer, only continued clawing at Zhou Yu, mouth open and growling softly, as if trying to bite him.

Dodging aside, Zhou Yu shoved him away, cursing, “You’re seriously out of your mind—cosplay gone too far? You think you’re really a zombie? Get lost! Don’t come near me, you already scratched me! If you keep it up, I’m really going to knock you out!”

Unfazed by Zhou Yu’s threats, the man kept advancing.

“Alright, you asked for it.” Zhou Yu muttered, swinging a punch into the man’s body.

“Damn, are you made of stone? So tough—it hurts like hell. Still coming?” Zhou Yu grumbled, raising his foot to kick the man. The man seemed oblivious to pain, stumbling back a few steps before letting out a guttural roar and advancing again.

Now Zhou Yu was truly unnerved. Something was wrong. Sure, he’d put on some weight over the past couple of years, but no ordinary person could take two hits from him and keep coming like nothing had happened.

No, this was bad. He needed to get home—fast.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Zhou Yu acted on it, rushing to his door, fumbling for his keys, and locking himself inside.

He pulled out his phone to call the police, but as soon as he dialed, he was met with static. No signal, just a busy tone. How could that be? Even without a signal, emergency calls should still go through.

Panicking, he switched on the television, but the screen was lifeless—no signal there, either.

It was over. The end had really come.

He racked his brain. In all the apocalyptic novels he’d read, the protagonist always gained some kind of system or superpower. Why didn’t he? He was doomed this time, especially after getting scratched.

He had no desire to become a zombie.

No, he had to disinfect the wound—immediately. With that, Zhou Yu hurried to find alcohol and gauze to clean the scratch, hissing at the sting.

It was a good thing he’d been something of a troublemaker back in school—fights and injuries weren’t new to him. After cleaning and bandaging the wound, he quickly headed to the kitchen to grab a cleaver for protection.

But as soon as he picked it up, he remembered the machete he’d bought still stashed under the bed. That would be far more useful than a kitchen knife—longer and deadlier.

Resolved, Zhou Yu turned toward his bedroom. He had only taken two steps when a wave of dizziness crashed over him.

It was over—he was really going to turn into a zombie this time.