Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Sanctuary

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County town, Eastern District.

This place was once a sports arena, newly built and not yet fully equipped when disaster befell the land. From one of the rooms within the gymnasium, faint moans and heavy, beastlike panting could be heard.

“Boss... Boss...”

“The fifth and the others have returned!”

The moans lingered, but the heavy breathing gradually eased. Then, a chilling voice responded, “So they’re back. Do you really need to report every little thing? Do you have nothing better to do?”

The messenger outside broke into a cold sweat, clearly terrified of the man within. His voice trembled, “Boss... Only the fifth, Gangzi, and Lame Third came back. The rest... they were all eaten by the zombies...”

The panting ceased altogether.

The messenger stood at the doorway, not daring to move, waiting for the man inside to give his final word.

With a creak, the door opened, and a strong smell of blood wafted out, laced with an inexplicable scent.

Startled, the messenger looked up at the figure before him, his breath quickening as he instinctively staggered back several steps.

The man who opened the door appeared to be around forty, bare-chested, with a tattoo of a fierce tiger descending a mountain emblazoned across his chest. The intricate, evenly shaded lines spoke of a master’s hand. His face was deeply lined, showing clear signs of age—except for his eyes, which were piercingly lucid, not at all clouded by the years.

“Old... even older now...”

Leaning against the wall, the messenger looked at the leader, who seemed to have aged visibly since the day before. It was as if he were staring at a demon; his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and his body trembled involuntarily.

The man had once been just past thirty, but ever since coming to this gymnasium, for reasons unknown, his appearance changed daily: his hair grew dry, his complexion paled, and countless wrinkles crept across his skin. Strangest of all, he seemed unaware of it. Those who asked too many questions suffered for their curiosity—lively and energetic the night before, they’d be found the next morning sprawled in the washroom, cheeks sunken, eyes wide in terror, corpses already stiff.

After several such incidents, fear gripped everyone. No one dared to utter another word about it, but every so often, as his face grew older and older, a deep unease settled over the survivors. No one knew what had truly happened to him.

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In times of peace, what does it take to command respect? Nothing more than three things: wealth, influence, and power.

With these three, a single call would rally countless followers, eager and tireless.

But now, in the apocalypse, power and wealth had long since become meaningless. The only way to earn respect was simple: did you have the strength to shelter your people and keep them alive?

It was a strange thing—this ever-aging leader seemed to possess a certain magic. He lived in the gymnasium, and unlike the zombie-infested chaos elsewhere, the area around the gym was almost eerily free of the undead. Thanks to this ability, survivors drifting in sought his protection. With ongoing exploration and resource gathering, his numbers swelled to over seventy. The gymnasium became a rare sanctuary.

Of course, human desire is never satisfied.

Within the gym, survivors of every stripe mingled. As their numbers grew, some began to question his rule. Even if the leader could truly ward off monsters, why should he command from the top? Why not just let everyone remain safely inside?

Three men challenged the leader. They agreed on a deadly contest; the winner would control the shelter. Armed with a short blade, the leader sliced open their throats one after another, emerging as the sole survivor.

Yet he was gravely wounded: his abdomen, chest, and—most terrifying—his waist were pierced by an iron spike. With no medical aid, such injuries would have been fatal. Everyone assumed he’d die, and the gym would again be leaderless. But after a single night’s rest, he reappeared among them, seemingly none the worse for wear, save for a certain pallor.

His extraordinary resilience and other uncanny feats solidified his authority in the shelter.

But the most frightening thing was...

After that, his aging accelerated. New wrinkles appeared every few days, and his once-black hair turned ashen.

His temper grew stranger—mad, violent. At night, he would suddenly erupt in howls, as if venting some terrible, pent-up emotion.

No longer restrained by law, and having personally killed three challengers, something dark awakened within him. He began to disregard human life, wantonly abusing the female survivors.

Tragedies soon followed. Some women died during these assaults. His ability to repel zombies, his astonishing healing, and his unpredictable moods made him a figure of terror among the survivors.

More than once, people had seen him paint himself with fresh blood, his eyes wide and unblinking—a sight beyond horror.

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Cheng Hao.

He was the one who stood at the top of this sanctuary.

Cheng Hao made his way downstairs. Along the way, survivors bowed respectfully at the sight of their leader—mostly men, with only a few women among them. It was impossible not to notice that these women were mostly in tatters, their eyes vacant, sitting numbly on the floor. Their gazes were empty, their bodies marked by visible bruises, bearing the scars of their suffering.

Cheng Hao had set a wicked precedent. With the leader’s tacit approval, some men had abandoned all humanity, joining in the depravity.

In times of disaster, women always bore the brunt of cruelty.

In the washroom, three panic-stricken men were showering as someone checked their bodies for wounds or signs of infection. Once it was certain they hadn’t been infected by zombies, they were led out.

The group was brought into a room. Among them was one of the men who had been stripped naked by Fan Li, now cowering, unable to meet Cheng Hao’s gaze.

Seated in a chair, Cheng Hao looked up, his deeply wrinkled face devoid of expression. His bloodshot eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days, fixed straight ahead.

Suddenly, the men’s hearts pounded wildly; a visceral terror seized their throats.

At that moment, it felt as if a ravenous zombie sat before them, staring hungrily at their flesh.

In an instant, their courage evaporated. Trembling, they recounted everything that had happened, leaving out no detail.