**Chapter 2 : The modern man**


    The world had been a battlefield for two decades, a graveyard of dreams and civilization. Alex Carter, a man in his mid-forties, trudged through the hollow streets of a decayed cityscape. His face bore the marks of relentless years—cheekbones sharp against his weathered skin, eyes sunken but alert, and graying stubble shadowing his jawline. His clothes, a mismatched ensemble of scavenged leather and tattered fabric, were held together by sheer necessity, much like his spirit.


    The apocalypse had brought horrors no one could have imagined. It began as a virus, an infection that turned people into mindless predators. But the world’s collapse had unveiled something stranger—a phenomenon that became known as *Ion Awakening*.


    Only one in seven thousand people would manifest these powers, and even then, the awakened abilities varied widely. Some survivors developed auxiliary skills—healing wounds, boosting stamina, or sensing danger. Others gained battle-oriented powers, summoning barriers of energy or unleashing devastating kinetic strikes. These powers, determined seemingly at random, came with a ranking system measured by stars.


    - **One Star**: The lowest tier, barely useful for survival.


    - **Five Stars**: The midpoint, held by those strong enough to fend off hordes or heal fatal wounds.


    - **Ten Stars**: A higest tier that no one had ever witnessed and whispered of in bunkers but never witnessed.


    The awakened abilities grew stronger with experience and usage, like a skill levelling up. But progress was grueling, and some powers plateaued early, offering little improvement. For many, even a single star could mean the difference between survival and despair.


    Shelters became microcosms of this new hierarchy. Those with powers were revered, protected, and relied upon. The unawakened, like Alex, were burdens—pitied at best, discarded at worst.


    Alex’s life in the shelter was one of quiet humiliation. Despite years of relentless training and exercises, not a single spark of energy ever emerged within him. While others around him awakened their gifts—some glowing with faint auras of light, others commanding bursts of wind or flame—Alex remained powerless.


    He remembered the first time someone in his shelter awakened. A teenage girl named Rachel, barely sixteen, had suddenly manifested a two-star healing ability after a bout of illness. She became a beacon of hope, her gift saving lives and earning her a revered status. Others followed, their powers ranging from minor utility to formidable combat skills.


    Alex, on the other hand, couldn’t even light a match with his mind.


    For years, he worked tirelessly to prove his worth. He scavenged supplies, repaired equipment, and risked his life in dangerous foraging missions. Yet, the whispers grew louder with each passing month:  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    *"Why is he still here?"*


    *"He’s a drain on our resources."*


    *"We can’t keep carrying him forever."*


    One night, it all came to a head.


    The meeting was held in the central chamber of the shelter, dimly lit by failing emergency lights. Marcus, the leader, stood at the center, his tall frame casting long shadows against the concrete walls. Around him sat the awakened, their presence dominating the room.


    “We have to make choices,” Marcus began, his voice calm but firm. “The shelter’s resources are dwindling. We have thirty awakened here, each vital to our survival. But we also have those who… haven’t contributed as much.”


    The words hung heavy in the air. Alex felt their gazes turn to him—some sympathetic, others indifferent.


    “Alex,” Marcus said, locking eyes with him. “You’ve tried. No one can deny that. But we’ve waited for years, and your awakening won''t come now that you are old already . We can’t afford to keep waiting. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave.”


    Alex’s heart sank, his hands trembling as he stood to speak. “Please… I’ve done everything I can. I’ve risked my life for this shelter. Just give me more time—”


    “We’ve given you time,” Marcus interrupted, his tone sharp. “But time won’t feed us, and it won’t protect us from the infected.”


    The decision was final. They handed him a small bag of supplies and escorted him to the surface. As the steel doors shut behind him, Alex stood in the cold, staring at the desolate horizon.


    ---


    Years passed. Alex wandered the wasteland alone, scavenging to survive. He had long stopped dreaming of awakening. The odds were against him, and the hope had been beaten out of him by hunger and despair. His body grew leaner, his mind sharper from constant vigilance.


    The infected had changed too. The virus had mutated over time, turning the undead into twisted horrors. Some had hardened into armored monstrosities, while others evolved with nightmarish speed and cunning. Survivors whispered of “alphas”—infected so strong they could tear through steel doors.


    Yet Alex survived. He moved with practiced caution, always scanning for danger. His trusty baseball bat became an extension of his arm, its surface scarred from countless encounters.


    ---


    It was during one of his foraging trips that Alex encountered a group of outlaws. They seemed rough but welcoming, offering him food and a place to rest. Their leader, Caleb, was a charismatic man with sharp eyes and a silver tongue. Alex, desperate for human connection, accepted their hospitality.


    For weeks, he traveled with them, sharing stories and helping with scavenging missions. But Alex remained naive to the undercurrent of greed in Caleb’s eyes whenever he glanced at Alex’s glowing shard—a mysterious artifact Alex had found years ago, its purpose unknown but its light strangely comforting.


    One night, the group ventured too close to an infected nest. A horde of evolved zombies surged toward them, their grotesque forms illuminated by the faint moonlight.


    “There’s too many of them!” Caleb shouted. “We need a distraction!”


    Before Alex could react, two outlaws grabbed him, shoving him forward.


    “What are you doing?!” Alex yelled, his voice rising with panic.


    “Sorry, Alex,” Caleb said, his voice devoid of regret. “You’re the slowest of us. You’ll buy us time.”


    The group disappeared into the shadows, leaving Alex alone as the horde closed in.


    ---


    Alex’s heart pounded in his chest, his breaths ragged as he swung his bat with everything he had. His muscles burned, his vision blurred, but he refused to give up. *“Not like this,”* he thought, tears streaming down his face.


    One infected lunged at him, its decayed face inches from his own. Alex swung the bat with a roar, sending the creature sprawling. But for every one he felled, two more took its place.


    As he stumbled, the shard in his backpack began to glow—brighter than ever before. Its light pulsed rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat. Alex felt a surge of warmth spreading through his body, an energy he had never known.


    The shard’s glow enveloped him, and for the first time in twenty years, Alex''s consciousness fadded like gas and the shard he had sucked his soul somewhere far yet distant he could see the blue planet and the destruction occurred in those years and he hears some unknown voice talking in unknown language.


    His journey wasn’t over. It had just begun.


    ---