One of Ross’ son whispered, almost to themselves, "I... I never imagined Mom could do this..."
Another nodded silently, their face pale. "All this ti... we thought we were strong, but compared to them, we’re nothing."
Even as they spoke, their mothers continued to move like living storms, invisible blades and arcs of energy carving through the zombies.
Their attacks were not just powerful—they were surgical.
Every strike was calculated, efficient, and final. No zombie, young or old, could survive their wrath.
And yet, sohow, there was no malice in their movents—only precision, purpose, and an undeniable sense of protection for their children.
It was a terrifying, humbling spectacle.
The children could feel the weight of their mothers’ power pressing down on them, a force so imnse it reshaped the battlefield.
The surviving zombies recoiled instinctively, sensing danger beyond comprehension, and so even retreated in fear before being cut down.
Even after the fight began to subside, the discussion among the children did not.
They huddled together, whispering as the smoke and stench lingered in the air.
"I can’t get over it," one said, shivering despite being unhard.
"We always thought Father was the strongest, but Mom... she’s on a completely different level."
"Yeah," another agreed. "I an, we’ve all got Heart Stones, but seeing her just... destroy them like that. It’s unreal. How did she get that strong?"
Little did they know, the difference wasn’t about favoritism, training, or even the number of Heart Stones.
It was Ross himself.
His essence, his blood, his power—it had fundantally changed their mothers, elevating their abilities beyond anything the children could yet comprehend.
And though the children were strong, immortal even, they had inherited only a fraction of that incredible power.
For the first ti, the children truly understood the vast gulf between themselves and the won they had always called "Mom."
They weren’t just strong—they were godlike in comparison.
And in that mont, a seed of awe and respect took root, tempered with the knowledge that no matter how powerful they might beco, they were still children in the shadow of these extraordinary beings.
They pressed onward on foot, each step sinking deeper into the horrors that lay ahead.
The further they went, the more suffocating the stench beca—a nauseating mix of rotting flesh, spilled blood, and sothing indescribably foul that clung to their clothes and hair.
Every breath felt like swallowing decay, and every step seed heavier than the last.
"Hak!" The sound of retching echoed through the air as several of the younger and less hardy mbers could no longer contain themselves.
So vomited violently, stumbling into each other or falling to the ground, their faces pale and drawn.
A few, overwheld by their own sickness, scrambled toward one of the trucks that had been following the group, desperate for even a small refuge from the horror that pressed in on all sides.
They had imagined this mission differently in their minds: a quick sweep through the area, rescuing the few scattered survivors, and retreating safely.
Yet now the grim reality was impossible to ignore.
There were no signs of living humans—only the endless, shifting tide of zombies.
They seed to co from everywhere at once, crawling over debris, erging from shadowed alleys, and pouring from the horizon as if the land itself were feeding this monstrous army.
Each of them had trained hard for this day, their muscles and reflexes trained inside the safety of the bunker and yet they were disappointed to see it fail them like this.
They called upon every skill, every ability they had mastered, striking with precision and force at the advancing horde.
Sparks flew, weapons clanged, and energy flares erupted as they cut a path through the seemingly infinite mass of undead.
Despite the chaos, there was a thod to their madness.
Alistair barked commands, organizing his siblings around him, pointing out pockets of weakness, and coordinating strikes.
The zombies did not relent.
Every ti a wave was cut down, more surged forward, relentless and unthinking.
Their moans filled the air, a grotesque symphony that made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end.
Yet even as fear threatened to take hold, their moms were there to help them in perfect precision.
Behind them, the younger siblings struggled to keep pace, their nausea and disbelief mounting.
They pressed onward for what felt like hours, yet in all that ti, they had barely managed to cover a single kilotre.
The outskirts of Parkland City seed endless, a grim no-man’s-land stretching before them, and the thought of reaching the city proper was both daunting and disheartening.
Every step took imnse effort, every movent a battle against exhaustion.
Alistair and his group were pushed to their absolute limits—every muscle in their bodies scread in protest, and the small reserves of energy they still had were almost entirely spent.
Their abilities, once powerful tools in combat, had beco nearly useless now that their energy reserves were depleted.
Limbs trembled, backs ached, and each breath was a struggle to draw in through the stench that clung to the air.
Yet even in the midst of this relentless march, there was a stark contrast that none could ignore.
Their mothers moved through the chaos with an almost supernatural composure.
Calm, precise, and seemingly limitless in energy, they wielded their abilities effortlessly, cutting through the endless tide of zombies with ease.
It was as if the fight required no effort at all.
Their movents were smooth and deliberate, every strike perfectly tid, their reflexes honed to razor sharpness.
They protected the younger ones around them without hesitation, intercepting threats before the children even realized danger had arrived.
So of their mothers even laughed, their voices light and teasing as they exchanged quips while decimating the undead around them.
The sheer normalcy with which they handled such carnage was breathtaking.
They hardly ever broke a sweat, and the horrifying stench of decay and blood that had driven the others to nausea seed to roll off them like water.
So had never even seen such violence or death before today, yet their instinctive mastery in battle made it look effortless.
anwhile, Alistair and the others struggled with every step.
Every encounter with the horde left them more exhausted, and their senses dulled with fatigue.
Behind them, the protective presence of their mothers was a lifeline, a shield against the nightmare that surrounded them.
Each mother seed attuned to the needs of the group, reading danger before it even materialized and moving to intercept threats with uncanny precision.
The sll of rotting flesh and blood was constant, a thick, choking fog that made each breath a challenge.
The sight of mutilated bodies, dismbered limbs, and grotesque, decaying faces should have been enough to break the younger siblings—but for their mothers, it was nothing more than background noise.
Every few minutes, a zombie would break through the thin line of defense, only to be imdiately struck down by a precise blow or a swift surge of energy from one of the mothers.
The younger fighters watched in awe, hearts pounding, muscles trembling, but gradually began to muster the strength to strike again themselves.
They moved slowly, painfully, but with purpose.
Every strike they could muster, every ounce of remaining energy, was used to carve a path through the endless horde.
Half an hour later, Alistair and his group finally ca to a halt, collapsing onto the ground in a mixture of exhaustion and relief.
The march—and the constant battle with the encroaching horde—had taken a brutal toll on them.
They tore into their prepared food, gulped down water, and tried to stretch stiff, trembling limbs.
Every bite and sip seed like a lifeline, temporarily restoring strength that had been drained to the last ounce.
anwhile, their mothers moved like shadows around the periter, alternating positions to fend off the relentless tide of the undead.
The presence of Brandon added an additional layer of comfort.
Most of the group was noticeably more relaxed now, knowing that one of the most formidable fighters they had ever sparred with was standing among them.
Brandon’s abilities were legendary in the bunker, and they all rembered just how terrifying he could be during training sessions.
Even now, watching him casually dispatch zombies with effortless skill, they felt a rare sense of security amidst the chaos.
Despite the brief mont of respite, Alistair could not fully relax. His body was weary, every muscle aching, but his mind was still racing.
The sight of his mothers moving with unerring precision, the sound of distant moans from the horde, and the sharp tang of blood in the air all combined into a background hum of tension that he could not ignore.
After a few long monts, Alistair finally gathered the courage to approach his mother.
There was a question that had been gnawing at him for so ti, one he could no longer keep to himself.
With every step he took toward her, his heart pounded—not just from fatigue, but from the fear of what he might learn.
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