Alistair found his mother standing off to the side, her figure calm and unmoving amid the chaos.
Wild, untad energy crackled around her body, warping the air itself and making her seem both magical and immortal.
The power did not flare outward in visible flas or lightning, yet its presence was unmistakable—heavy, oppressive, and vast, as though the world itself bent around her will.
At that mont, no matter how hard he tried, Alistair could not even comprehend what kind of ability she was using.
There were no runes, no gestures, no signs he could recognize.
The force was invisible, like the wind—unseen and formless—yet its effects were horrifyingly clear.
The zombie horde was pushed back relentlessly, bodies dragged across the ground as if struck by a massive, unseen tide.
Those at the front were crushed and flung aside, while the ones behind stumbled and collided, unable to move forward no matter how hard they struggled.
Every attempt to advance was t with the sa result: great resistance from the endless zombie horde.
No zombie managed to step closer to their position. The distance between them remained absolute, an invisible boundary drawn by her will alone.
Watching from behind, Alistair felt a chill run down his spine.
He finally understood that what protected them was not a barrier he could see—but a force so overwhelming that nothing dared cross it.
As Alistair stepped closer, Althea’s sharp eyes imdiately caught his movent.
She paused her relentless assault on the countless zombies encircling them, letting her energy settle for a mont.
There was no need for her to worry; others like Mari were more than capable of holding the horde at bay, stopping them dead in their tracks without breaking a sweat.
The battlefield seed calm around her, a temporary pocket of safety amidst the chaos.
"Sothing on your mind?" Althea asked, her tone gentle yet steady.
She tilted her head slightly, her gaze softening as she looked at her son’s handso face.
There was amusent in her eyes, but also warmth—a subtle, unspoken reminder that family mattered most, even in the face of death.
Alistair’s brow furrowed as he hesitated for a mont before speaking.
"Why, Mom?" he asked, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and barely contained frustration. "If you already have this much power... why not just reclaim Parkland City? We could’ve cleaned it completely, taken back what’s ours, and ended this."
Althea shook her head slowly, a faint smile playing across her lips.
She lowered her gaze briefly toward the zombies, then back to her son.
"We protect what’s ours, Alistair. That’s enough for now," she said softly, her voice calm but firm. "There’s much we still don’t understand—how these creatures ca to exist, what caused the world to change... and rushing in recklessly could cost us more than we can afford to lose."
She took a slow, asured breath, letting the chaotic energy around her settle into a quiet hum.
Her eyes softened further, and she reached out instinctively, brushing a stray lock of hair from Alistair’s forehead.
"As long as you’re fine and safe," she continued, pausing for emphasis, "that’s more than enough for . Everything else... doesn’t matter as much to ."
Alistair stared at her, feeling a mixture of admiration, awe, and frustration.
Her words carried weight, but her restraint struck him even more than her power.
Here was a woman who could have ended this war single-handedly, yet she chose caution, strategy, and the protection of those she loved over sheer dominance.
The realization stirred a complicated mix of emotions inside him—pride in his mother, awe at her abilities, and an impatient desire to act that refused to fully subside.
He glanced at the horde pressing at the edges of their position, then back at Althea.
"I understand, Mom," he said finally, his voice quieter than before. "I... I just wish there were a way to end this faster."
Althea’s gaze lingered on him, reading the tension beneath his words.
She knew that in ti, he would understand—the difference between raw strength and true responsibility.
For now, she simply gave a small, reassuring nod. "Strength alone does not win battles, Alistair. Wisdom, patience, and the care for those who depend on you... that’s what keeps us alive. And soday, you’ll see that for yourself."
For a long mont, they stood like that, mother and son, the chaotic battlefield around them.
***
Several hours later, as night firmly settled over the city, the team finally made their way back to the bunker.
The streets were silent now, save for the occasional distant moan of wandering zombies, and the darkness pressed in from every corner.
Their efforts had barely made a dent in the massive horde, and not a single shadow of another survivor had been spotted.
The reality of the world pressed down on them like a heavy weight.
Unlike Ross’s hunting teams in the supermarket, which relied on careful stealth and tactical movent, Alistair’s approach had been far more direct—and, so might say, reckless.
His team had charged straight into the heart of the horde, striking with raw force and minimal concern for concealnt.
The result was predictable: every zombie within several blocks had been drawn toward them, a tide of death converging from all directions.
Yet, despite the chaos, Alistair had pressed on relentlessly, determined to see the mission through.
The return to the bunker was t with relief rather than defeat.
Once inside, Alistair moved toward Brandon with eager steps, the adrenaline from the day still pumping through his veins.
"Where are they, Uncle Brandon?" he asked, his voice bright with anticipation.
Brandon, as always, remained silent.
Without a word, he reached into a corner of the bunker and handed Alistair a large, surprisingly heavy bag.
The faint rustle of its contents promised sothing substantial, though Alistair couldn’t imdiately tell what.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened the bag, and his eyes widened at what he saw: hundreds of heart stones, collected ticulously from every zombie they had slain that day.
Each one glimred faintly, a testant to the lives they had taken and the energy they now held.
It was an overwhelming sight, and yet it filled him with a rush of possibility.
"Thank you, Uncle Brandon," Alistist said earnestly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"It’s no problem at all," Brandon replied with a simple nod, then turned and walked away, leaving Alistair alone.
The bunker suddenly felt quiet, almost eerily so. Alistair crouched near the bag, his fingers brushing over the smooth surfaces of the heart stones.
He counted them in his mind, imagining the power they contained, the potential for growth and influence they represented.
Every stone was a resource, a stepping stone, a asure of progress in a world that offered little else but danger and death.
He thought about the day’s fight: the deafening sounds of zombies surging toward them, the clash of blades and bullets, the way the horde seed endless yet was slowed just enough by their combined effort.
He reflected on his approach—direct, forceful, unafraid of drawing attention.
It had been risky, even reckless, but it had yielded results. And while he hadn’t found a single survivor, the heart stones were proof that their efforts weren’t in vain.
Alistair leaned back, his eyes never leaving the bag.
The dim light of the bunker glinted off the stones, casting faint, eerie reflections across the walls. In the quiet, he allowed himself to think—not just about the day’s victories, but about what ca next.
Several minutes passed in silence, but Alistair’s mind never slowed.
Outside, the night pressed on, indifferent and unforgiving.
The distant groans of the horde reminded him of the fragile safety of the bunker.
He couldn’t rest yet—not while opportunities lay within reach.
The bag of heart stones sat in front of him, a tangible promise of power, progress, and the chance to carve a path through the darkness that had consud the city.
"I guess we could do a lot with this," Alistair muttered to himself, his eyes lingering on the bag of heart stones.
A strong temptation tugged at him—he could easily take them all for himself, hoard the power and resources—but after a mont of reflection, he knew it would be selfish, even greedy.
It wasn’t the way he wanted to act.
Instead, he made a decision.
He would share the heart stones with his siblings, ensuring they all benefited from their hard work and the dangers they had faced.
The younger ones, however, would be left out for now; they had no use for these stones, and giving them to children who couldn’t handle them would be foolish.
With that plan firmly in mind, Alistair turned and strode quickly toward where his siblings were waiting.
Each step felt lighter than before, the burden of temptation eased by the clarity of his choice.
He could already picture their surprised—and grateful—faces, and that thought alone spurred him to move faster.
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