The wind carried the smell of old death—the scent of burned earth and rotting flesh that no one had buried. Kaizen stood on a small hill of rubble, gripping the handle of his long knife made from the metal of an old car. The sky above him was heavy gray—no sun, no clouds—just a blanket of permanent ash that had not lifted for twenty years. He was now twenty-five years old, born into this hell after the world had ended. He had never known anything but ruin.
The land around him was dead. Half the planet—or what remained of it—had become poisoned ground. Nothing grew there except black thorny weeds that would poison your blood if eaten. The irradiated zones could be seen from afar: charred trees bent like corpses, and soil glowing with a sick green color in the dark. Kaizen had learned since childhood to stay away. Radiation did not kill you immediately—it devoured you slowly, dissolving your bones and turning your blood into water.
Kaizen stepped down from the hill quietly. His patched boots, made from the skin of dead animals, made no sound. He was searching for food. Three days ago, he had eaten the last piece of rat meat he had caught. Hunger tore at his stomach like a blade. In this world, there was no bread, no fruit, no clean water. The water he drank was always boiled over charred wood, and even then, it still tasted like rust.
Suddenly, he heard a sound.
A faint rustling in the black weeds.
Kaizen froze, gripping his knife tightly. He had not had bullets for a long time. Firearms had become nothing more than rusted scrap hanging from belts—a reminder of a time when humans killed each other from afar. Now killing was done by hand—knives, axes, iron pipes. Closer. Crueler.
The creature emerged.
A dog. Or what had once been a dog.
Radiation had warped its skin into black rot, covered in sores leaking yellow pus. One eye was normal—the other swollen, hanging from its socket. Its teeth had grown unnaturally long, and thick white saliva dripped from its mouth. It wasn't large—but it was hungry. And more desperate than Kaizen.
It attacked without a sound.
Kaizen dodged at the last second. The claws struck the ground, leaving deep gouges in the dirt. He moved quickly and slashed. The blade sank into the animal's shoulder—but the decayed skin was thick. The dog let out a hoarse cry, spun, and clamped its jaws onto Kaizen's arm.
Pain burned through him.
He felt the teeth pierce skin, muscle—almost bone. He drove his knee hard into the dog's stomach, forcing it back, then ripped his knife free and stabbed into the swollen eye. Pus burst across his face—but he did not stop.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Until the creature collapsed, twitching.
Kaizen stood there, breathing heavily. His arm bled freely. He looked at the wound—deep, dripping onto the dry ground. There was no time for regret. He tore a strip from his ragged shirt and bound the wound tightly until the bleeding slowed.
Then he dropped to his knees beside the corpse.
"Your flesh will keep me alive for two more days… radiation bastard," he muttered hoarsely.
He skinned it with practiced hands, cutting gray meat that was still warm, placing it into a small leather pouch. The smell was foul—but hunger had no dignity. He tore off a piece and ate it raw to keep himself from collapsing. Nausea rose—but he swallowed it.
As he cut, he remembered.
The day his father sold him.
He had been eight.
The gang came to the camp—the "Black Shelter." Men with axes and iron pipes stained with blood. They killed the men quickly. Beheaded them in front of the women. His mother tried to run. They broke her legs and dragged her into a tent.
His father—trembling, cowardly—pushed Kaizen forward.
"Take him. Take him instead of me. He's strong. He'll work. Just… leave me some food."
The leader laughed. Grabbed Kaizen by the hair. Then smashed his father's face with an axe handle until blood poured from his nose.
"Fathers selling sons for rotten bread… this is your new world, boy."
From that day, Kaizen lived three years in the gang's hell.
He learned to steal food unseen.
To slit a sleeping man's throat quietly.
To sell his body for clean water when necessary.
He learned one truth:
No one loves anyone.
Everything is interest.
When interest ends—so does everything else.
The night he escaped, he killed the guard sleeping beside him, took his knife, and ran into the dark.
Since then—alone.
No friends.
No lovers.
No family.
Only survival.
He finished cutting the meat, tied the pouch to his belt, and stood. His arm throbbed. His shoulder ached. But pain meant life.
He walked west—toward ruins called the "Black Towers." People spoke of it. Metal. Maybe canned food. But also… a gang called the Flesh Eaters.
Kaizen didn't care.
If there was food—he would take it.
If there were people—he would kill or use them.
Hours later, he reached the ruins.
Collapsed buildings. Rusted cars. Bones scattered everywhere. Some skulls cracked. Others marked with bite wounds.
He found a half-open iron door leading underground.
He descended carefully.
Darkness.
He lit a small torch—cloth soaked in animal oil.
Inside: crates.
He opened one.
Canned food.
Some bloated. Some intact.
He opened one with his knife and ate quickly—like an animal. Sauce dripping down his chin.
Then—
Footsteps above.
He extinguished the torch instantly.
Three men came down.
Axes. Blades.
One dragged a woman—naked, bruised, blood dried on her thighs. She cried silently. Eyes empty.
"Food!" one shouted. "This place hasn't been looted!"
Kaizen waited.
Then moved.
The knife plunged into the first man's back—through the lung. Before he could scream, Kaizen slit his throat. Warm blood sprayed his face.
The second turned—swung an axe.
It struck Kaizen's shoulder—deep.
Kaizen screamed—but kept moving.
He lunged. Bit the man's ear off. Then drove the blade into his eye.
The third was stronger.
He smashed Kaizen's head with an iron pipe.
Kaizen fell. Blood blinded him.
The man raised his axe—
Then—
The woman jumped.
She bit his neck.
Hard.
Blood poured.
He screamed.
Kaizen rose—just enough.
Stabbed.
Again.
Again.
Until the man collapsed.
Kaizen stood, gasping.
Covered in blood.
The woman was still biting the corpse—madness in her eyes.
He looked at her.
Young. Dirty blonde hair. Bruised body.
"Who are you?" he asked.
No answer.
He cut her bonds.
Did not help her stand.
In this world—nothing is free.
"If you want to live—take a weapon and follow me. If you want to die—stay."
She stood slowly.
Took an axe.
Followed.
Kaizen gathered cans.
Climbed out.
His wounds bled.
But he felt… satisfied.
He ate.
He killed.
He survived.
That was enough.
Outside—
The wind still carried death.
In the distance—
Firelight.
A camp.
Maybe Flesh Eaters.
Kaizen smiled.
Cold.
"Let's see… who sells who today."
He walked toward the fire.
The woman followed—
Silent as a shadow.