He slipped into the building, the air inside thick with the smell of old paper, sawdust, and the faint, metallic tang of stale ink. He made his way to the upper floor, a single large room containing a few dusty desks and ledgers. He cracked open the heavy wooden shutters of a window overlooking the square, creating a slit of darkness just wide enough for observation. The view was a grim panorama of the coming night’s stage. With his sanctuary secured, his next task was to gather more intelligence. The watchman’s story about a two-day latency period was a valuable piece of data, but it was unconfirmed. He needed to establish a more precise timeline of the plague’s progression and the subsequent reanimation. He needed to visit the dead. He left his perch and began a systematic, house-by-house tour of the red-marked cottages. It was a grim, soul-crushing pilgrimage through the ruins of a community. In each home, he found the same tragic story: families huddled together in their final moments, the dead lying beside the dying. With a cold, clinical detachment that was a mercy to his own sanity, he used his [All-Seeing Eye] to perform a series of rapid, non-invasive autopsies. He scanned each corpse, his perception a torrent of biological and spiritual data. He analyzed the viral load in their tissues, the extent of the organ damage, and, most importantly, the progress of the Abyssal Corruption that was coiling around their fading spiritual essence. He began to build a timeline, a horrifying flowchart of death and damnation. He confirmed the watchman's report. In the bodies of those who had died within the last 24 hours, the Abyssal Corruption was present but relatively dormant, a quiet, creeping mold on the soul. But in the older corpses, those who had been dead for 48 hours or more, the corruption was active, aggressive. He could see it beginning to reshape them from the inside out, its dark energy re-writing their very spiritual and biological code, preparing the vessel for its new, monstrous purpose. He had his timeline. The metamorphosis began approximately two days after death. The intelligence was critical, but it came at a profound personal cost. To see so much death, to witness the intimate, final moments of so many lives—a child’s hand still clutching a wooden toy, a wife’s arm draped over her dead husband—it began to erode the cold, hard walls he had built around his heart. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, the general and the doctor vanished, and he was just a man, standing in a house of the dead, drowning in a sea of silent, helpless sorrow. He felt a memory surface, unbidden and unwelcome. The face of Anastasia, his first wife from his first life, her smile as bright as a summer morning. He remembered the simple, profound joy of her presence, a warmth that had been brutally, senselessly ripped away. The grief, the old, sleeping giant, began to stir in its tomb. He ruthlessly, violently, suppressed it. He could not afford this. Not here. Not now. He was a soldier on a mission. Emotion was a liability, a weakness that could get him killed. He forced the memory down, locking it away in the deepest, coldest dungeon of his soul. He retreated to his sniper’s nest in the mill office as dusk began to fall, the gray light bleeding into a bruised, purple twilight. He was no longer just a soldier; he was a machine, an instrument of pure, cold observation. The vigil was about to begin. He was a hunter, and he was ready for the ghosts to rise. He only hoped he was ready for the horrors they would bring with them. The day was a grim, desperate race against a relentless and unforgiving clock. With every passing hour, the Red Blight tightened its grip on Oakhaven, its viral tendrils sinking deeper into the heart of the community. Lloyd, a solitary ghost moving through the dying village, heard the news in the ragged whispers of the few survivors who dared to open their doors to him. Four more had succumbed since dawn. Four more souls extinguished, their bodies now lying in the cold silence of their homes, beginning the horrifying two-day countdown to their monstrous rebirth. Each death was a failure, a small, sharp blade twisting in Lloyd’s soul. But his grief was a luxury he could not afford. He channeled it, transforming the raw, human pain into cold, analytical fuel. He spent the day in a state of intense, hyper-focused work, a man at war on two fronts. His first war was against the virus itself. In the grim, makeshift laboratory of the dead healer’s hut, surrounded by the ghosts of past failures, he worked on a miracle. His [All-Seeing Eye], the divine instrument of his power, was not just a diagnostic tool; it was a supercomputer capable of analyzing and deconstructing the very code of life and death. He had spent hours in a meditative trance, his perception plunged into the intricate, beautiful, and terrifying world of the virus’s genetic structure. He analyzed its protein spikes, its replication enzymes, its every weakness and strength. And in the heart of that microscopic enemy, he had found a desperate, fragile hope. The virus was a masterpiece of lethal design, but it was not perfect. Its rapid mutation, the very thing that made it so aggressive, was also a potential vulnerability. He identified a specific, stable protein on its outer shell, a structural component that did not change with each new generation. This was his target. He began to design a counter-weapon, not a cure for the sick, but a shield for the healthy. A vaccine. In the laboratory of his mind, he scripted a complex alchemical process. He designed a sequence that would isolate this stable protein, neutralize its harmful effects, and suspend it in a solution that, when introduced to a healthy body, would teach the immune system to recognize and annihilate the real virus on sight. It was a concept of immunology so far advanced it was indistinguishable from magic in this world. The ingredients required were as complex and esoteric as the theory itself: powdered Sunstone for its purifying energy, the heartwood of a hundred-year-old Ironwood tree for its stabilizing properties, and, most critically, a drop of blood from a Transcended-level spirit to act as the magical catalyst. He transcribed the list onto a small, coded scroll, the alchemical terms a language only a master would understand. He then used a subtle, untraceable pulse of his Void power to send a mental summons to the one man in the world he trusted to fulfill such an impossible request. Ken Park. He knew his loyal operative, his ghost in the world, would receive the message and would move heaven and earth to procure the ingredients. But he also knew it would take time. Precious, agonizing time they did not have. With the hope of a vaccine now a desperate message on the wind, he turned his attention to the second, more immediate war: the one against the coming night. As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bloody shades of orange and crimson, a new, somber ritual began in the village. A handful of the remaining healthy villagers, their faces grim masks of grief and resolve, emerged from their homes. They went from house to house, collecting their dead. They wrapped the four new corpses in simple linen shrouds and carried them with a heavy, shuffling gait to the center of the village square. There, a large, hastily constructed pyre of logs and timber awaited. They laid the four bodies reverently upon it, a final act of respect for their fallen neighbors and family. It was a heartbreaking procession of the living burying their dead, a ritual as old as humanity itself. Lloyd watched from the dark, narrow slit of his second-story window in the mill office. His hand rested on the cold, familiar hilt of his practice sword. He was a silent, invisible sentinel, a god watching a tragedy he was powerless to stop, for now. He was not a healer. He was a soldier, and his post was here, on this lonely vigil. The villagers finished their grim work. They murmured a few simple prayers, their voices lost in the vast, empty silence. Then, one by one, they retreated back to the fragile safety of their homes, barring their doors against the coming darkness and the horrors it might bring. This update ıs available on 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭·𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮·𝙣𝙚𝙩 The village square was empty once more, save for the four shrouded figures on the pyre. The sun dipped below the horizon, and a deep, purple twilight bled across the sky. The world held its breath. Lloyd waited, his body perfectly still, his senses stretched to their absolute limit. He was a predator waiting for the prey to emerge from its den. An hour passed. Then another. The silence was absolute, profound, a living, breathing entity. And then, in the eerie, silver light of the rising moon, he saw it.