Chương 7: Don’t drink my potential

Ethan remained tucked into the shallow stone outcropping, back pressed against rock, half-buried in sand like the desert was trying to swallow him piece by piece. The undead were still out there. He could hear them if he focused, the distant shuffling, the occasional low moan carried on the breeze. Not close enough to be an immediate threat, but not far enough for comfort either. The sounds were irregular, drifting in and out with the wind, just enough to keep his nerves from settling completely.

Morning had crept up on him while he rested. The sun hovered low on the horizon, pale light spilling across the dunes and stretching shadows long and thin. The worst of the cold night air was already fading, replaced by the promise of heat that would soon become oppressive again. He could feel it in the sand beneath him, warming slowly. Despite having to retreat, the night hadn't been a complete loss. Ethan pulled up his status, more out of habit than necessity, and let his eyes linger on the numbers.

He'd gained five class levels, putting him at level seven now. Three more and he would be given the choice of selecting a new skill. [Steadfast] had also leveled twice. That part still caught him off guard. It wasn't a skill he'd ever had before, which was something he regretted. He'd always had to rely on positioning, raw endurance, and experience. Now, [Steadfast] had carried him when his body should have failed outright.

It had kept his footing firm when exhaustion threatened to put him on his back and let him absorb impacts that would've ended the fight early. He let out a slow breath. All things considered, it had worked out well. The family had gotten away. He'd bought them time and distance. He'd gained levels. And just as importantly, he'd learned exactly where his body stood right now. There was no better way to strip away false confidence than nearly dying. Stats were just numbers. Skills were descriptions.

But being surrounded by the dead, muscles screaming and lungs burning, showed you the truth fast. And with each battle, he would grow. He could already feel the difference from the added stats. Subtle, but real. A little more strength in his limbs. A little more endurance beneath the fatigue. Now it was time to get back out there. Rest was over. The undead weren't going to kill themselves. He pushed himself upright, sand sliding from his clothes.

It clung stubbornly to sweat-damp fabric, working its way into every nook and cranny. He didn't bother brushing all of it off. Comfort was something you stopped expecting pretty quickly in places like this. Still, he shook himself, trying to get most of the sand off, and scanned the horizon. A lone undead staggered across the dunes in the direction he needed to go if he wanted to catch up to the family. Its silhouette stood out clearly against the rising light.

"Figures," he muttered under his breath. He slid his sword free, the blade already looking dull but serviceable, and flexed his grip once as the familiar weight settled into his hands. [Advanced Sword Mastery] still hadn't leveled. That bothered him more than it probably should have. He'd fought through exhaustion. Held a line against a mob. Killed dozens of undead. And still, nothing. Ethan frowned, then exhaled. He would have to fix that.

After all, he was far ahead of [Advanced Sword Mastery]; he just had to get the system to realize it.

"That'll change," he murmured as he started moving toward the lone undead. It never saw him coming. Neither did the other dozen or so, as he made his way back to where he believed he dropped his pack. After a short struggle, finding the damn thing, and killing straggling, or already injured undead. Ethan carried on. The first half of the day passed in blood and sand as Ethan moved steadily forward, culling stragglers and keeping a fast pace.

The undead were scattered now, no longer a single mass but individuals and small clusters wandering the dunes in search of movement. It made things easier. He chose his engagements carefully, drawing them away one at a time, cutting them down quickly, and moving on before noise could attract more. Still, something gnawed at the back of his mind. They were drifting in the same direction he was. Toward the rocks. Toward the settlement. Toward Mark and the others.

It meant the mob hadn't simply lost interest in him, it had redirected. Hunger had momentum, and once it latched onto a path, it didn't let go easily. Ethan kept moving, picking up the pace. By the time the sun climbed high overhead, he'd killed more than fifty undead and gained another level. Still nothing from his sword skill. The frustration sat heavy in his chest, mixing with sweat and fatigue. When he crested a small dune, he slowed. Then stopped. The sand ahead was disturbed.

Deep rivets scored into it, with dark patches that hinted at dried blood. Ethan crouched and pressed his fingers into the ground, bringing them back stained. It was definitely blood. Dried, but not old. His stomach sank as he straightened slowly, eyes sweeping the area. Ethan tightened his grip on his sword and started forward, pulse quickening despite himself. Whatever had happened, he was already too late to stop it. All he could do now was find out who had been here and whether anyone had walked away.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. It didn't take long for Ethan to find signs of trouble. The desert told its stories plainly if you knew how to read them. In this instance, it was extremely easy. A body lay half-buried near a dune, its limbs twisted at the wrong angle, head split cleanly by a blade. Ethan slowed, scanning the area. There were more—three, then five—scattered along a loose path leading toward the distant rocks. Each bore familiar wounds.

That alone eased some of the tension coiling in his chest. He didn't see Mark. Didn't see Sarah or Tom. If they'd fallen here, there would have been signs, more blood, torn clothing, something. So he followed the trail. His walk turned into a jog. Then a run. The signs grew more frequent. More bodies. More blood. The fighting had been desperate but controlled. Mark had held his ground, at least for a while. Ethan pushed harder, lungs burning as he crested a low dune. And then he saw him.

Mark was kneeling in the sand, shoulders slumped, surrounded by a ring of dead. At least a dozen undead lay sprawled around him, limbs hacked apart, heads shattered. His sword was still clutched in one hand, its tip buried in the sand like a crutch. Blood soaked his shirt. Ethan felt his stomach drop. He was moving before he realized it, sliding down the dune and crossing the distance in seconds.

"Mark," he said sharply, dropping to one knee in front of him.

"What happened? Where are you hurt?" Mark looked up. His face was ashen. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. His eyes were glassy, unfocused but still conscious. When he lifted his chin slightly, Ethan saw it. A cut ran across his throat. Jagged but shallow. Blood welled slowly from beneath his fingers where he'd been trying—and failing—to keep pressure on it. Fuck. Ethan's hands moved instantly. He yanked a clean shirt from his pack, folded it thick, and pressed it against the wound.

"Don't speak," he said firmly.

"Just hold this. Don't let go." Mark tried anyway. His mouth opened, but only a wet, rasping sound came out. He shut it again, panic flickering in his eyes as he tightened his grip on the cloth. Ethan steadied him, then pulled back just enough to focus. The cut had missed the jugular. Barely. If it hadn't, Mark would already be dead. Ethan forced the thought aside and called up the system. He skipped past his status without even looking and opened the shop. Numbers flashed in his vision.

PO: 84 He swore under his breath. He'd gained a decent amount in the last day, but it still wasn't much. Not nearly enough. He filtered the shop for healing items. The first result made his jaw clench. Phoenix Tear — 50, 000 PO A single tear from a mythical phoenix. Heals any life-threatening injury, regenerates organs, blood, and bone. Cannot revive the dead. Ethan didn't even slow his scrolling. He hadn't been able to afford that item when he was level two hundred. It might as well have been a joke.

Vital Mending Salve — 2, 500 PO A medicinal paste derived from Clouded Lily. Heals major wounds over time. He lingered for half a second, but even that wasn't an option. His gaze dropped to the bottom of the list. Recovery Tonic — 75 PO A mixed herbal solution that accelerates natural healing and promotes blood clotting. Ethan felt a sick twist in his gut. That was it. It wouldn't close the wound. Wouldn't regenerate tissue. It would just slow the bleeding, give Mark a chance. Maybe.

But without it— Ethan hesitated. He looked at Mark, who was still holding the wound, slowly but surely bleeding out. For a split second, he didn't want to do it. Didn't want to spend his Potential on one person when he could save it for a meaningful skill that might save hundreds. That thought only lasted a moment. The PO drained away, leaving him with almost nothing. A small glass vial appeared in his hand, cool and fragile, filled with pale blue liquid that caught the sunlight. Ethan looked at Mark.

"Open your mouth." Mark hesitated for only a heartbeat before obeying. His hands shook as he kept pressure on the cloth, blood dripping from his fingers. Ethan tipped the vial carefully, pouring the tonic down his throat. He watched Mark swallow, watched his neck tense as the liquid went down, watched as his Potential drained away. Ethan pressed the cloth back into place and leaned in close.

"Stay with me," he said quietly.

"You hear me? You're not done yet." Mark's breathing hitched, then slowed just a fraction. Blood still seeped into the fabric, but not as fast. Ethan stayed there, hands steady, eyes locked on the wound. You better stay alive, he thought grimly. Don't make that be a waste. Mark's grip tightened weakly around the blood-soaked cloth. Ethan noticed it immediately, the way his fingers trembled, the way his breathing grew shallow despite the tonic beginning to do its work.

Mark's eyes flicked past Ethan, toward the dunes behind him. He swallowed hard, pain flashing across his face as he forced the motion.

"Sarah…" he rasped.

"Got… past me," he forced out, each word a struggle.

"Small group. Ran… that way." His shaking hand lifted, pointing weakly toward the rocks in the distance before dropping back to the sand.

"Go." Ethan froze. For a split second, instinct screamed at him to stay. To dig in. To finish what he'd started. Mark was hurt—badly—and leaving him felt wrong on a level that went deeper than logic. But logic didn't care about feelings. Mark was alive. Injured, yes, but stable for the moment. The tonic was working, however slowly. He was surrounded by bodies, the sand around him churned and blood-soaked. No undead would be drawn here again anytime soon. But something else could be. Both options were shit.

Mark met his eyes, and despite the pain, there was steel there. Determination. A father's resolve.

"I'll… slow you down," he said hoarsely.

"Please." Ethan clenched his jaw. He breathed in, then exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to think past the knot in his chest. He adjusted the cloth one last time, making sure it was tight and secure.

"Don't move," he ordered.

"Stay low. If anything comes close, don't fight—hide. I'll be fast." Mark nodded once. Barely. Ethan rose, already pulling his sword free.

"I'll bring them back," he said, voice firm.

"I swear it." Then he turned and ran. The desert blurred beneath his feet as he pushed his body harder than he had since the undead mob. His lungs burned, but he ignored it, eyes locked toward the distance. His thoughts churned. Had he made the wrong choice by separating from them the night before? Should he have stayed so he could have protected them? Was it selfishness—the thought of gaining levels, of getting some power back—that had driven him to do it? He didn't know. But he would make up for it.

He found them moments later, snapping out of his self-deprecation. Sarah was running hard, breath ragged, one arm locked tightly around Tom as she dragged him through the sand. The boy was crying now, no longer silent, panic breaking through exhaustion. Behind them, five undead gave chase, their uneven strides eating up ground with frightening speed. Ethan didn't slow. He surged up behind Sarah and Tom in a blur of motion. The undead had almost reached them, but he got there first. Steel flashed.

His blade took the first creature through the neck in a clean, brutal cut, momentum carrying the body forward before it collapsed into the sand. The others turned at the sound. Ethan kept running until he was among them. One twisted and rushed him. He stepped into its path and drove the sword up under its jaw, ripping it free as he twisted aside. Anger drove Ethan, and he fell upon them ready to let loose. He advanced relentlessly, forcing them back, cutting low and fast.

One undead tried to flank him and caught a boot to the chest that sent it tumbling down the dune, where Ethan finished it with a downward strike. He cut at them with pure aggression, each strike leaving blood sprayed and limbs missing, until there was nothing left to kill. Silence fell again. Ethan stood looking at the corpses. He almost hadn't made it. He turned, trying to push the thought from his mind. Sarah stood frozen, clutching Tom to her chest, eyes wide with shock and relief tangled together with fear.

Tom buried his face into her shoulder, sobbing.

"It's okay," Ethan said, lowering his sword. His voice was steady, even if his pulse wasn't.

"They're dead."