Apocalypse: King of Zombies Chapter 1 I choose... zombies!

"Huff... huff... where am I?"

Ethan Cole abruptly woke up in his bed, jolting to consciousness.

"Wait, didn't I just have my head blown off!?"

He glanced around, attempting to understand his environment.

Beside him lay a woman asleep, her bosom ample and curved, likely a D-cup...

On the floor lay a flight attendant's outfit, dark stockings, and a bra tossed about...

The bedroom appeared chaotic.

"Hold on... isn't this the flight attendant I left the plane with a month back!?"

In a panic, Ethan snatched his phone from the bedside table. The display read 12:01 AM.

And the date: November 1st!!!

Ethan gaped at the phone in disbelief.

He staggered into the bathroom, peering at his image in the mirror.

Bright eyes, a fresh face, vibrant skin, as though no ordeal had occurred.

Without a second thought, he removed the condom still attached to him, and a daring idea started swirling in his thoughts.

He gazed vacantly at the mirror, taking in the youthful, undeniably living visage reflecting back.

"Did I... return to life!?"

"Back to 15 days prior to the zombie apocalypse game launching!?"

Suddenly, an icy, robotic voice resounded within his head.

[Ding! Congratulations, fortunate soul. You've received a single opportunity for rebirth, complete with an SSS-level spatial storage ring.]

Right then, a ring had materialized on Ethan's finger, the embedded ruby shining with a brilliant crimson light that intensified steadily.

His pulse quickened. The glaring radiance forced his eyes shut instinctively, and shortly after, an expansive, star-filled realm unfolded in his mind, resembling a boundless dimension capable of containing all things.

"Did I just acquire a cheat power? And a storage ring!?"

Excitement bubbled up uncontrollably inside him. This represented the supreme survival tool in the end times!

[Ding! Please select: Align with the human faction or the zombie faction.]

"Faction selection once more?"

"Yet it's merely 15 days until the apocalypse commences, so I can ready myself in advance?" Ethan whispered to himself, a cunning smile creeping across his face.

He pondered briefly, visions racing through his thoughts: siding with humans, he might leverage his past-life insights to hoard resources, construct a fortified base, and endure the catastrophe. Perhaps he could even pass those isolated days with various companions, rising as a ruler in the ruined world.

Didn't this mark the ideal launch for a post-apocalyptic protagonist?

[Therefore, kindly select your faction.]

"Fine, this round... I pick—zombie!"

...

"What a fool! Why select zombies?!" High above in the celestial realm, God observed the scene, seething with anger.

He seized the coffee cup nearby—his cherished one, inscribed with "World's Best God".

The cup exploded into fragments, and a flicker of remorse appeared in God's gaze as he grumbled softly, "I knew I ought to have bestowed this rebirth opportunity on another!"

...

Three days afterward.

Within the slaughterhouse yard, laborers hustled to transport newly butchered meat.

Curiously, alongside the cuts of meat, containers of vivid red blood were being meticulously sealed in glass jars.

Under the morning sun, the jars sparkled with a deep scarlet tint, evocative of premium vintage.

"Big Frank, what's the deal with the boss? The farm was running smoothly, so why the abrupt command to kill over a hundred thousand livestock?" one laborer inquired, curiosity getting the better of him.

Another added, "Yeah, and why so much blood required?"

Foreman Frank scowled. He shared the confusion, yet he refused to appear uninformed to his team.

"Avoid probing too deeply into the boss's decisions. Simply perform your duties."

"Oh, understood."

The laborers resumed their efforts.

They donned masks, white gloves, and covered their heads completely.

Frank warned them once more, "Maintain utmost cleanliness. Ensure nothing contaminates the meat. Ethan insists on impeccable hygiene. Even one strand of hair in the batch means a pay cut."

"Understood, Big Frank. No concerns here."

The laborers assented, though in hushed tones, they murmured to each other.

"Have you noticed? The boss has seemed off recently."

"Off in what way? He appears ordinary to me."

"He's obsessed with cleanliness. Detests any filth. Yesterday, he caught me smoking on duty, and some ash dropped on the board—the glare he gave me... it felt murderous."

"Ah, that makes sense! I wondered why he..."

"Shh! Quiet down."

One laborer coughed to silence the group. Far off, a tall, lean youth approached them. He wore a pristine white shirt, utterly immaculate and precise, free from any trace of grime.

His face boasted flawless, captivating features, so handsome it demanded attention.

However, his slender eyes conveyed a chilling detachment that clashed with his appealing exterior.

Foreman Frank hurried ahead to welcome him.

"Boss, we've processed the 9,600 cows, 4,000 turkeys, 20,000 pigs, over 50,000 chickens, and 7,000 sheep."

Ethan acknowledged with a nod, his eyes scanning the orderly packages of meat and blood vessels, evidently pleased.

"Proceed with paying the wages."

"Thank you, boss. It's been enjoyable collaborating with you."

Frank's expression brightened into a grin. He extended his hand for a shake out of habit, but Ethan remained still, fixing a frosty stare on the offered palm without budging.

Sensing his error, Frank pulled back his hand sheepishly, mustering a grin. All knew of Ethan's intense aversion to germs and aversion to touch. It was widely acknowledged at the farm.

"Well, we'll head out now, boss. Looking forward to future partnerships."

Frank laughed awkwardly, guiding the laborers from the yard. They swiftly climbed into a mini-bus and departed the area.

Ethan observed the workers' vehicle recede, then approached the stacks of meat and blood jars. With a mere flick of his wrist, it all vanished instantly.

Naturally, the provisions hadn't evaporated—they were now housed within Ethan's spatial storage ring.

The ring's interior offered endless capacity, with time suspended entirely. Items stored there stayed preserved forever.

Ethan's thoughts wandered to the zombie apocalypse game of his prior existence. Upon activation, 1% of Earth's inhabitants randomly turned into zombies. Participants could opt for zombie or human sides. Should zombie numbers fall short, the system compelled mutations on selected individuals.

Yet death remained absolute.

The horrifying sights of the end times lingered vividly. Undead filled the avenues, grotesque beasts rampaged, and humans endured dire scarcities.

Folks clashed brutally for mere sips of pure water or stale crumbs. Alliances shattered, kin turned on kin, as survival stripped away pretenses.

For a typical reborn individual facing the impending doom, the immediate urge would involve amassing essentials for endurance. Water, sustenance, remedies—these topped the list for human-aligned survivors.

Yet Ethan pursued an alternate route.

He opted to gather raw flesh and vital blood.

Because… he intended to emerge as the inaugural zombie.

For the undead, blood and meat transcended mere sustenance—they fueled advancement.

Through devouring blood and tissue, zombies assimilated vital force, progressing relentlessly toward Zombie King status.

A zombie blessed with plentiful blood and flesh could advance at astonishing rates.

In essence, undead progression hinged on the volume of blood and meat ingested.

As a zombie, Ethan's development potential linked straight to his consumption of blood and meat.

At that instant, his phone buzzed. It was Nina Alvarez, a staffer at his supermarket.

"Boss, the 100,000 frozen steaks, 50,000 frozen chicken wings, and 30,000 frozen meatballs from your order have been delivered."

"Excellent. Instruct all key nationwide suppliers to maintain shipments. If overseas providers can ship inside ten days, order from them as well," Ethan directed steadily.

"Hold on, additional purchases?"

Nina's tone brimmed with astonishment. "But... boss, our funds are depleted. We lack even the down payments."

"I'll manage the finances. Simply continue the orders."

"Um, alright then."

Nina consented, despite her lingering skepticism.

No funds available, yet ramping up acquisitions? What purpose did this massive hoarding serve? Was the end truly nigh?

...

Ethan possessed a farm, expansive supermarket, vast estate, and multiple residences—legacies from his deceased parents.

His folks had died during his early childhood.

He matured in an orphanage, claiming his inheritance upon adulthood.

Through diligent efforts over time, he grew his enterprises, though cash reserves stayed modest.

Presently, his prime assets resided securely in the spatial storage ring.

"Just twelve days remain before the apocalypse erupts. I must devise ways to acquire more funds and sustain the blood and meat accumulation."

While Ethan mulled his strategy, he spotted two vehicles nearing on the path beyond the farm: a Maserati Quattroporte and a Honda Civic.

A band of roughnecks emerged from the Honda Civic, inked with tattoos and flashing garish hair colors.

Most would dread encountering such a crew, but Ethan's mouth twisted into a faint smirk.

"Short on cash, and aid arrives. Famished, and provisions follow..."

As the Maserati Quattroporte halted, a middle-aged figure alighted. Clad in a dark suit, bald-headed, sporting a heavy gold necklace and clutching a leather case, his arrogant stride declared dominance.

This was Warren, a prominent Los Angeles developer. He'd coveted Ethan's farm for ages, certain that redeveloping the property would yield vast wealth.

Regardless of Warren's proposals, Ethan consistently rejected any sale.

Failing to convince, Warren resorted to coercion. He'd assembled these delinquents to bully Ethan into compliance.

"Ethan, it's been ages!" Warren hailed with a triumphant leer.