Chapter 2

When I emerged from the horde of corpses, it was already daylight.

I looked down at my arm; the skin and flesh were intact, and even the teeth marks had disappeared completely.

I was torn apart and then closed up again, bitten apart and then repaired.

Each reset felt like being pulled back from the brink of hell. The pain still lingered in my nerves, but my body was no longer breaking down.

It felt like there was an iron hook churning inside my stomach; hunger and exhaustion from blood loss were killing me.

I stumbled through a narrow alley and came to Harris Supermarket, its entrance shattered with broken glass.

Without hesitation, I rushed in and dragged the wreckage of the automatic door over to block the entrance.

The occasional muffled thuds of zombies crashing into each other could be heard from outside, but they couldn't find an angle to get in.

I leaned against the shelf, panting until my chest ached.

The objective is clear: resupply, recover, and then catch up with them.

I glanced around the supermarket; all the lights were off, with only daylight filtering through the dilapidated roof.

The shelves had been ransacked, leaving mostly empty packaging and scraps of paper. Scattered on the floor were flattened cans, rotten fruit, and trampled bread.

I licked my chapped lips, walked to a row of collapsed shelves, and picked up a half-pack of cookies—covered in mold, like green cotton.

"Reset," I commanded in my mind.

Power surged from the palm, the mold spots quickly receded, and the wrinkles in the packaging bag were smoothed out as if ironed... Then, the biscuit itself began to change.

It didn't turn back into a fresh cookie.

In my hands, it "reverted" to a more primitive state—crushed into powder, oil separated, and finally turned into a sticky, flour-like substance mixed with unidentified raw material particles.

I was stunned.

Try again.

I picked up a bulging can of beans and reset it.

The tin can, as if peeled away by time, has degenerated into pieces of iron and fragments, and the beans inside have degenerated into a wet, sticky paste that makes you want to vomit just by smelling it.

I stared at the pile of "raw materials" in my palm, and my stomach cramped even more.

So they're right to say my abilities are a burden—I am indeed turning edible things into inedible garbage.

But I don't believe this is the limit.

I forced myself to calm down.

The essence of resetting is to return the target to its "previous" state. An item reverts to its raw material state because its "original" state was that of raw material. What about the human body? My wound can be reset to its uninjured state because my "previous" state was that of completeness.

In other words, the key is not to "get better," but to "return to a certain state."

Can I choose the status?

Before I could figure it out, a faint scraping sound entered my ear.

Like claws dragging on the floor tiles.

I immediately crouched down and touched a broken metal rod on the ground.

The scraping sound grew closer.

I peered through the gaps in the shelves—next to the deli section at the far end of the supermarket, a dark shadow moved close to the ground, its eyes gleaming with a murky yellow light in the darkness.

dog.

It wasn't a domesticated, docile breed; it was some kind of mixed-breed mastiff, almost as tall as my thigh at the shoulder, with patchy bald patches, a bulging back, and ribs protruding from the skin like knives. There was white foam at the corner of its mouth, and its gums were black.

It has mutated.

It smelled the blood on me, but instead of wagging its tail, it lowered it even further.

I gripped the metal bar tightly and quietly moved away, trying to create some distance.

But it moved first.

The dark shadow pounced, moving with a speed unlike that of a beast that hadn't eaten for days. It lunged straight for my throat.

I dodged to the side, but my shoulder was still grazed, and my clothes were torn. The next second, I swung the metal rod down and hit it squarely on the head.

"Bang!"

It staggered from the impact, letting out a sharp hiss, but instead of retreating, it became even more frenzied. It pounced on the shelf, using the momentum to leap again, its claws pressing directly against my chest, pinning me down.

The pungent, hot steam hit my face.

Its weight made me gasp for breath. The metal rod lay between us, and its teeth snapped against it, making a cracking sound, as if it wanted to bite through us.

My eyes darkened.

Since food won't work, let's try live animals.

I raised my hand and pressed down on its neck, my strength driving me forward, my thoughts simple and brutal—to reduce it to a non-threatening state.

"Reset".

In that instant, the dog's movements suddenly froze.

Its muscles were still tense, but the madness in its eyes seemed to have vanished. Its breathing changed from rapid panting to even, and the white foam at the corners of its mouth decreased. Most noticeably—it loosened its teeth, actually took two steps back, and lowered its head, as if it had suddenly realized that it didn't need to fight so desperately for food.

It no longer attacks me.

It just looked at me in confusion, twitched its nose twice, then lay down on the ground, licked its paws, and even burped.

My heart was still pounding, but I already knew what had happened.

I neither reset it to puppy mode nor changed it back to normal.

What I reset was its "starvation status".

When hunger disappears, the urge to attack also disappears.

I slowly stood up, the warmth of that force still lingering in my palms. It felt like a door in my mind had been kicked open.

If I can reset the "state", then I won't need food.

All I need is to reset myself back to a "full" state.

The idea is crazy, but it's direct enough.

I sat down at the cashier, leaning against the counter, closed my eyes, and pressed my hand to my stomach. It felt like a fire was burning there, acid churned, and I was so hungry that my vision was blurry.

I focused my attention on that feeling of "fullness"—a moment so ordinary in my memory that it was almost forgotten: Friday night before the apocalypse, Erin and I finished our steak and half a glass of beer at a small restaurant in Chicago's South Side, and our stomachs were heavy with satisfaction.

"Reset," I whispered.

The power surged into his abdomen.

The iron hook in my stomach felt like it had been snapped in two. The burning sensation quickly subsided, the spasms stopped, and the hunger receded like a receding tide.

A few seconds later, I opened my eyes.

I'm not hungry anymore.

I even felt a kind of lethargic feeling after overeating, which slowly spread from my stomach to my limbs, as if someone had given me a sedative.

I raised my hand and stared at my palm.

This is not the ability to "make food better".

This is the ability to pull everything—objects, bodies, even states—back to a certain point.

As long as I can understand what that node is.

As long as I can afford the wear and tear after use.

I stood up and tried to take a couple of steps. My legs were no longer weak, and the strength returned to my muscles.

The wound also disappeared in the blink of an eye, and even the smell of blood faded.

The mutated dog in the corner was still lying there. It looked up at me and was no longer fierce.

I didn't kill it.

I picked up the backpack from the ground and stuffed in the things that were still usable: an unopened bottle of water, a rusty entrenching tool, a few rolls of bandages, and a few map fragments.

The screams outside the supermarket had faded into the distance, indicating that the horde of corpses was wandering in a different direction.

I walked to the broken window and looked outside.

At the other end of the city, there was a cluster of hastily fortified buildings. That was where Grant and his men would go—mercenaries loved to occupy high ground, block doors, and gather supplies, waiting for others to beg them to open the doors.

Eileen was there too.

I remember the way she turned around and glanced back; my lips twitched, but there was no smile.

“You think I’m useless,” I said in a low voice, as if sentencing myself. “Then keep thinking that way.”

I fastened my backpack, gripped my entrenching tool, pushed open the side door, and stepped into the greyish sunlight.

Revenge is not an impulse, but a goal.

Now, my survival is no longer an issue.

But are they prepared to pay the price?