Prologue

Arata crouched behind the counter, listening to the dull thuds and scraping claws against the boarded doors. The shelves he had dragged across the entrances shuddered with every impact, dust drifting down from the ceiling like falling ash.

He checked his Desert Eagles again, sliding each magazine out with precise, disciplined motions.

“…Dammit,” he muttered under his breath. “Only twelve rounds left. Seven in this one… five in the other.”

He locked the magazines back in place, the soft metallic clicks unnaturally loud in the darkness. Despite the tension pressing against his chest, a faint, almost amused smile tugged at his lips.

“Well… Grandfather,” he whispered, “looks like we might be seeing each other sooner than expected.”

His hand slipped into his jacket pocket until his fingers brushed against cold metal. He pulled out a small, battered recorder and flicked the switch. A tiny red light blinked to life—dim enough not to betray him through the darkened windows.

He raised it to his mouth.

A slow, steady breath.

Then he began.

[Recording Start]

Date: April 18

Time: 18:42

Location: Shimamoto District, Osaka — convenience store, exact street unknown

Arata Kurogane. Log 1.

Trapped inside a convenience store. Barricaded every exit. Surrounded by infected.

Ammo low — twelve rounds total. Seven in the right Desert Eagle. Five in the left.

No electricity. No lights.

Just darkness… and the sound of the infected scraping at the barricades.

The infection began three months ago — January 14th, around 14:45.

At first, nobody understood what was happening. People blamed gas leaks, toxins, strange pathogens. But I know the truth… or at least the part I was never meant to know.

Everything traces back to a restricted military facility.

The place where I was raised. Trained.

Shaped into something I was never supposed to question.

Codename: 13.

Youngest of five test subjects.

Purpose: to produce a new generation of elite soldiers using orphans as raw material.

From the age of seven, my entire existence was nothing but drills — martial arts, firearms, survival training, advanced academics. Precision. Obedience. Control.

We weren’t children.

We were assets.

That’s the truth.

They trained me to be a weapon… not someone who could survive the end of the world.

Everything that’s kept me alive these past months, I had to figure out on my own.

My grandfather, Masahiro Kurogane, was a soldier assigned to the base. One of the few who didn’t look at us like machines. He risked everything to get me out.

Gave me a name.

A home.

A life.

He died at the start of my second year of high school.

Sometimes… I wonder if he knew this was coming.

Back to the outbreak.

The real collapse began on February 2nd, at 00:03. An explosion tore through the northern wing of the facility. People thought it was sabotage. An accident.

But I knew what it meant.

Containment failed.

Whatever they created mutated. Spread.

Killed.

Reanimated.

By March, Japan fell city by city. Governments collapsed. Military lines crumbled. Everything drowned in chaos.

The infected — zombies, if you want the simple word — feed on human flesh. Their vision is mostly gone; rotting tissue tends to do that. They track light, shapes, sound… movement.

Some stagger.

Some hunt.

Right now, dozens are outside this store. Pressing against the glass. Scraping at the wood.

Waiting for a mistake.

Waiting for me.

I don’t know how long the barricades will hold.

Or how long I will.

But if someone finds this recording…

Then remember one thing:

Someone fought back.

End Log