2024-11-04 23:30:34Edited By: Bruce Williams
Chapter 7 Maverick stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the hologram before him, processing the information displayed with a mixture of disbelief and fascination. It was as though he could grasp the meaning of the words before him and yet, a veil of incomprehension lingered over it all. "Why does this remind me of the Ball of Greed?" he murmured, almost to himself. Memories flooded back, dark and vivid, of the ruthless path he’d walked to pursue that forbidden power. Driven by a singular ambition, he’d sacrificed countless lives to create it. The Ball of Greed—an artifact so potent that even the self-proclaimed righteous heroes had hidden behind moral facades, claiming they sought justice, when, in reality, they coveted its strength. According to the ancient, forbidden text where he’d uncovered its secrets, the Ball of Greed possessed only two abilities, but each was unparalleled in their world. The first was the power to absorb energy—whether life force or death force—from any sentient being slain by its wielder. This harvested energy could then be transformed to enhance any attribute the user desired: strength, speed, stamina, agility, and more. With this, Maverick could have perpetually grown stronger, surpassing any natural limit and defying the boundaries of their world’s power. Yet there was a catch, an intrinsic limitation embedded within this ability. Only the energy of those equal to or stronger than the wielder could be absorbed fully. The weak, by contrast, would yield little to no power. It was a built-in trial, forcing the wielder to confront increasingly formidable opponents and test the limits of their ambition. The second ability, however, was an enigma of boundless potential and one that inspired both awe and terror. "Take or Give…" Maverick whispered, recalling its ominous title. This ability was as simple as it was devastating. Take granted the power to strip others of their abilities, absorbing them for oneself. Give allowed the user to bestow powers upon others. Classified as an SSS-ranked ability in his world, it was universally feared, a capacity for absolute dominance. Some empires went so far as to execute anyone born with such a talent, viewing them as latent threats, capable of sowing insurrection and rallying armies. A person with such power could build an unstoppable force, an army of enhanced loyalists capable of toppling kingdoms and empires alike. It was precisely this potential that had made Maverick a target of the so-called heroes. They had pursued him, labeled him as a villainous threat to their world, and struck him down before he could fully assimilate the Ball of Greed’s powers. Yet he knew, had he succeeded, he could have risen above them all—commanded the world on his own terms, a master over destiny itself. "I currently have 0.6% energy in me. So, by basic calculation, that means I need to kill two more of these so-called zombies, huh?" Maverick muttered, his tone indifferent as he gazed down over the city. The devastation below—overturned cars, blazing remnants of buildings, crumbled roads, and pieces of flesh scattered across the scene—didn't provoke the slightest reaction from him. His cold eyes narrowed as they surveyed the survivors wandering through the chaos: some weeping inconsolably over the bodies of loved ones, others kneeling and desperately praying, while a few sat in stunned silence, their eyes vacant and hollow. The scene was bleak, steeped in grief, a harsh reminder of humanity's fragility. Sighing softly, Maverick made quick mental calculations, his gaze hardening as he solidified his next goal. Drawing from the memories implanted in his mind, he navigated his way to a lab room on one of the upper floors. Inside, the remnants of shattered glassware, spilled chemicals, and the chaos of hurried abandon littered the room, yet he ignored it, scanning around for anything useful. His gaze settled on three sets of knives left untouched on a counter. Gathering them, he strapped the knives around his waist—knowing he was currently weak, and in a world where any sort of mutant could lurk, weapons were essential. Equipped and ready, Maverick began his descent, reaching the 51st floor and taking in his surroundings. According to the memories he'd inherited, this floor held twenty rooms, each serving as a luxurious office suite complete with a private room and en-suite bathroom, more akin to upscale hotel suites than typical office spaces. Such accommodations were perks reserved for high-ranking personnel, offering them a place to retreat and recharge. Expressionless, Maverick drew a security card and swiped it across the panel on one of the doors. As the building’s head janitor, he alone held universal access, aside from the company's CEO and a handful of other executives. The privilege granted him entry to each room, ensuring he could fulfill his duties uninterrupted. While the nuclear blasts had severed the building’s main power supply, the backup generators were humming, keeping essential systems functional. With a soft click, the door slid open, revealing a spacious, pristine suite. White walls stretched across a wide, elegant room, punctuated by luxurious furniture and a large bed draped in fine linens. Though a bit untidy from its abrupt assault, the room exuded a muted calm. Yet Maverick’s demeanor remained guarded, his instincts heightened. He stepped forward, eyes cold and calculating, scanning every corner for potential threats. Despite the seeming comfort, Maverick remained tense, knowing that even in the stillness, death could be lurking. Looking around, he spotted a trail of men’s clothing scattered across the floor, leading ominously toward the bathroom. With a steady calm, Maverick followed it and pressed his ear to the door. The bathroom’s soundproofing made it difficult to hear, but muffled growls and heavy thuds came through, low and constant. A faint, guttural roar confirmed it—definitely a zombie inside. Positioned just behind the door, Maverick took a breath, his body tense, and swiftly pushed it open. In that instant, a naked zombie stumbled out, its pallid, decayed flesh glistening in the dim light as it hit the floor with a dull thud. Without hesitation, Maverick gripped his knife, ready to drive it straight through the creature’s skull. But a flash from the corner of his eye stopped him. Instinctively twisting his waist, he leaned back just in time as a second zombie lunged wildly from the bathroom, missing him by a hair’s breadth and crashing past him. Both zombies were male, their bodies twisted and contorted, eyes glassy and fixed on him. Maverick’s expression turned cold, a faint smirk playing at his lips as he observed the pair. “Well now… I didn’t expect the occupant here to be someone who doesn't swing straight,” he muttered under his breath, his tone dry and detached. Tightening his grip, he drew his second knife, eyes darkening as he prepared to finish them off.
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