In the dead of night, a faint rumbling echoed through the air.

A train, black as the night itself, rolled across the iron bridge spanning the river. On top of the train, Victor Shaw stood firm, blade in hand, while five men surrounded him in a tight circle, eyes gleaming with murderous intent.

Victor flicked the blood off his knife with a sharp motion, his voice cold and biting. “So, you’ve really made up your minds to kill me.”

One of the men let out a low, mocking laugh. “Hand over the X serum, and maybe we’ll only break your arms and legs.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. In this brutal world, losing your limbs was as good as dying.

Taking a deep breath, Victor’s voice carried a sharp edge. “If it weren’t for me, you’d all be dead by now. And now, you betray me—for some damned serum?”

Another man barked back, voice hard as steel. “Blame the world, blame fate! If your death buys us even a little more time—”

Suddenly, all five lunged at him without warning, roaring in unison.

“Then you die here!”

---

Victor jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed. His face was pale, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving with rapid breaths. His soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin.Victor Shaw scanned the room, his gaze slowly moving across the white walls, their surface marred by countless stains and scratches from years of wear and neglect.

The furnishings were sparse—a single bed pushed against one corner, an old desk cluttered with marks and scratches, and a chair that had clearly been repaired more times than he could count, barely holding together under the weight of nails hammered into its frail wooden frame. This place wasn’t unfamiliar; it was the home that had been etched into his memories, the space where he had spent so many years of his life.

"Was it all just a dream?"

Victor stood and walked over to the window. Tugging the curtains aside, he stared out at the bustling street below. It carried the hum of everyday life—people walking, laughing, carts rolling by. The world outside seemed untouched, peaceful even, its harmony almost mocking.

But his chest tightened as doubt crept in. "No. No, something's wrong," he murmured, his voice trembling with unease. His lips barely moved, but the words echoed in his head like thunder. "This world isn't right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Everything should’ve been destroyed. Unless…"

Victor’s mind recoiled at the thought, images from his memories flooding back—the collapse of civilization, the streets crawling with lifeless corpses turned monsters, feral beasts tearing through the remnants of humanity. The apocalyptic chaos was vivid, the horror etched deep in his soul. Even the ancient creatures from forgotten eras had sprung to life, ravaging all in their path.

Standing there, he felt the weight of fragmented thoughts pressing against his consciousness. Something was wrong—terribly wrong—and he couldn’t shake the unease gnawing at his gut. Victor Shaw's last memory was all too vivid—out in the desert, those traitorous bastards who once called themselves his comrades. They had turned on him, all for the X serum. Their ambush was sudden, their pursuit relentless. Three days and nights he fled, his strength drained to nothing before death finally claimed him.

His eyes instinctively flicked to the desk, landing on the calendar sitting atop it.

Hiss.

Victor sucked in a sharp breath. The date was clear.

December 25th, 2125.

To anyone else, it was just another day. But Victor knew better. It meant something.

Six days left.

Six days until the start of the apocalypse, January 1st, 2126.

Victor's voice came out shaky, disbelieving. “I’m back? It’s three years earlier? Before it all began?”

But the thought struck deep in his mind—a flash of something buried in memory.

An image burned vividly. The wasteland stretched before him, dead grass swaying under a wind’s whisper. Lifeless, gray-skinned zombies shuffled on cracked highways. Off the roadside loomed a lone gas station. By the convenience store stood an aging gacha machine, rusted but functional.

Victor approached the machine then, fed a coin into the slot. When the capsule rolled into his hand, it was empty save for a single note.

Written on it were the words: "Try again."Victor Shaw raised an eyebrow, his fist tightening as his voice hardened, “Is this the reason I was brought back? Doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, I’ve been given another chance, and I swear—no matter what happens, even if the world burns again—I’ll survive.”

No one’s taking my life a second time.

He stepped over to the calendar and circled December 31st with a firm stroke. Midnight, as the clock strikes January 1st, that’s when the end will begin.

Six days. Six days to prepare for what’s coming.

What’s the first thing you think of when it comes to the apocalypse? Food and water, of course. Without those, you’re no better than dead weight. But Victor knew better. Stockpile all you want; it’ll run out eventually. And besides, he didn’t need it—not when the Death Train held the key to everything. If you’re strong enough, the train offers all you need: water, food, even the right to live.

Strength was what mattered now. And for strength, he needed weapons.

Guns. It was the first thought. Nothing beats the raw power and simplicity of firearms in a world gone to chaos. But weapons like those don’t just fall into your lap, especially with only six days to maneuver. Time’s short. Very short.Victor Shaw had no choice but to take a roundabout approach. He connected his computer to the internet and first ordered a nail gun. After some modifications, it could pack a decent punch.

Next came a recurve bow. Classified as sports equipment, it was available for purchase. The only hurdle was the arrows—Victor would have to sharpen and refine them himself to ensure they’d pierce flesh, not just hit practice targets.

He also added a stab-proof vest, riot shield, tactical gloves, and a portable waist pouch to his list of essentials. These were a must. Plus, he planned to visit a knife shop. Though knives were regulated and unavailable online, he could still buy them in those stores—as decorative pieces, without a proper edge. No problem. Victor figured he could sharpen them himself.

Gathering all these tools cost him three days. He spent the remaining three training his body tirelessly.

Victor soon realized that while his three years of survival expertise and world-hardening knowledge remained intact, his physical condition had reverted to what it was three years ago—the enhancements from the body-strengthening serum he’d once used were now ineffective.

On the Death Train, survivors were ranked across seven tiers: Bronze, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Star Diamond, Sovereign, and Extraordinary. Each tier carried five stars.In his previous life, Victor Shaw had reached the peak of the Five-Star Sovereign King rank, just one step away from transcending.

But in the end, he was betrayed by the very comrades he had trusted, losing everything.

Now, reborn, Victor was back at the starting line. Everything he had gained—skills, items—was wiped out. Even his enhanced body had reverted to its original state. He wasn’t just far from Sovereign King rank; he wasn’t even at Bronze level anymore.

As of now, Victor was nothing but an ordinary man, fresh out of college. Three days of training wouldn’t bring much improvement, but with the apocalypse looming, every second counted for him.

If he could make it onto the Death Train like in his previous life, completing missions there would allow him to earn resources and strengthen himself again.

“Of course!” Victor gritted his teeth, driving himself into another set of push-ups in the dim room. “But first, I have to get on that train!”

It was the last hope after the end.

Or maybe...

A dead end.