Chapter 38: The Body That Stood Up (With Illustration)

Wang Xiaoqiang thought for a moment. Sitting idly in the car was getting boring, so he stepped out and started practicing his sword techniques. After nearly an hour, sweat had begun to bead on his forehead. Suddenly, something utterly absurd startled him so badly he almost screamed.

There, lying on the ground, was a corpse—then it twitched.

And then it stood up.

Like a zombie rising from the grave.

Wang Xiaoqiang’s head thumped like a drum. “Oh no.”

The sight of that corpse standing—it hit him harder than a neutron bomb detonating right beside him. His eyes bulged wide. The body looked as if it had been baked dry: muscles shriveled and tight against bone, skin stretched taut like parchment, devoid of any luster. From a distance, it resembled nothing so much as a mummy stripped bare of its burial cloth.

After all this training, both physically and mentally, Wang Xiaoqiang had come a long way. He steadied himself, drew his pistol, took two steps forward—about twenty meters from the thing—and fired four shots in rapid succession: *BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG.*

Three hits. One missed.

He cursed under his breath. “Damn it! What kind of aim is this?” He was furious—his shooting was worse than garbage.

But then came the real terror.

The corpse didn’t flinch. Bullets passed through its body, leaving ragged holes—but it showed no reaction at all.

Wang Xiaoqiang blinked, then remembered something from movies: *You have to shoot it in the head.*

Gritting his teeth, he advanced another ten meters. Close enough now.

*Bang.*

The head exploded into pulp. The body collapsed—but still didn’t move.

Just as he took a step forward to inspect it, he recoiled violently, hair standing on end. Four or five more corpses had suddenly risen, frozen in place like statues.

He stumbled back to the car, cold sweat pouring down his temples. He forced himself to stay calm, studied the motionless figures. They were standing—but not moving. Not even blinking.

He wiped his sweaty palms hard on his thigh, clenched his jaw, holstered the gun with a sharp *clack*, then yanked both blades free with a *shing-shing*. Teeth grinding, he lunged forward one step.

*Swish.*

A sweeping slash—head severed, rolling across the dirt.

Short blade snapped back in a backward cut—no pause, no hesitation. He kept going: upward arc, spin, diagonal chop. Heads flew. More bodies fell. By the time he stopped, the others were all decapitated.

This was the first time he’d used dual blades in real combat.

As the old saying goes: *When you carry a weapon, the killer instinct stirs.* If Wang Xiaoqiang hadn’t had those knives, he would’ve turned and run. A sword is the courage of a hundred weapons. That truth rang loud and clear.

Before he could even analyze his own technique, his eyes narrowed sharply—like needles. He backed up fast, retreating all the way to the car. He threw open the door, slammed his foot on the gas.

The engine roared to life, deafening. Tires screeched, smoke billowing from the asphalt. The smell of burning rubber filled the air. The car swung around in a brutal U-turn—flying down the street at breakneck speed.

Because more and more corpses were rising. Over twenty now. And still coming.

Cold sweat poured down his entire body. His lips trembled slightly.

Only after clearing the city limits did he finally start to calm down. He didn’t care how ungraceful he’d looked—he’d just barely escaped death. Who cared about dignity when your life was on the line? Besides, no one had seen.

He pulled over to the roadside, pulled out a cigarette. Never smoked before. But now he lit it, took two deep, hard pulls. His fingers still shook.

Inside, a war raged. Instinct screamed: *Run. Run far away.* But he couldn’t leave without answers. Running blind was worse than walking into danger. He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, repeating silently in his mind:

*If you’re not ruthless, you won’t survive.*

Then, without hesitation, he stomped the gas again. Tires screamed. The car spun around once more, heading back toward the scene.

At the observation point, he slapped his face hard to clear his thoughts, opened the door, and drew both swords with a *shing-shing*.

*Remember the rhythm. Remember the rhythm.*

He dropped into the Eight-Step Cicada Stride, darting forward like a storm. Blades flashed instantly, light cutting through the air. That long-lost feeling surged through him—like a machine built to destroy. Wherever he passed, heads, arms, legs, torsos shattered under his swings. In less than a minute, the dozens of risen corpses were reduced to scattered parts.

Further out, more bodies rose. He repeated the process. Gradually, the flying limbs decreased. The number of heads increased.

By the time he’d cleared every corpse within 200 meters, he stood still, blades sheathed.

Suddenly, fear vanished.

His spirit had ascended—or maybe he’d simply gotten used to killing.

He caught his breath, moved to a new spot. No more corpses stirred.

After long thought, he drove back to Happy Town.

He went straight to the mayor’s office. Through the door, he heard voices—guests inside. No polite knock. He tapped twice, waited zero seconds, then walked in.

Three men in communication uniforms were talking animatedly with Mayor Niu. The young girl from before was serving tea.

When Wang Xiaoqiang burst in, Mayor Niu didn’t look annoyed. Instead, he smiled warmly.

“Come on in, young man. Sit here. These are engineers sent from above. We’ll need their help going forward.”

Wang Xiaoqiang nodded at the engineers, then said, “I have urgent news. I need to report it immediately.”

Mayor Niu frowned.

Without waiting, Wang Xiaoqiang stepped forward, fiddled with the dashcam card, plugged it into his phone, and said, “You should prepare yourself.”

Niu’s face darkened. He knew something terrible was coming.

As soon as the video played, he understood exactly what Wang Xiaoqiang had done.

The footage unfolded—bodies rising, bullets passing through them, then the sudden flash of blades. When the final shot showed the heads being chopped off, Niu stood up, eyes bulging, disbelief etched across his face. The engineers stared like they’d seen a ghost—mouths agape.

Then came the gunfire. Niu felt a wave of despair. *One shot to the head…* That meant hundreds of snipers. Thousands of rounds. Impossible.

But when the video ended—showing Wang Xiaoqiang returning again and again, hacking through the dead—Niu’s hope flickered back.

Silence followed. Niu stood there, eyes closed, voice hoarse.

“This… is it isolated? Or…” He trailed off. The lie was too obvious.

Wang Xiaoqiang said, “So far, I’ve only seen this one location. I cut off every head. But whether more will rise… I don’t know.”

Niu slumped into his chair, rubbing his temples wearily.

“Mayor Niu,” Wang Xiaoqiang said, “I need to return to the orphanage. I’ve got a backup copy of this video. You can keep it. I think this might be a biohazard disaster. If you can reach higher authorities, I strongly suggest you report it. At least give people time to prepare.”

He turned to leave.

Behind him, the silence hung heavy—thick with dread, and the weight of a world changing forever.