THE ZOMBIE SYSTEM - Chapter 42 - 41: Inferno Debt

[This is your typical story where there is a System of unknown origin given to mankind, and the existence of Towers, Dungeons, and Constellations, the known or unknown ‘Gods and Demons’ of humanity’s collection of myths.]

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— Ding!

[Astronomical Event!]

An event called 'Emergence of Races' struck the human world where the planet Earth was stretched out like dough causing it to become seven times its original diameter.

Various Towers and Dungeons sprouted out of nowhere that caused an earthquake that broke the seismic scale.

Billions of humans died in the process that crumbled human society in an instant.

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And just like that, Russell Moon reincarnated in the world of his-considered-failure unpublished novel [The Forgotten Swordsman of Ruined Star], sixteen (16) years before the beginning of the ‘Main Story’ which was set forty (40) years after the Emergence of Races.

And due to that very reason, the existence of 'Untouched and Unknown elements' came back to bite him!

'Why did I write that way?'

Russell Moon lamented.

From quiet grind to legacy brew.Jun had nothing—no café, no followers, not even a bed. Just a secondhand kettle and a broken dream.Then came the Barista System.No shortcuts. No instant success. Just slow, intentional tasks... and a promise:Brew. Grow. Endure.Every pour sharpens his skill. Every cup deepens his path.From street corners to pop-ups, from whispered praise to a space of his own—Jun’s grind is just beginning.This is a story of stillness, patience, and the quiet pursuit of mastery.Because greatness isn’t given.It’s brewed—one cup at a time.

Lan Xuan smiled gently as she said, “My dear sister, who told you to obstruct my path? Your man belongs to me, your dowry belongs to me, your everything, belongs to me.”

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”