Global Survival: I Have Endless Skeletons-Chapter 107: Aftermath and Departure

The town was quiet.

Too quiet.

A gentle wind drifted through the empty streets, brushing against shattered walls and broken doors as though mourning the countless souls that had perished during the night.

The ground was soaked, not with rain, but with blood.

Human blood had pooled and flowed along the mud roads, forming dark, sticky streams that converged at the center of the street.

The silence stretched endlessly, heavy enough to suffocate.

Anyone standing there might have believed the town had already become a graveyard.

Yet the sharp, metallic stench of freshly spilled blood permeated the air, thick and choking, refusing to let such an illusion persist.

Pain lingered everywhere.

Grief clung to the settlement like a parasite, burrowing into the walls, the streets, and the hearts of the survivors.

Mornings were supposed to bring hope, confidence, renewal, and promise. The bright sky was meant to chase away fear and restore order.

But now, the human settlement that had stood for many years lay unnaturally still, as if the dawn itself hesitated to touch it.

For several minutes, not a single living being appeared on the streets.

Some storefronts continued to smolder, thin plumes of smoke rising lazily into the sky. Major taverns had collapsed entirely, their interiors reduced to scorched rubble.

Defensive walls were shattered into splinters, and massive craters scarred the streets where powerful attacks had struck.

Venturing deeper into the town revealed a scene far worse.

Corpses were scattered everywhere.

Severed arms and legs lay discarded like trash, trampled into the blood-soaked stone.

Shattered weapons littered the streets, broken swords, bent spears, cracked staves, silence evidence of desperate resistance.

Armor and shields, once symbols of protection and security, were torn apart as easily as paper.

A headless corpse lay slumped against the entrance of a shop, its neck a mangled ruin.

The sheer brutality of the carnage defied comprehension. It was something no one present had ever witnessed before.

After what felt like an eternity, an awakener staggered out from a half-collapsed building. His body was drenched in blood, most of which was his own.

His saber was snapped in half, the blade jagged and useless.

His breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. His eyes were vacant as they swept over the empty street and the corpses strewn across it.

’Why...?’

’Why did this happen?’

The questions echoed in his mind, unanswered, as grief consumed him from within.

Elsewhere, three survivors emerged from the shadows, dragging their feet forward.

Exhaustion was etched deeply into their faces.

They supported one another, arms slung over shoulders, bodies riddled with wounds of varying severity. Every step looked like agony.

Slowly, more survivors began to appear.

One by one, they staggered out of ruined buildings and shattered shelters. Each bore injuries, deep gashes, broken limbs, burns, and blood-soaked bandages. None were unscathed.

Their numbers grew gradually. A handful became dozens. The lifeless street began to stir, not with vitality, but with mourning.

A small group struggled forward, carrying an exhausted body between them. Relief flickered weakly in their eyes.

Among them was Seris.

Her leather armor was torn and darkened with dried blood. She looked around desperately, her gaze scanning the faces of the survivors.

She recognized none of them.

Even those who had entered the abyss in the same batch as her were gone.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she stared at the corpses littering the streets. Her chest tightened painfully.

’Why did this happen?’ she wondered.

But no one could give her an answer.

In another part of town, Arin emerged from the Crimson Arc Guild headquarters, his robe soaked crimson. With what little strength he had left, he helped injured guild members sit or drink potions.

More than half of his guild members were dead.

The rest were gravely wounded.

Anger and confusion burned fiercely in his chest, twisting into something painful and unresolved.

Inside the Federation Police building, the scene was no less horrifying.

Corpses of officers lay everywhere.

Tables were dyed red with blood.

Severed body parts were scattered across the floor.

Human flesh was smeared against the walls in grotesque patterns.

In one section, fragments of a man’s skull and brain matter were splattered across the stone, a male officer whose head had been completely obliterated.

Walking through the carnage, Aveline, Alma, Green, and several high-level officers advanced slowly. Their expressions were twisted with grief and disbelief.

"Why would the Dark Tide appear without any warning?" Green asked, his voice trembling.

No one answered.

Every known Dark Tide in history had been preceded by signs, ominous changes, strange fluctuations. Giving people time to prepare.

This time, there had been nothing.

"I checked the dungeon," Aveline said grimly. "Elric is dead."

Her declaration echoed heavily through the corridor.

No one reacted immediately, but the shock was unmistakable.

"He’s the only one who was killed down there," she continued. "All the other criminals are still alive."

"What?" Alma exclaimed.

"I find this deeply unsettling," Aveline said calmly, unbothered by their reactions. "It’s as if the Dark Beasts came specifically for him."

She voiced the doubt she had been holding back.

"That’s impossible," Green said, shaking his head vehemently. "Dark Beasts come with the Dark Tide. It’s a natural abyss phenomenon."

Aveline did not share his denial. "The facts are right in front of you," she replied coldly. "You can deny them all you want."

She turned and began walking toward the exit.

"We need to see what’s happening in the town."

Outside, survivors had gathered together, tending to one another as best they could.

Under a common threat, individual indifferences were temporarily forgotten.

Thoren stepped forward, his expression calm as he surveyed the crowd.

The devastation only strengthened his suspicions.

"Huh... It’s the Grim Reaper."

"He’s not injured at all."

"How is that possible?"

Whispers spread through the crowd as they noticed Thoren’s pristine robe and steady breathing. In the face of such overwhelming destruction, most believed no one could have survived without injury.

Yet here he stood.

Thoren ignored the murmurs and walked toward the Crimson Arc Guild. He stopped near Arin, who was seated on the ground, drinking a potion.

"How is it?" Thoren asked.

Arin forced himself to stand. "We lost many good men," he replied hoarsely.

"I’m sorry for your loss."

Arin said nothing. His gaze drifted to the scattered corpses, rage simmering beneath his grief.

"What do you think of the Dark Tide?" he asked.

"Not a coincidence," Thoren replied without hesitation. "It was deliberate."

Arin nodded.

Thoren turned to leave. "I’m heading out. We’ll meet again. Besides, you still owe me a drink."

Watching him depart, Arin could guess what he was up to and he said quietly, "Be careful out there."

Thoren nodded and continued toward the town gate.