THE ZOMBIE SYSTEM-Chapter 51 - 50: The Cell

Cold metal pressed against Leon’s cheek. The taste of copper filled his mouth, blood from wounds that had reopened during transport. His eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by exhaustion that went deeper than physical fatigue.

The battlefield stretched around him like a graveyard. Scorched stone cracked in where Tobias’s flames had burned too hot. Twisted metal from destroyed equipment lay scattered among what remained of Association containment barriers. Bodies laid around, some reduced to ash, others simply still.

Leon’s consciousness flickered between awareness and darkness as recovery teams moved through the wreckage.

"Target secured. Vitals stable but weak."

"Mana readings?"

"Completely depleted. Whatever he did to kill Virell, it cost him everything."

Hands lifted Leon onto a stretcher. The motion sent spikes of pain through his ribs, dragging him briefly into wakefulness before the darkness claimed him again.

The transport vehicle’s interior was pure function over form. Black steel walls bore carved runes that hurt to look at directly. The symbols seemed to move when viewed through peripheral vision, creating patterns that made Leon’s temples throb.

He tried to access his system interface. Nothing. The connection that had become as natural as breathing was gone, severed by whatever enchantments surrounded him. Even his bond with his undead felt distant, like trying to hear a whisper through thick glass.

The vehicle rumbled through city streets. Leon caught glimpses of evening sunlight through reinforced windows before unconsciousness pulled him under again.

---

Leon woke up surrounded by cold stone. The metal slab beneath him radiated chill that seeped through his clothes and into his bones. His gear was gone, no Shadow-edge, no Void-reaper, no system-crafted equipment. They’d left him in simple cloth pants and a sleeveless shirt.

The cell stretched ten feet in each direction. Walls, floor, and ceiling were carved from solid stone, their surfaces covered in intricate runic patterns that seemed to pulse with their own rhythm. Leon recognized some of the symbols from advanced magical theory texts, suppression runes, containment wards, energy dampeners.

His manna felt caged. What little remained after the battle with Tobias was trapped behind barriers he couldn’t see or touch. The sensation was worse than exhaustion.

Leon sat up slowly, testing his body’s responses. His ribs ached but moved properly. The burns from Tobias’s flames had been treated, leaving only pink scars across his arms and chest. Someone had healed him just enough to ensure survival, nothing more.

The door was solid steel with no visible handle or lock mechanism. A narrow slot at eye level allowed observation from outside. Leon approached it carefully, peering through the opening.

A corridor stretched in both directions, lined with identical doors. The architecture spoke of permanence, thick walls, reinforced construction, systems designed to contain dangerous individuals for extended periods. This wasn’t a temporary holding facility.

Leon had heard whispers about places like this. The Association’s black sites, where they kept hunters who’d crossed lines that couldn’t be uncrossed. Officially, such facilities didn’t exist. Unofficially, they were necessary evils in a world where power could corrupt as easily as corrupt power could destroy.

Sound carried strangely in the underground complex. From distant cells came noises that raised the hair on Leon’s arms, guttural growls that weren’t quite animal, whispered conversations in languages that predated human civilization, and occasionally, screams that cut off abruptly.

Each sound told a story. The growls belonged to hunters who’d been changed by their contact with dimensional entities. The whispers came from researchers who’d delved too deep into forbidden knowledge. The screams... those came from experiments the Association preferred to forget.

Leon pressed his back against the cell wall. Whatever had brought him here, he wasn’t the first person to make enemies of the wrong people.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor—the measured pace of guards making rounds. Leon glimpsed them through his door’s slot: Association security in reinforced gear, faces hidden behind masks that filtered more than just air. They carried weapons designed for close-quarters combat against enhanced individuals.

One guard paused outside Leon’s cell. Their eyes met through the narrow opening. Leon saw curiosity there, mixed with something that might have been respect. Word of his victory over Tobias had reached even this buried facility.

The guard moved on without speaking. Protocol probably forbade interaction with prisoners. But the look lingered, recognition of someone who’d accomplished the impossible, even if the cost was imprisonment.

Time moved strangely without sunlight or system notifications to mark its passage. Leon estimated he’d been conscious for perhaps an hour when different footsteps approached. These weren’t the regular patrol boots. The sound carried weight and authority that made other prisoners fall silent.

Keys rattled outside his door. Multiple locks disengaged in sequence, mechanical, magical, and something else Leon couldn’t identify. The steel barrier swung open on hinges that moved without sound.

Chairman Alfonso Ethella stepped into the cell like he owned not just the room but everything in it. Leon had seen him from a distance during official ceremonies, but proximity revealed details photographs couldn’t capture.

Tall and lean, with silver threading through dark hair kept shorter than fashion dictated. His beard was trimmed to precise angles that spoke of careful attention to detail. Robes of midnight blue moved with their own subtle current, as if responding to power that needed no external display.

Even without active manna, Ethella’s presence changed the cell’s atmosphere. The air grew heavier. Leon’s bones ached as if gravity had increased. This was what S-rank truly meant, not just power, but fundamental alteration of reality through will alone.

Cold eyes studied Leon with the focus of a researcher examining an interesting specimen. Not cruel, but thoroughly analytical. Leon had the uncomfortable sensation of being dissected by that gaze, his capabilities and limitations catalogued with professional precision.

Ethella said nothing for long moments, simply observing. Leon held the stare, refusing to show weakness even while seated on a stone slab in a containment cell. He’d killed an S-rank. That had to count for something.

Finally, Ethella spoke. His voice carried the quiet authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.

"Leon Graves... I believe we need to talk."

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