CHAPTER 124: THE WORLD HOLDS ITS BREATH

The news of the Cursed Island spread like wildfire across the globe, leaping from screen to screen, headline to headline, whispered rumor to trembling lips. It was no longer a local tragedy—it was a specter that haunted every household, a shadow looming over nations already uneasy with war, famine, and unrest.

Governments convened emergency meetings, military leaders shut themselves in war rooms, and scientists argued bitterly over containment strategies. Some demanded immediate quarantines, others called for alliances across borders. And yet, beneath all the official speeches and televised reassurances, there was only one undeniable truth: terror had already taken root in every heart.

For the first time in decades, humanity collectively trembled.

What they had seen—what the cameras, shaky and bloodstained, had captured during the brief, chaotic broadcast—was enough to tear down the illusion of safety. Humans had transformed into monsters before their very eyes. Not sick, not deranged—monsters. Flesh-eating, unrecognizable abominations. The sight had branded itself into the memories of millions.

And if it could happen there, on a small island far away, what would stop it from happening in their cities?

---

The internet boiled over, drowning under a tidal wave of speculation and fear. Forums overflowed with theories, live chats erupted into frantic arguments, and trending hashtags painted a picture of a world teetering on the edge.

#CursedIsland

#TheEndIsHere

#PrayForSurvivors

Even those watching something as frivolous as the music program Top Star—a show usually reserved for gossip, glitter, and pop idols—found themselves unwilling witnesses to the unfolding nightmare. Their screams, their comments, their disbelief had been captured alongside the images of people transforming, halls drenched in chaos, and one young man standing like a figure pulled straight from myth.

Sian.

The name was whispered with awe and defended with ferocity. What had begun as a fan community turned overnight into a battleground of faith and doubt.

Comment 1: "But Sian looked so handsome! Did you see him? The way he fought, the way he protected everyone—no hesitation at all! Even when the people around him turned into monsters, he didn’t back down."

Comment 2: "That’s our Sian! Always strong, always brave. It’s tragic the broadcast cut off—I needed to see how he would save himself and everyone else. I swear he made it out. He must have!"

Comment 3: "Don’t delude yourselves. I heard from a reliable source that the virus strikes randomly. Anyone could turn at any time. For all we know, Sian’s already one of them. Heroes don’t exist in real life."

Comment 4: "Shut your damn mouth! You’re just jealous of his beauty and strength. Sian is untouchable! He’s our angel. He’ll never die, never turn into one of those disgusting things. He’s alive. He has to be alive!"

Comment 5: "Rumor says the survivors are being taken to a military facility. They’ll be kept under watch until it’s certain they’re clean. Only then will they be released back into the city."

Comment 6: "God, no. Don’t bring them here. Just the thought of them being infected makes me sick. What if one of them transforms inside the city walls? We’d all be doomed."

Comment 7: "Coward. If your family were among them, you’d be screaming for the opposite. The government isn’t reckless—they’ll take precautions. Stop spreading fear."

Comment 8: "Easy for you to say! My family was on that island. They went there for a holiday, just for a change of air. And now I don’t even know if they’re alive. I’m praying for news, but you people only think about yourselves. Do you even remember what humanity means?"

The comment sections grew like wildfire—love, denial, fear, rage, and grief all tangled into a storm of words. Some clung desperately to hope, while others embraced despair as if it were inevitable.

Yet behind their glowing screens, none of them knew the truth. None of them could imagine the exhaustion, the scars, the silent weight carried by those who had walked through that hell.

---

Inside the military facility, the chaos of the outside world faded to silence, broken only by the rhythmic echo of boots in long hallways and the occasional bark of orders. Soldiers moved briskly, doctors wheeled equipment, and the air reeked faintly of antiseptic mixed with gun oil.

And in one quiet corner of that fortress of order, Sian slept.

The young man lay utterly still, lashes casting shadows across his pale skin, chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of someone deep in slumber. He was unaware of the frenzy he had sparked across the world, the millions of strangers holding their breath for him. He knew nothing of the debates, the suspicions, the worship.

In that moment, he was simply a boy asleep—fragile, almost vulnerable.

A Sleeping Beauty, untouched by the knowledge that her kingdom had already burned to ash.

Beside him, in another bed, the zombie child rested. His skin, once pallid and rotting, had begun to heal into a healthier shade. If one didn’t look too closely, he seemed no different from a sickly, malnourished boy. The faint hollows of his cheeks, the way his ribs pressed lightly against his shirt—they made him seem more pitiable than monstrous.

He had been admitted under special conditions, of course. Only Lan Qíshēng’s presence had made it possible. As a colonel and the grandson of one of the army’s great magnates, Lan had both authority and connections. He had spoken to his grandfather personally, explaining every detail, every risk, every necessity.

The generals had agreed—grudgingly.

So long as the child cooperated, so long as scientists could study him, he would be treated well. Blood samples would be taken, cells analyzed, but nothing more. This was no mad science horror tale; there would be no cutting open of flesh, no dissection of bones. At most, it would be like donating blood, a small price in exchange for the possibility of a cure.

"And so the boy stayed temporarily with Sian and Lan

Both as protection, and as a precaution—for if anyone could stop the child should he lose control, it was Sīān.

The room was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that seemed almost sacred after chaos. Sian shifted faintly in his sleep, the corner of his mouth soft, as though lost in some dream far gentler than reality.

Lan Qíshēng and Jiāo had left hours ago, summoned to deal with aftermath reports, containment protocols, and the countless tasks that followed such a catastrophe.

For now, peace lingered. Fragile, temporary peace.

---

Elsewhere in the city, peace was a stranger.

"Sir, do you truly intend to infiltrate a military facility? Their security is impenetrable."

The voice trembled, though the man dressed in black tried to mask it.

The one he spoke to adjusted the collar of his long coat, movements unhurried, deliberate. A mask obscured half his face, but it could not hide the intensity of his presence. His eyes—golden, sharp, burning with something fierce—caught the dim light and seemed to glow like molten metal.

"I’m already late," he murmured. His tone was soft, almost casual, yet it carried the weight of command. "I should have met him on the island. If not for that group of trash delaying me, things would be different. But now..." His gaze sharpened, cutting the air. "...now that one thread has been cut, and part of the vermin dealt with, I cannot delay further. We have new information. I must go to him."

The soldiers gathered in the shadows exchanged uneasy looks. He had not said a name, had not even specified who "him" was. Yet every man present knew. They had seen their leader’s obsession, the strange tether between him and that boy—a boy not yet twenty, who should have been insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

But to this man, he was anything but insignificant.

"Sir," the subordinate tried again, voice more desperate, "why risk it? You could contact him by phone. There’s no need to—"

The words died in his throat.

The masked man turned, and those golden eyes met his.

It was like being struck by lightning. Staring into the abyss and finding it staring back. His body went rigid, breath lodged in his chest. The sensation was primal terror, the kind that awakened every instinct screaming of death.

He could not move, could not breathe, until the gaze slid away.

Then, in that same calm, glacial voice, the masked man said:

"My decision is made. Prepare everything we need. Just do your job."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

None dared speak.

And though the man in black bowed and murmured a hasty, "Yes, sir," his hands trembled as he moved.

Somewhere, deep in the facility where Sian slept, the faintest ripple of unease stirred.

The storm was not over. It was only the beginning.

-----

The masked man is already moving.

Sian sleeps unaware.

The world outside teeters between fear and hope.

And within the walls of the military fortress, threads of fate begin to tighten, ready to snap.

To Be Continued...