Chapter 5
Inside the abandoned factory.
Even the soft moonlight grew harsher and more murderous, tainted by the nauseating, rotting stench of blood.
Beyond the creaking, wood-like groans of the zombies shuffling around, the Zombie Devil's twisted, shrill voice grated on nonstop.
"Devil hunters, seriously! These people are hopeless idiots!
I promised them devil power, and they happily became my slaves!
Hee hee! After all, accepting my devil power turns them into zombies—because I am the Zombie Devil!"
Blah blah blah…
The Zombie Devil kept rambling useless nonsense.
Denji felt like his ears were growing calluses.
Yawning, he reached up and dug a finger in one ear.
Once done, his relaxed right hand casually rose in a finger-gun pose, pointing at the zombie horde ahead. He murmured lightly:
"Slash."
BUZZ—BUZZ!!!
The hellish roar exploded once more!
In an instant, the scene before him looked like the Grim Reaper's scythe mowing grass. Row after row of zombies in front were bisected at the waist—the slash cutting clean through the entire group!
The force had limits. After halving the horde, the remaining power only carved a vicious gash across the Zombie Devil's abdomen.
"Ugh—waaah! Ah! Ahhh!"
The smug voice from moments ago dissolved into pathetic whimpers and sobs.
"Heh heh~ Crying already?
What a cowardly little devil~"
Denji chuckled softly, then raised his hand again, aiming at the distant, wailing Zombie Devil.
Spotting the motion, the Zombie Devil's survival instinct surged. Its body instinctively twisted to dodge and flee.
Even as it moved, it flung out tentacles, desperately injecting more zombie power into the bisected corpses—hoping the flailing halves could buy it time to escape.
"No, no, no—I can't die here! These damn devil hunters not only slaughter my fellow devils, now they want me dead! No way—I have to survive, wait for the next chance, and make them pay!"
Denji had no clue what it was thinking. He simply triggered the skill he'd gained from the Tomato Devil before the Zombie Devil could make a real getaway.
"Is this a tomato or a 西紅柿?"
"This… this is? This is…"
The Zombie Devil wasn't stupid—overall judgment put the hard control at about 4–6 seconds.
Short enough to blink through a drink or stretch.
But right now? Long enough.
Long enough for Denji to step over the scattered limbs and torsos, walk right up to the Zombie Devil, and before it could finish answering—
"Slash—"
Blood cascaded like a waterfall. The metallic reek and rust overwhelmed the decay of the zombie remnants on the floor.
Even without getting splashed, Denji still felt vaguely unclean.
Compared to his "previous life," though? He was spotless now.
Casually, he dragged an old, faded folding chair from some corner.
Set it in the middle of the factory floor. Sat. Reclined.
Closed his eyes. Smiled faintly.
No one knew what dreams flickered through his brief nap…
The screech of brakes outside.
Hard soles clicking on concrete—tap tap.
A red-haired woman in a trench coat approached the factory with two tall subordinates in tow.
The rolling shutter door stood wide open, but the interior light was abysmal—even in daylight, nothing inside was fully visible from out here.
Only after stepping in did the sea of severed limbs and gore come into focus.
"We were beaten to it."
A cool, detached voice—beautiful yet emotionless—stated the obvious.
The tall figure on the left crouched to examine a corpse and reported:
"This one… definitely the Zombie Devil's power."
The one on the right closed his eyes, listened for a moment, then added:
"No devil presence left nearby…"
"In a situation like this, no survivors, right?"
The left one directed the question at the right.
But before an answer came, the red-haired woman in the center spoke up.
"There's still one alive."
It wasn't a reply—so the two subordinates fell silent, awaiting orders.
She said nothing more. Just walked forward, deeper into the factory…
As she approached, faint sunlight shifted through the windows, slowly illuminating the figure in the center—
Denji, asleep on the folding chair in his torn white tank top.
The tank was ragged and white, but it always looked somehow filthy.
Compared to everything else in the factory, though? It carried an oddly out-of-place cleanliness~
The red-haired woman stopped in front of the sleeping Denji. She leaned down and inhaled his scent.
"Mmm…"
A soft, instinctive hum—full of confusion.
Drawn in, she leaned closer still, wanting to pinpoint the source of that puzzling smell.
Warm breath brushed his cheek. Denji's eyelashes fluttered slightly.
With a long "mm" exhale carrying a faint, moist fragrance into his nose, Denji slowly opened his eyes.
Quiet eye contact.
The red-haired woman, still puzzled, asked in her cool, composed tone:
"You have a strange scent on you. Is that… your smell?"
Denji didn't answer.
He simply took her in—slowly, meticulously, savoring every detail.
From the beautiful red hair… to those striking golden-ringed yellow eyes… the flawless, mature-yet-youthful features… and finally those soft lips—like cherry blossom petals—pure yet hiding an ultimate, seductive allure; pale yet brimming with vivid, bloody crimson…
Her lips parted slightly, blooming like a flower, exhaling orchid-like sweetness.
Denji heard nothing. He just stared straight ahead.
Then he tilted his head back, neck arching, swaying forward—
And claimed that supreme beauty with his mouth…
An impossibly soft, tender lip. A sweet rush that spread from his tongue straight to his brain, exploding in pure bliss!
The two subordinates' minds blanked. Instinct screamed to stop this filthy kid from defiling their superior!
But before they could act, they caught her subtle hand signal: Stand down.
So they could only watch—helpless, stomachs churning like they'd swallowed something vile—as Public Safety's goddess was tainted by this beggar-like punk…
Ignoring the grunts entirely.
Denji wasn't fast—she could have dodged easily.
Under normal circumstances, she absolutely would have.
But…
That "strange" scent. That "familiar" scent.
It carried meaning comparable to life itself.