I looked up at the skies filled with dark clouds, black, acidic rain pouring around me. This was a common sight ever since the Mutagen hit the Earth, an unknown virus that warped the vast majority of mankind into horrific abominations.

Whenever Mutants died, they released spores that plagued the skies, darkening them and dooming humanity to slowly die in a sunless, friendless hellscape.

A hole in my chest reminded me that it was now my turn to die.

I was a Fighter, the term used for the blessed few in humanity who were not only immune to the Mutagen, but also developed the ability to harness Qi in its wake. Fighters were humanitys final hope, superhuman warriors who could shatter concrete walls and Mutant flesh with our punches.

I was the strongest Fighter of them all, but in the end, none of that mattered.

All those countless hours training martial arts breaking wooden boards, then stones, then bones, all of it had led up to this.


Winds howled around me, singing a eulogy for my end.

I never expected to be surrounded by friends and family at the end, hell, I didn even have a family to begin with, and all my friends were dead or dying by now.

But dying alone like this, it still hurt.

Even through that hurt, I couldn help but crack a smile.

I always did appreciate irony.

And the irony here was palpable, felt through the very lifeblood looking through my chest.

I, the strongest fighter of this era, a man of many titles – the Phoenix Fist, the Unstoppable Flame, the Reaping Pyre, the Reaping Hawk –was dying a dogs death.

A lonely death. A meaningless death.

All that fighting, all that killing, all that trying to save the world, all of it meant nothing in the end.

The plague that mutated mankind i

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