Read Novel Full Chapter 1120 Meadows
Chapter 1120: Chapter 1120 Meadows
The smell of iron filled the hallway instantly.
Ross lowered his arm slowly, as if he had merely swatted a fly.
His expression didn’t change.
He didn’t even bother wiping off the blood splattered across his cheek.
He simply looked at the remaining four men, each one frozen, drenched in the gore of their comrade, shaking like cornered prey.
Ross smiled faintly.
"Two down..." he murmured. "Who’s next?"
Ross’s final word was still echoing—still vibrating through the blood-stained hallway—
when the air behind him bent.
A ripple of shadow
a distortion
a whisper—
Then a man materialized directly at Ross’s back, like a nightmare stepping out of darkness.
Before the echo even died—
SHHKKT!
A knife stabbed toward Ross’s throat with deadly precision, the blade aimed perfectly at the softest part of a human neck.
The attacker’s movement was smooth, experienced, practiced from years of killing.
A guaranteed kill.
—Except it wasn’t.
The blade struck Ross’s skin—
CLANG!
Sparks scattered across the dark hallway as the knife skidded off him, the metal edge vibrating violently like it had struck a tank’s armor.
The hand holding the blade shook from the recoil.
Ross didn’t bleed.
Ross didn’t flinch.
Ross didn’t even feel it.
Slowly... very slowly... Ross turned his head, eyes narrowing.
The attacker’s breath hitched.
He could feel it—
the moment he knew this sneak attack had signed his death sentence.
Ross reached back, lightning-fast, trying to grab the man’s throat—
But the leader vanished again.
His form dissolved into shadows, scattering like black dust before reappearing further down the hall, gasping softly, his knife-hand trembling. His ability—short-range teleportation or shadow-shift—saved him, but only barely.
He stared at Ross with a mixture of awe and cold terror.
"No damage... no reaction... not even a scratch..." he whispered.
Ross turned fully to face him now, steps slow, deliberate, unstoppable.
"You’re quick," Ross said. "But not quick enough."
The leader clenched his jaw. He wasn’t shaking like the others had, but fear flickered in his eyes.
He raised his hand sharply to the three remaining men behind him—the last survivors of his squad.
"Listen carefully," he barked. His voice echoed with authority, even as blood dripped from the ceiling behind Ross.
The three men stood frozen, pale and on the verge of collapse.
"Go back to the base," the leader ordered. "Find Bruno. Tell him everything about this place. About him."
He pointed at Ross.
"This man... whoever he is... he’s not someone we can beat tonight."
One of the men swallowed hard.
The other two stared at their boss like he’d just given them divine salvation.
The leader stepped forward, blades in both hands now, stance sharp and ready despite the tremor in his fingers.
"I’ll stay behind," he said. "I’ll buy you time. I’ll keep him busy."
Relief washed over the three survivors so visibly that it almost looked pathetic.
"Thanks, boss!"
"W—we won’t forget this!"
"You’re the best—good luck!"
They turned toward the exit immediately—but not before glancing at Ross one last time.
That was a mistake.
Ross’s eyes were glowing faintly, dark and dangerous, staring at them like prey he hadn’t decided to chase yet.
The three men broke.
They sprinted toward the stairs, nearly tripping over the bloodied wooden stakes, coughing as they pushed past the stench of gore.
One slipped on brain matter and scrambled back up with a scream.
Another shoved aside a broken chair and almost fell down the steps in panic.
They didn’t care.
They just wanted out.
Within seconds, they were gone—
boots pounding out the door,
yelping in terror,
racing into the night like hunted animals desperate to escape the slaughterhouse.
That left only two people in the hallway:
Ross, dripping with the blood of their comrades...
...and the leader, blades drawn, breathing hard, knowing he was about to face something far worse than zombies.
Ross wiped a splatter of blood from his cheek.
"Good," he murmured.
"Now it’s just the two of us."
Ross smiled—a small, almost playful curl of the lips—and took a single step forward.
That was all.
One step.
And then he vanished.
Not blurred, not sped up, not hidden—he was simply gone, as though the world had blinked and forgotten he existed.
"So fast!" the leader gasped. His voice cracked, the disbelief raw and unfiltered.
His pupils shrank, and cold sweat immediately formed on his forehead.
His mind raced.
He... he copied our abilities. He copied everything. How? How can someone do that?
"He can copy our abilities at will... impossible..." the leader muttered in his heart, and for the first time since the apocalypse began, true fear settled deep inside him.
This wasn’t a fight.
This wasn’t even a battle.
This was a nightmare.
But he had survived too long to simply freeze in place.
The apocalypse had broken him, rebuilt him, and burned him again.
He had watched friends torn apart by zombies and mutants, fought scavengers over drops of water, slit throats in the dark before the enemy even knew he was there.
His instincts had been sharpened into a deadly blade.
And that blade now screamed at him: Move.
He obeyed instantly, slipping into the shadows of the warehouse.
His body vanished behind scattered crates, debris, pillars.
He moved with practiced silence—rolling, sliding, stepping lightly with absolute precision.
His spirit power wrapped around him, suppressing his presence.
Anyone else would’ve lost sight of him completely.
But Ross wasn’t anyone else.
"Too slow," Ross’s voice whispered.
The leader’s blood turned to ice.
The voice was right behind him—no, inside his ear, as if Ross were breathing directly across his skin.
"Run faster. Hide better."
The leader choked on a breath and stumbled forward, hitting the ground and scrambling like a terrified animal.
His hands slipped on dust and grime as he crawled behind a steel support beam, then darted to another shadowed corner without stopping.
He moved again. And again. A frantic pattern of desperate survival.
Hide. Disappear. Get away. Move. Move!
But the feeling of danger didn’t fade.
It grew.