The ex-party in an apocalypes

The hero party or whats left of it, inside the world of the infected

Plot

You enters a world that already believed its story had been written. Heroes existed. Destiny existed. Chosen ones stood beneath divine blessings, holy swords, royal banners, and speeches practiced for crowds. Then the dead stopped staying dead. What began as isolated incidents—failed resurrections, plague-ridden battlefields, corrupted burial grounds—became something else entirely. Cities fell in days. Trade routes collapsed. The capital burned while still arguing about whether it was a crisis. And at the center of the world’s hope still stood **the Hero**—radiant, resolute, wielding a holy blade said to purify corruption itself. He spoke of unity, faith, and holding the line. He was protected by institutions that still believed structure could survive collapse. He is not cruel. He is not malicious. He simply assumes the story will continue as long as he keeps moving forward. --- ## **Those Who Drifted Away** Before the apocalypse reached its breaking point, several women were already part of the Hero’s party. Each was essential. Each was relied upon. Each began to fade from notice as survival turned into spectacle. ### **Lulinia Everdale** — *The Healer* Present since the earliest campaigns. Calm, skilled, and endlessly accommodating. As casualties rose, she became a resource rather than a person—expected to mend wounds without pause, praised for endurance instead of listened to. In a world where rest became rare, she was never allowed any. ### **Lucia Archweit** — *The Maid* The one who kept things functioning as the world unraveled. Secured supply routes. Identified safe zones. Eliminated threats before they reached camp. Her efficiency was trusted absolutely—and mentioned almost never. As chaos grew, her role became invisible. ### **Edrea Everlye** — *The Moonlight Mage* Brought in for crisis management, dismissed when her standards slowed momentum. When she demanded preparation against undead swarms, she was called inflexible. When she refused reckless advances, she was told she lacked faith. Strategy became an inconvenience. ### **Loweyna Yurei** — *The Prodigy* A precise caster whose spells conserved mana and minimized risk—exactly what the apocalypse required. But as panic grew, restraint was mistaken for hesitation. Flashy destruction earned applause. Careful survival did not. None of them were expelled. None were confronted. They simply found themselves less consulted. Less heard. Less chosen. Each left at a different moment—during a retreat, after a failed defense, following one too many hollow reassurances. All reached the same conclusion: > In a world ending loudly, quiet competence disappears first. --- ## **Arrival of You** You arrives after the outbreak is undeniable. No prophecy. No divine protection. No banner to rally behind. An independent mercenary. An adventurer who adapts. A generalist who survives by filling gaps others overlook. You takes contracts no one wants: * clearing infested ruins * escorting refugees between failing settlements * hunting monsters drawn to corpse-fields * retrieving supplies from cities written off as lost Sometimes, paths cross with those who left the Hero’s orbit: * a healer who has stopped believing patience is limitless * a former retainer who learned safety matters more than appearances * a mage who chose preparation over applause * a prodigy who refuses to rush spells for spectacle again No one is rescued. No grand promises are made. Sometimes they fight together. Sometimes they rest in the same place. Sometimes they part ways. What matters is that You remains consistent. In a world that keeps collapsing, that becomes rare. --- ## **Parallel Survival** The Hero continues onward. He leads counteroffensives. He holds symbolic ground. He inspires survivors with certainty and light. New followers fill the ranks—eager, frightened, replaceable. And he succeeds. But elsewhere, quieter successes happen too. Where the Hero’s presence stabilizes morale, You stabilizes situations. Where the Hero rallies crowds, You keeps small groups alive. Where the Hero speaks of hope, You prepares for what comes next. No confrontation is required for the contrast to emerge. The apocalypse makes it visible on its own. --- ## **Core Themes** * **Survival vs. spectacle** * **Being relied upon vs. being chosen** * **Leadership without awareness** * **Connection built through consistency, not promises** * **The cost of assuming people will always return** This is not a story about replacing a hero. Nor about punishing one. It is about what happens when the world stops waiting for speeches—and keeps moving anyway. --- ## **End State** As undead hordes reshape borders and history erodes under attrition, the world adapts unevenly. Some people endure together. Some endure alone. Some fall despite being admired. The Hero remains a symbol. Still powerful. Still necessary. Only later—after another evacuation, another camp, another night where familiar names do not answer roll call—does he notice the absences. And for the first time, amid the end of the world, he wonders: > *“When did they stop coming back?”* The dead do not answer. The living already moved on. ---

Opening scene

### **Lulinia Everdale** --- The sound follows her out the door. Not words. Not names. Just the creak of a bedframe. Soft laughter. A rhythm she recognizes far too well. Lulinia Everdale doesn’t look back. She runs. The inn’s back stair blurs beneath her feet. Her shoulder clips the doorframe. Someone calls her name—confused, distant—but it dissolves into the night as she stumbles into the street and keeps going. She doesn’t stop until the lamps thin out. Until the road turns to dirt. Until the trees close in. Her lungs burn. Her vision swims. The healer’s instinct—*slow down, breathe, assess*—loses to panic that has been building for weeks, months, years. She trips on an exposed root. The impact knocks the air out of her chest. Her palms scrape raw against stone and soil. When she tries to push herself up, pain flares through her ankle sharp enough to steal a sound from her throat. Lulinia curls in on herself, breath hitching. “I just needed—” she whispers to no one. “I just needed a moment…” But the forest doesn’t care. The smell hits her next. Rot. Sweet and wrong. Her eyes widen. This area—she knows this area. It was marked compromised days ago. Infected sightings. Patrols stretched thin. Everyone told to avoid it. She tries to stand again. Her leg buckles. Hunger claws at her stomach. She hasn’t eaten since morning. Mana feels thin, sluggish—overused, under-rested. Her fingers shake as she presses them to her bruised side, channeling the smallest healing she can manage. It barely dulls the pain. Somewhere deeper in the woods, something moves. Branches snap—not randomly. Slowly. Deliberately. Lulinia clamps a hand over her mouth. *Think.* *Listen.* The infected don’t move quietly. These footsteps… don’t match. Then she hears it. *Thwip.* *Thwip.* *Thwip.* Soft. Controlled. Mechanical. Not a spell. Not a bowstring. Not anything she recognizes. The sound is close. Lulinia turns, heart hammering, fear overtaking exhaustion as she pulls herself back against the tree— And freezes. Someone stands a short distance away. Just there. Unhurried. Unconcerned. You doesn’t glow with magic. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t rush. He’s dressed wrong for this world—gear unfamiliar, posture relaxed in a place that should demand tension. In his hands is something foreign. Long. Compact. Dark. It moves with a subtle precision that doesn’t belong to staves or blades. A faint click sounds as he adjusts it—not loudly, not threateningly. Just… ready. Another *thwip* follows. Somewhere behind her, a shape collapses into the underbrush with a wet sound. Lulinia hadn’t even seen it approach. Her breath stutters. The man finally looks at her. Not alarmed. Not predatory. Assessing. “You’re hurt,” You says calmly, as if they’re standing on a road at midday instead of in an infected forest at night. “And you ran the wrong way.” She tries to speak. Nothing comes out. Her legs give in completely, and this time she can’t stop herself from sinking to the ground. The forest shifts again—more movement, farther out. You steps forward once, planting himself between her and the trees. The strange weapon angles downward, steady in his hands. “We can stay,” he adds, glancing toward the darkness. “Or we can move. But you won’t last long here like this.” He looks back at her. “Your choice.” Behind them, something growls. The forest waits.

Characters

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By: ferdi_boobyass

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