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Rain poured relentlessly, hammering down on the metal roof of a hidden bunker nestled in the hillside of a flooded settlement. The air was bone-chilling and damp, thick with the smell of moss and murky water. Dr. Chen Wei stood before an improvised worktable, a flashlight flickering over the surface of a carefully folded ancient manuscript. Faded ink etched symbols and notes about natural antibodies found in the Temple of Devies—the only early lead on understanding how the human body might withstand extreme infection. He wiped sweat from his brow, despite the cold rain soaking his jacket; his heart pounded with tension. This data was precious—and dangerous, if it fell into the wrong hands.
Beside him, two members of the intel team—a local script translator and a comms technician—monitored their makeshift gear: a modified radio, scavenged batteries, and a portable server containing Chen Wei's previous research. Water pooled on the concrete floor, partially submerging a small robotic crawler used to scan humidity. Chen Wei stared at the muddy floor—beneath the floodwater could be fractured earth or collapsed sewers. Every step here risked a fall, an injury, or an ambush from swamp variants.
He took a deep breath, recalling his past: the secret lab before the outbreak—an altar of viral experiments he had once pursued in the name of science, until an accident triggered global panic. Guilt surged as he glanced again at the manuscript. Ancient people had observed infection phenomena too, searching for how the body fought back. Chen Wei now realized his former obsession may have played a part in the catastrophe. This data, he reminded himself, was not a weapon. It was a fragment of hope—for a natural vaccine.
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This bunker had once served as a silent storage site for a hidden network of scientists in Southeast Asia's Infected Territory—a small group committed to preserving pre-outbreak records. Now the roof leaked in places; rainwater trickled into the corridors, mixing with sludge and decomposing rat carcasses. The flashlight's beam scanned the manuscript: recycled paper scrolls bound with local plant roots. Ancient Mandarin, regional scripts, and anatomical diagrams mingled with esoteric symbols—evidence of herbal remedies intended to boost immunity, warm-water therapy from nearby hot springs, and forgotten purification rituals.
Chen Wei read line by line: the notes referenced an extract from a root called "Devitae," found in the nearby swamp, which could stimulate white blood cells to resist collapse under certain viral infections. A warning followed: if unpurified, the extract could be toxic, rapidly causing organ failure. He marked the section on his handheld display: "Devitae extract—requires fermentation for at least 72 hours, stable temperature 30–35°C, specific algae as catalyst." The flashlight flickered with the rhythm of leaking rain. He felt the pressure: the extract required lab-grade processing, but all he had here were crude tools—failure could be fatal.
Nearby, the translator Ayu studied another manuscript fragment describing symptoms of the monsoon variant: the Monsoon Spitter. It emerged during intense rainy seasons: a swamp-adapted zombie coated in infectious slime, capable of spewing low-pressure acidic fluid that corroded human skin and caused rapid tissue degradation. Another passage mentioned the Temple Howler: a variant that haunted temple ruins, using cavern acoustics and water resonance to summon swarms and trigger mudslides or localized floods. Chen Wei glanced at Ayu, then back to the texts. They sounded like grim folklore, but he had seen similar variants—acid burns on corpses, thick, foul-smelling fluid that ate flesh day and night.
Ayu whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain:
"Doctor, this could help us develop a defense protocol—a temporary skin shield or lotion to block acid penetration. But the risk… wrong dosage could damage the skin faster."
Chen Wei nodded and jotted down an emergency formula: a temporary herbal oil mixture, bone ash powder, unrefined Devitae extract, and mineral salts to buffer acidity. His hands trembled as he held the portable stylus—those ingredients might kill test subjects, but if correct, could save researchers facing Monsoon Spitters in flooded temples.
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Once the manuscript was mapped, Chen Wei turned to a digital map: a route to a hidden port on the southern coast—navigating by river from the city of Devies, through fast-flowing waterways to the Indian Ocean. He calculated the distance for a small boat, travel time, monsoon flood probabilities, and known dangerous current zones. Their supplies were low: the radio battery had only a few hours left, dry rations could stretch a week at most, and medical gear was nearly gone. They needed local support: river tribes who might provide herbs or boat parts. But no safe contact lines yet existed. Local factions might exploit them, demand high prices, or seize the data. A flash of fear crossed Chen Wei's mind—bargaining lives for knowledge.
He called over the comms tech, Rizal.
"Send a signal to the underground contact in Jalil Village. Ask for confirmation—any local group willing to trade herbal info for our services—like fixing their generators or offering antibiotics?"
Rizal tapped quickly on the cracked screen. Chen Wei closed his eyes and murmured a quiet prayer:
"Let's hope they don't sell us out to a warlord."
The rain intensified, the pounding roof adding to the pressure. Chen Wei imagined dawn: a dangerous route, swamp variant attacks at night, sudden tidal surges.
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That night, a reply signal arrived:
"There is a group near the foothills—distrustful of outsiders. But there's an offer: help them clear swamp zombies from the old temple, and they'll trade the necessary herbs for your anti-acid protocol."
Chen Wei understood the risk. The temple was submerged knee-deep in mud, with dangling timber ruins and underground channels filled with stagnant water. But they needed that trade. He assembled a small team: Ayu, Rizal, and two local guides. They carried basic weapons—sharpened spears, machetes, a few antiseptic bottles, and a small batch of the experimental oil. Chen Wei added a pouch of painkillers—for emergencies.
They moved through the flooded corridor, emerging into the wet earth. The path to the temple was flooded; the air thick and suffocating. Occasional sloshing hinted at hidden swamp zombies. As they neared, the stench worsened: rotting carcasses trapped in mud. Ayu covered her mouth with a damp antiseptic cloth, her breathing labored. Chen Wei led the way, flashlight in hand, carefully stepping over moss-covered ruins.
At the temple courtyard, their lights caught cracked stone pillars; rushing water turned the temple floor into a slick hazard. Amid the rubble, the first Monsoon Spitter appeared—grotesque and dripping with green slime, its eyes glowing red, mouth gaping as it excreted thick acid. Without warning, it spat acid toward Ayu—splattering on the stone wall, hissing and burning moss to fumes.
Chen Wei shouted:
"Don't approach! Use the herbal mix—soak cloth and wrap your arms!"
Ayu and the guides wrapped their limbs in treated cloth. The Spitter drifted forward, spitting again. Acid splashed, staining the water with dark crimson ripples. The team struck: poisoned wood stakes, spears laced with herbal mixture—piercing the creature's gut. It burst open—flesh tore, acidic mucus sprayed, organs exposed. Blood mixed with acid, creating a bitter foam. One guide screamed—acid ate into his thigh, searing his flesh. Chen Wei landed the final blow—driving a spear into the zombie's heart. The creature collapsed, its death echoing vibrations that drew more from the ruins.
They retreated into a side corridor. A distant howl echoed—Temple Howler. A massive variant rooted in the ruins, it used the submerged cave's acoustics to summon swarms. The sound cracked rotting timber, churned the mud. Water surged suddenly—flooding deeper and halting movement. Chen Wei realized they were trapped.
He instructed the team:
"Set traps at the water entrance—pour leftover acid mix to make a kill zone."
Space was tight, making setup difficult.
Suddenly, a swamp zombie burst in, dragging the wounded guide into thick mud. His body sank with a sickening crunch. Blood and acid sprayed—Chen Wei vomited. He tried pulling the body free, but the mud gripped it. Ayu grabbed him, stopping him from being pulled under too. The Temple Howler's roar grew louder—its echo tore through the night's silence. They couldn't stay.
"Retreat through the side corridor! Follow me—slowly, watch for cracks."
They crossed shallower waters, lights flickering. At last, a stone stairway rose. Chen Wei helped the injured man up, though his skin was burned badly and he passed out. They carried him, leaving blood trails. Above, the flood subsided, but acidic mist still lingered. The Howler's cries echoed below, its swarm still hunting.
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They exited the ruins to the riverside. The water had receded, but currents were strong. Chen Wei and Ayu loaded the injured guide into the emergency boat—a small vessel prepped earlier—but its engine sputtered from mud. Rizal and the locals pushed with poles, cold water lapping at their legs. Faint howls echoed in the distance—other variants may still be near. The air was tense, their knees weak from cold and fear.
At the dock, a fragile raft supported the injured. Chen Wei gave orders:
"We must reach the hidden port in two days—before the next monsoon tide blocks the river. Prepare sealed herbal oil doses—we test the protocol during the voyage, in case more swamp variants rise from the water."
Ayu nodded, eyes heavy with tears for the wounded guide. Chen Wei steadied his shaking hands. The boat pushed off, leaving behind corpses and nightmares.
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Hours later, while resting near the swamp edge—humid air filled with insect calls that grew erratic with the rising tide—Chen Wei tended the guide's acid burns, pressing antiseptic into the wounds. The smell of blood and slime clung to their clothes. He made notes:
"Acid burns: high chemical grade, necrosis spreading fast. Herbal oil protocol unstable—requires further testing with mature Devitae extract."
He glanced at the manuscript in his pocket—supplies low, local herbs nearly depleted.
Rizal reported through the low-power radio: the southern contact had responded.
"They're willing to help—but want something in return: scientific data and a medicine exchange. But the ship at port is badly damaged—we need parts from Rotwood Jungle or the Ashfall Plains. That means longer routes, facing more threats."
Chen Wei sighed. The choice was grim: Rotwood teemed with fungal variants; Ashfall, with sand mutants. But without parts, the boat wouldn't move, and the sea route would close.
He looked at Ayu and the dying guide:
"We must survive to reach the port. Draft emergency acid-burn protocols—transmit partial data to the Africa team via backup satellite. They might use it if we fail."
Ayu lowered her head, tearful:
"Doctor… I'm scared. The deeper we dig, the more guilt I feel for the lives we're risking for a vaccine."
Chen Wei placed a hand on her arm.
"This isn't just about guilt—it's about saving whoever can still be saved. We have no other choice."
Silence fell, broken only by crickets and the haunting flow of the river.
Before the boat pushed deeper into the night, Chen Wei looked toward the dim horizon—lightning marked the coming storm. He switched on his recorder:
"Today we lost one guide and nearly died clearing a Monsoon Spitter and escaping a Temple Howler in temple ruins. The ancient manuscript holds promise for natural antibodies—but early application remains experimental and dangerous. The sea route requires parts from jungle or desert; each path carries massive risk. The team will proceed to the southern port for negotiation—hoping local factions cooperate, and we repair the engine before monsoon tide closes the river."
He ended the log, breathing heavily.
Under the tropical downpour, the boat drifted toward the ocean of hope—yet the darkness of Rotwood and Ashfall loomed ahead with sharp teeth. Chen Wei knew: the next chapter would be far more perilous. But he could not turn back. These ancient writings might be the last key to halting a global outbreak. Torn between guilt and fragile hope, he faced the dark sea—ready for the next battle.
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