THE END (MinChan)

Chapter-1

The world teetered on the brink of extinction. The undead roamed freely, dominating the once-thriving cities, now graveyards of civilization. Yet, among the ruins, the surviving few clung to the desperate hope of rebuilding. But Minho knew better. From his perspective, humans—the survivors—were far more evil than the mindless undead that hunted them.

Three years ago, when it all began, he was just 17. He had been sitting alone in his small, dimly lit apartment, waiting for his grandmother to return from her quick grocery run. She had been his only family, the one constant in his life. Hours turned into days, and still, she never came back.

At first, he believed the government would send help. The army, the police—someone. But no one came. Instead, the world outside grew quieter, more deadly. The moaning of the undead echoed through the streets, and each day without food became a test of his will to survive. Eventually, the rations ran out, and Minho was forced to face the grim reality—if he wanted to live, he had to venture out.

In those early days, he found temporary shelter, but none of them lasted long. The undead were relentless, but the worst dangers came from humans. Raiders, bandits, scavengers—people had become worse than the monsters. They stole, killed, and destroyed with no remorse. Minho had learned not to trust anyone. His heart hardened over the years, and he wandered the wasteland alone, keeping his secrets buried deep.

Now, as he walked down a desolate highway, the wind howled through the abandoned cars that littered the road. Their parts had long been stripped by scavengers, leaving nothing but rusted skeletons. Minho's eyes darted warily from side to side, his senses heightened, always prepared for a sudden attack from the undead or something worse.

His backpack hung heavily on his shoulders, packed with only the essentials—water, food, a flashlight, a small knife, and his most precious item: a photograph of his grandmother. It was the only thing that kept him grounded in a world that had gone mad.

The highway stretched ahead of him, cracked and broken, disappearing into the misty horizon. He didn't know where he was going. He had no destination. But survival was all that mattered now.

Minho walked in silence, his boots crunching against the crumbling asphalt of the deserted highway. The world was eerily quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Suddenly, a piercing scream tore through the stillness—a child's scream.

His heart stopped for a moment. A child? In three years of this nightmare, Minho had never encountered anyone younger than fifteen. The sight of children had become a ghostly memory, one that faded with the passing days of survival. But that scream—it was unmistakable.

Without thinking, he bolted toward the sound, abandoning the safety of the road. His legs pumped furiously as he charged into the dense woods, ducking under low branches and dodging the underbrush. The scream echoed again, closer now, and Minho pushed himself harder. He broke through a clearing and saw the source: a small boy, no older than six or seven, running in terror from three of the undead.

The creatures moved sluggishly but with deadly intent, their hollow eyes locked on their prey. The boy stumbled over roots, barely keeping his distance. Without hesitation, Minho drew his katana, its blade catching the last fading rays of daylight. He motioned silently for the child to keep running, and the boy, eyes wide with fear, obeyed without question.

Minho rushed forward, his body a blur of motion. In one swift arc, he sliced through the necks of two undead, their decayed bodies collapsing to the ground in a heap. The third lunged at him with clawed hands, but Minho was faster. He spun on his heel and brought the blade down in a clean strike, severing its head before it could make contact.

Panting, he looked over to the boy, who had collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath. Minho sheathed his katana and approached cautiously, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay, little one?" he asked, his voice soft, a rare tenderness escaping him.

The child looked up at him, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. His lip trembled before he burst into sobs, the sound full of exhaustion and fear. Minho's chest tightened. He knelt down further, gently scooping the boy into his arms, cradling him close. "Shh, it's alright now," he whispered, rocking him slightly, "You're safe. I've got you."

The boy clung to him, his small hands gripping Minho's jacket as if his life depended on it. Minho stood, scanning the woods. He knew they couldn't stay there. The woods were dangerous, especially at night. They had to find shelter, and fast.

He retraced his steps quickly, navigating the thick trees until they emerged back onto the desolate highway. The sky was growing darker, and the air had a chilling bite. Minho's eyes landed on an old ambulance, abandoned on the side of the road. "This looks safe enough," he muttered to himself.

The child had fallen asleep in his arms, his tiny body limp from exhaustion. Minho carefully pried open the ambulance door and stepped inside. The interior smelled faintly of antiseptic, though it was old and worn. He laid the boy down gently on one of the stretchers, his gaze lingering for a moment.

"Rest while you can, kid," Minho whispered, sitting beside him. Night was falling, and the world outside was still as unforgiving as ever.

That's for now, hope the reader's will be enjoying the story further

（づ￣3￣）づ╭❤️～ヾ(￣▽￣) Bye~Bye~