"Y-yes, sorry." Grace Brooks froze for a moment, realized she was heading the wrong way, and whispered softly, pulling his hand to lead him in the right direction, but suddenly stopped in her tracks.

"What's wrong?" Henry Clark caught a strange scent with his nose. "Don't stop."

He felt Grace Brooks's hand trembling, and then heard a voice filled with fear: "Th-there's a... zombie..."

At the corner of the corridor, a foul-smelling zombie dragging a ballistic shield slowly revealed its body. Its twisted neck emitted a hoarse sound, and the steel shield scraped against the floor as it moved toward the two of them.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Grace Brooks's hand, and she felt something cold and hard placed in her palm—Henry Clark's handgun.

"Same as before: you aim, I'll steady. Don't be afraid." Henry Clark held her tightly, his voice urgent. "Let's finish this in one shot."

"We... we'll die..." Grace Brooks's body trembled, her voice choked. "I can't do it..."

"You can. Trust me." Henry Clark whispered in her ear, "You can do it, just like before—one shot to take out its head..."

Feeling the warmth at her back, Grace Brooks nodded with effort, tears streaming down as she aimed at the slowly advancing zombie, the sight wavering.

Henry Clark's voice came to her ear: "Aim..."

..."Fire!"

With Henry Clark's shout, the muzzle jolted violently. The zombie, now less than three meters away, suddenly shuddered, but did not stop advancing. A huge gash appeared on its neck, and the already lifeless cervical vertebrae were exposed as foul-smelling fluid splattered everywhere.

Shooting isn't just about aiming and pulling the trigger; for beginners, it's most common for the bullet to miss the target by a mile.

Unfortunately, using a handgun for the first time, Grace Brooks hadn't anticipated the massive recoil.

Unable to believe what had happened, Grace Brooks stood there in shock, not hearing Henry Clark's voice until the stench of the zombie hit her in the face, and she let out a terrified scream: "Ah!"

The foul stench grew stronger. Hearing the scream from his arms, Henry Clark didn't hesitate for a second. He spun around and threw Grace Brooks behind him, relying on instinct, his arm swinging rapidly in front of him.

As his arm swung, it suddenly struck something like rotting wood—that was...

"An arm!" Henry Clark muttered in a low voice. His arm twisted, and relying on years of blind experience and instinct, he grabbed that arm directly.

Through the thick fabric on the zombie, he felt as if he were grabbing a stewed, rotten pig's knuckle through the cloth—except this one was completely decayed.

His mind didn't stop; there was no time for fear or careful thought. He couldn't give the zombie any room to act.

Guided by the feel and direction from the arm, Henry Clark lifted his right foot, bent his knee, and stomped down diagonally with all his strength.

"Knee!" he called out again.

His angled foot landed on the zombie's long-rotted kneecap, and the full-force stomp made the brittle bone emit a crisp cracking sound.

As the bone broke, Henry Clark's palm suddenly yanked backward, his tensed body unleashing unimaginable strength, pulling the zombie down to the ground.

As his right foot came down, Henry Clark's other foot lifted in sync with the zombie's fall.

By estimation, by instinct, trusting experience...

Henry Clark had survived for many years relying on these things, his mind constantly simulating the enemy's movements and position.

The head's direction—it's here!

His twisting body drove his foot, and his left foot stomped down hard at the predetermined spot!

It was like stepping on a hard soccer ball, making Henry Clark's vague sense of the situation suddenly clear. Without hesitation, he crushed the head beneath his foot with all his strength. Guided by the feedback underfoot, his hand gripped the silver-plated dagger, bent down swiftly, brushed past the zombie's raised arm, and the dagger in his hand tore open the zombie's throat, embedding itself in the cervical vertebrae.

The zombie's cervical vertebrae were now completely exposed to the air.

"Still not dead?" Henry Clark panted, and then...

His left foot, which was pressing on the zombie's head, slid to its chest, finally stomping down hard on its chest, while his other foot kicked out with full force!

"Die!"

The twist of his waist drove his thigh, the power from his thigh transferred to his calf, and finally all his strength gathered at his toes. The bloodstained black sneaker instantly covered the short distance, delivering a powerful kick to the zombie's head.

The battered cervical vertebrae finally snapped. The zombie's head flew off, slammed into the wall, and finally rolled into the corner, making a sound like a soccer ball rolling away.

A solemn voice suddenly sounded in his ear: "Killed one armed zombie, reward points: 15."

Henry Clark panted, bent over, and coughed violently. The intense action of those few seconds had nearly torn his muscles apart.