Cultivator in a Zombie Apocalypse

The silence was profound, broken only by the rasp of dry air filling his lungs. Ren Zexian gasped, a raw, unfamiliar sound, as the calcified shell that had encased him for what felt like an eternity cracked and crumbled away. Dust, fine and ancient, swirled around him, stinging his eyes.

He pushed himself up, his limbs stiff, the faint echo of a desperate spell still lingering in his mind. Eld Dein, his beloved Middle Realm, was gone, replaced by a crushing void. He had felt it, the final, agonizing splintering of his home world as their desperate descension spell took hold.

Darkness surrounded him, absolute and impenetrable. Yet, there was a faint whisper of spiritual energy in the air, thin but present—a stark contrast to the barrenness of his dying world. He stretched out a weak, spiritual sense, searching, hoping.

Nothing. No sign of Yu Zhang, no trace of Lu Ting, no one.

He was alone. Or so he thought. A faint, blinking light in the distance, alien and rhythmic, drew his attention. And then, a low, guttural growl, followed by another. A sound he had never heard, yet instinctively knew spelled danger. He summoned his sword, the familiar weight a small comfort in this utterly alien place.