I am the Zombie King of the Apocalyptic World
Chapter 1574 - 1568: When Illusions Arise

Chapter 1574: Chapter 1568: When Illusions Arise

The nickname "Ghost Head" didn’t make him feel uncomfortable at all. On the contrary, it was tied to a memory that had left a deep impression on him. It originated from that patch of his scalp where no hair grew.

He was an ordinary person, whether it was before the Apocalypse or during it, merely a Level 2 New Human—better than some, worse than others.

When he was born, his parents were working away from home, so he was sent to live with his grandparents. Up until the Apocalypse began, he’d spent the majority of his life in the countryside with them.

In his childhood memories, the village was far from prosperous. Even though electronic devices were everywhere in the cities, back then a television was still considered a rare luxury in his village, with only a handful of households owning such high-tech items.

When he was in elementary school, he became obsessed with a particular cartoon. For over a month, every evening he would walk over ten minutes to his childhood friend’s house in the west end of the village to catch the show during its airing time.

After more than a month, even though he watched the series to its grand finale, the habit persisted. Heading to his friend’s house in the west end to watch TV became a daily ritual.

But one day, an accident happened. That evening, after arriving at his friend’s place, he was disappointed to find that his friend’s father had taken over the television. Watching his cartoon was now out of the question. Back then, smartphones were still nonexistent, so for kids like them, entertainment options were limited to playing hide-and-seek or cops and robbers—or watching TV.

Left with no choice, the two boys watched whatever the adults were watching. Unfortunately for them, that night the friend’s father was watching a supernatural horror film. At first, he was curious about the ghosts and otherworldly creatures—"Ghost Head" was something he’d only ever heard legends about from older villagers but had never seen anything like it.

In a mix of fear and morbid fascination, he finished watching the horror movie!

On the way home, however, the familiar road he’d walked countless times became haunted by sinister images from the film. The flowers and grasses along the path now seemed like clawing specters, making him terrified. He remembered glancing back repeatedly, feeling as though someone—or something—was following him. Scenes from the movie kept flashing in his mind.

Nighttime in the countryside was usually serenely quiet. He had once cherished the breeze that drifted in from afar during the night, but now, in his mind, that very wind carried whispers of ghostly women. If he let his guard down, one of those blue-clad, wild-haired apparitions might suddenly reveal her horrific visage right in front of him.

The fear became so intense that he was nearly suffocating!

Then he turned—a massive shadow darted past him, almost scaring him out of his skin. With quickened steps, the journey home that usually took him over ten minutes was completed in just under five. In his haste, he tripped and fell, striking his head against a moss-covered rock wall and scraping off a patch of scalp.

When he got home, it didn’t take long for him to fall sick—unquestionably caused by the fright he experienced. He ran a high fever for several days, feeling utterly drained and in a state of delirium. The images from the TV replayed incessantly in his mind.

Even as he grew older, that horror movie remained a mental scar. However, it was during that time that his grandfather bought him the watch he’d always wanted. The moment he received it—the joy it brought him—was something he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Funny enough, when his fever subsided, he learned that the shadow which had scared him was merely the butcher’s dog from nearby—a dog so well-fed that it had grown exceptionally large.

The spot on his scalp where the rock had scraped off his skin never grew back its hair. He would often recount this story to others, even if it elicited laughter and ridicule. Yet he was unfazed, because in the Apocalypse, sharing this experience somehow bridged the gap between him and strangers he otherwise wouldn’t have connected with.

Over time, his story and that bald patch came to embody the nickname "Ghost Head."

"Get over here and lend a hand! What are you standing there for?"

While Ghost Head was lost in his reminiscence, a soldier not far ahead shouted at him. Ghost Head hastily quickened his pace and walked toward the soldier. Upon reaching him, the soldier instructed, "Grab your gun properly! Keep it positioned here—it’ll be easier to pull out when needed. Don’t have it stuck. Combat might break out at any moment, and you won’t even have the time to look for it if something happens. Got it?"

"Yes, yes. Thank you, thank you."

The soldier removed the laser weapon strapped to Ghost Head’s backpack and fixed it to the groove on the shoulder of his combat suit. During a battle, he could draw it with just one forceful motion—a task faster than a second.

Ghost Head expressed his gratitude immediately. In this world, he dared not slack off or offend anyone, as even the most unassuming person here could have clawed their way out of life-and-death struggles.

Lately, he wasn’t sure what was happening to him—he kept revisiting past memories. Catching tadpoles in the fields with his childhood friend, making scarecrows with his grandmother, walking down muddy paths after school. When it rained, he’d pick wild lotus leaves by the roadside to use as an umbrella. He even recalled walking home with the girl he had a crush on, asking her what her favorite day of the week was.

The answer he vaguely remembered was Monday, although it turned out he was wrong—she, like him, favored Fridays. Friday afternoons meant the weekend was practically here, when homework could wait, and she could sleep in the next morning without waking early.

At times, he could even smell the wind from his hometown. Mixed in that breeze was the fresh scent of damp earth. In fleeting moments, he thought he saw water-beaded cabbages and longed for the meals of his childhood.

It was an illusion—a mirage. But when did the illusion begin? He couldn’t say. It felt as though it had always been there, yet at the same time, as if it had only appeared recently.

His gaze settled on a yellow flower in the distance, hope flickering in his eyes. Perhaps, when all of this ended, he might see that flower again. By then, it would surely radiate vitality, resilient against the harsh surroundings. But this seemed to be nothing more than a fantasy. Even though it hadn’t happened yet, reality seemed to whisper the truth to him: many people would die—including, but not limited to, him.

The yellow flower would grow, but by then his body would have decayed, turning to bones scattered alongside the road—or perhaps he’d become a zombie, swept up in the tide of the undead.