Regressing Through the Apocalypse with the Third Male Lead-Chapter 31: Volume 2.

December 21, 2024

Saturday

The village was a hive of activity. Everyone was hard at work, building the towering walls that would encircle their home. It was grueling labor, but there was no other choice.

From time to time, Freyah broke away from the construction efforts to patrol the perimeter, ensuring that no stray zombies slipped through the cracks. The last thing they needed was an attack from within.

***

December 22, 2024

Sunday

The defensive structure was meticulously planned. Four great walls would rise—named simply: Northern Wall, Eastern Wall, Western Wall, and Southern Wall. There would be only two entry points—one in the north and another in the south, heavily fortified for security.

Along the walls, twelve watchtowers would stand sentinel—one at each corner and two along the middle of each wall. A stone rampart would stretch along the top, allowing patrols to run and walk freely, much like the battlements of an ancient fortress.

Florence had taken a leading role in designing the fortifications. A veteran of countless battles, he knew all too well what made a stronghold impenetrable. His next plan was to dig a deep trench around the walls, a barrier against the horrors outside. Two retractable mechanical bridges—one in the north and one in the south—would be the only means of crossing.

They were building more than just walls. They were forging a sanctuary.

***

December 23, 2024

Monday

The work was relentless. Every brick, every plank, every bolt of reinforcement was a battle against time.

Freyah knew they couldn’t afford delays. The monsters were evolving—growing stronger, faster, deadlier. And so, she worked. She barely slept. She barely ate. There was too much to do, and time was running out.

***

December 24, 2024

Tuesday

Present Time...

Freyah stood atop a hill, surveying San Roque Village. Where an abandoned house once stood, a new cemented structure had risen. For now, its wooden roof served as a temporary shelter for meetings—a beacon of their growing civilization.

From her vantage point, she watched as the village bustled with movement. Their community had divided into six essential groups, each crucial to their survival.

Builders – Tasked with constructing and fortifying the village, they worked under the leadership of Freyah’s father. Once a construction worker and an engineering student, he had been forced to abandon his education due to financial hardship. Now, his experience was invaluable.Service – Handling domestic tasks such as laundry, cleaning, sewing, and meal preparation, this group was led by Gwenette, ensuring that day-to-day life remained functional despite the chaos beyond the walls.Medical – Under the care of Aling Martha, a village elder, these individuals tended to injuries and illnesses, their knowledge of medicine making the difference between life and death.Resources – Focused on farming, supply storage, and resource management, this group, led by Monica, was the backbone of their self-sufficiency.Combatants – The warriors of the village. Tasked with defense, they stood vigilant against any threats, both living and undead. Freyah’s uncle commanded them, ensuring that no enemy breached their sanctuary.Rescuers – This would soon be Freyah’s domain. Their mission was to venture beyond the walls, searching for survivors in the ruins of the city. The more people they saved, the stronger their community would become.

Freyah clenched her fists. The walls were rising, the people were organizing, and the village was transforming into a fortress. But survival wasn’t enough.

They would not just endure.

They would reclaim their world.

***

While the village’s defenses were steadily taking shape according to their plans, Freyah knew there was something else that needed to be done.

"An Awakened Class?"

"Yes," she confirmed.

A murmur spread across the room. They were gathered in an emergency meeting—one that Freyah had called herself.

"Starting on the 26th, I’ll dedicate two hours each day to teaching everyone how to access their awakened abilities."

Silence followed. All eyes were on her.

"This way," she continued, her voice firm, "we can strengthen ourselves. The stronger we become, the better we can defend this village—and the better chance we have at surviving the battles ahead."

This was the final piece of the plan.

And just as she expected—one by one, everyone nodded.

They all agreed.

"Then 6:00 pm onwards, let’s rest and prepare for a feast this evening and tomorrow!" Freyah raised her fist.

"Yes!" The whole crowd cheered.

***

Later That Night...

"Everyone’s busy again. Christmas, is it?"

Florence approached Freyah, handing her a cup of coffee. He knew exactly where to find her at this hour—perched on the rooftop of their meeting place atop the hill, silently watching over the village.

Freyah accepted the cup, her fingers wrapping around the warmth. She took a slow sip, then her eyes widened slightly. No sugar. Just the way she liked it.

"You remembered," she murmured.

Florence gave a small smile.

Freyah held the cup with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her skin. "I never imagined I’d celebrate Christmas like this... with everyone." Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the night breeze.

Crack.

The cup suddenly shattered, ceramic shards slipping through her fingers and scattering across the rooftop.

Florence’s eyes widened. "Your hand—"

Blood dripped from her palm where the broken pieces had cut her. Instinctively, Florence reached out, ready to heal her. But before he could do anything, the wounds sealed themselves shut, her skin returning to normal as if nothing had happened.

"Right... your regenerative ability," he sighed.

Still, concern lingered in his eyes. "What were you thinking just now? For you to break the cup like that?"

Freyah stared at the glass shards, her expression unreadable.

"...It was around this time," she finally said, her voice distant. "I was at a camp in Manila. I met Tatay Timothy and his last remaining grandchild, Cherallyn."

Florence stayed silent, listening.

"They both died." Her voice wavered slightly. "Cherallyn... she turned. Tatay Timothy had to shoot her—his own flesh and blood—before taking his own life." She exhaled shakily. "Three days later, the entire camp was wiped out by an evolved monster."

Florence didn’t speak. He simply watched as she lowered her gaze, the flickering lights of the village reflecting in her eyes.

"I was terrified," she admitted. "Completely helpless. All I could do was run. Soldiers were fighting. People were screaming—begging for help. And I... I couldn’t do anything. I ran while they died. How pathetic is that?"

She reached down, fingers hovering over the shattered pieces of the cup. ƒreewebɳovel.com

"Stop." Florence caught her wrist before she could touch the shards.

"It’ll heal anyway," she said flatly.

"That’s not the point." His grip tightened slightly. "Even if I can heal myself, I still feel the pain. And that means you feel it too, Milady."

Freyah blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his words.

"...Ah. That." She let out a short breath. "Yes. I suppose I do."

But physical pain had never really mattered to her. Not anymore. The ache in her chest, the weight of her past, that was the kind of pain that never healed.

One more loss.

Just one more person dear to her, gone. If that happened again—if she failed again—she didn’t know what she’d become.

Florence studied her face, his eyes filled with something she couldn’t quite place. Pity? Concern?

Then, after a pause, she suddenly spoke.

"Your Highness... you’re worrying too much." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "Now that we’re here, talking like this... can I ask you for something?"

Florence tilted her head. "What is it?"

"A spar."

He blinked. "A spar?"

"Yes," Freyah said. "With everything we’ve got. We’ve never properly tested each other’s strength, have we?"

Florence considered this, then smirked. "Haven’t you already defeated me once? You threw me to the ground, remember?"

Freyah let out a chuckle. "I caught you off guard. And you didn’t have your magic."

Florence laughed softly at the memory.

"Then don’t hold back this time," she challenged.

Florence’s eyes gleamed. "I won’t."

***

Moments Later...

The two made their way to the southern part of the village, where a vacant stretch of flat land lay untouched. Aside from a ditch recently dug for inserting iron pillars for the walls, there was little else in the area—a perfect place for a sparring match.

"I’ll begin, Your Highness," Freyah declared, her voice firm.

Without hesitation, she surged forward, her speed nearly inhuman, aiming a powerful right kick at Florence’s face.

He reacted instantly, raising his arm to block the strike. The impact echoed slightly, but before he could counter, Freyah had already stepped back, fluidly evading his incoming punch.

For a moment, they stood still, studying each other. Then, Freyah pulled out two knives.

"Use this, Your Highness," she said, tossing one to Florence, who caught it effortlessly. "Let’s fight at full strength."

Florence arched a brow. "Isn’t this spar getting a little too dangerous?"

He glanced around, then let the knife drop onto a nearby stone and bent down, picking up two small twigs instead.

"Let’s use these," he suggested, twirling them between his fingers. "Even with these, I can still channel my aura, Milady."

Freyah smirked, tossing her knife away into a safe distance before catching the twig he handed her.

"If that’s what you want, Your Highness."

This time, Florence struck first.

As soon as their twigs clashed, a burst of icy energy crackled between them, sending a chill into the night air. Golden eyes met deep, shadowed ones—fierce, unyielding, locked in silent challenge. Their faces were inches apart, breaths mingling, yet neither flinched.

The fight was relentless. Every strike was met with equal force, each movement sharp and calculated. The snap and crack of their twigs echoed through the open field as they tested each other’s limits.

The wind howled around them, carrying dust and leaves in a swirling dance, as if nature itself was caught in the intensity of their battle.

Yet, after an hour, neither had gained the upper hand.

They stood still, breathing evenly—not from exhaustion, but exhilaration. A slow smile curled on both their lips, a mutual respect flickering between them.

Neither had gone all out. And they both knew it.

"You’re good, Milady," Florence murmured, twirling his twig effortlessly between his fingers.

Freyah smirked, her golden eyes gleaming with something playful—something dangerous. "Thank you, Your Highness. And as expected... if I hadn’t caught you off guard before, you wouldn’t have been so easily defeated."

She tilted her head, her voice lowering into a challenge.

"But... I wonder if you can stop this."

She lunged.

Their twigs collided again—but this time, Freyah let go.

Instead of blocking, she caught Florence’s twig with her bare hand.

For the first time, he hesitated. His eyes flickered with surprise—but only for a fraction of a second. Instinct kicked in, and he stepped back swiftly, releasing the twig before she could crush it entirely.

Yet, Freyah wasn’t done.

The next second, she was already moving—swift, merciless.

She drove her knee up—striking Florence’s stomach with just enough force to stagger him.

Then, before he could react, the tip of her twig was already at his throat.

Silence.

Their breaths were heavy, not from fatigue but from something unspoken, something electric in the air between them. The closeness, the heat, the lingering intensity of their fight—it was intoxicating.

Florence’s gaze flickered from the twig pressed against his neck to the fire burning in Freyah’s dark eyes.

Then, he smiled. Slow. Amused. But there was something deeper in it—something that stole the breath from her lungs. Admiration. Desire. A quiet, unshakable claim.

"It’s a good thing I chose twigs over knives, Milady," he murmured, his voice a silken whisper, dark and teasing. "Or I’d have to endure the unbearable sight of your blood staining your own hands again with your self-hurt tendencies."

His fingers moved, deliberate and unhurried, tracing over her hand holding the twig. His touch was warm, steady, coaxing. He didn’t try to take the twig from her. No—he let it linger, pressed to his throat, as if inviting her to push harder. To test him.

The air around them was frigid, but it was hot. He was fire, seeping into her skin, unraveling her resolve with the ghost of his touch.

His thumb swept over her knuckles, slow, reverent. A silent demand. A quiet surrender.

"I admit defeat," he whispered.

Yet in his gaze, it was smoldering and unyielding.

"Thank you for allowing me to spar with you, Your Highness," Freyah said, lowering her twig. Yet this time, as she stepped back, an unfamiliar weight settled in her chest.

Why did it feel like she was the one who had lost—rather than him?

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