Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse

The world folded wrong.

Lucan’s teleportation stuttered that sickening lurch where space gathered around him like crumpled silk and then refused to smooth out. He landed hard on cracked asphalt, claws scraping concrete, and immediately pivoted into a crouch. The zombies were already closing. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Shambling through the market stalls, their movements too coordinated, too directed.

He teleported again. He had been teleporting for hours, running away from her. She didn’t want him anymore, and it stung.

This time the fold pulled sideways, and he came out three meters to the left of where he’d aimed, slamming into a rusted car frame. The impact rattled through his ribs. He tasted copper.

Again.

The space around him gathered, compressed, and released, and he was somewhere else entirely. A narrow alley between two collapsed buildings. Vines choked the walls. The air reeked of rot and something electric, something that made the fur along his spine stand on end.

He didn’t know where he was.

That fact landed in his chest like a physical blow. Lucan had never lost his bearings. Not once. His spatial awareness was absolute; it was the foundation of everything he was. Every teleportation was calculated to the millimetre, every fold in space mapped against an internal compass that never wavered.

Now he was blind.

He pressed his back against the brick wall and forced himself to breathe; he was burning through his reserves too fast. Each teleportation cost more than the last, and the precision kept degrading. He was running on instinct and desperation, and instinct alone wasn’t going to save him.

The sound came first, a low, wet dragging. Then the shapes emerged from both ends of the alley.

Lucan bared his teeth and teleported upward, folding space above him, and landed on the roof of the taller building. The night air hit his face. Stars above, ruins below, and between them, the horde. They filled the streets in every direction, a tide of decaying flesh moving with singular purpose.

Toward Bowral.

The thought sent ice through his veins. Toward Felicity.

He needed to get back. Needed to warn them. Needed to....

The memory hit him like a fist to the sternum.

Felicity’s face. The way her blue eyes had gone glassy with hurt. The way her fennec fox ears had flattened against her honey-blonde hair. The sound she’d made, not a sob, not quite, but something quieter and worse. Something that had cracked open inside his chest and left him bleeding.

He’d told her she was nothing. He’d said the words with his own mouth, in his own voice, and watched them destroy her.

No.

The realisation detonated behind his eyes. Not his words. Not his thoughts. The enchantment... the hallucination magic that had crawled inside his skull and rewritten everything he knew. He’d been controlled. Played like an instrument. And he’d shattered the one person who-

His claws dug into the roof’s edge. Concrete crumbled beneath his grip.

The guilt was physical. A weight that pressed against his lungs and squeezed until his vision blurred at the edges. He’d broken her heart. He’d looked at the woman who loved him, who loved all of them with that fierce, unconditional warmth, and he’d ground her into dust because some dead thing had reached into his mind and turned him.

He needed to get back to her. Needed to fall at her feet and beg forgiveness. Needed to...

A voice cut through the night, and it wasn’t a voice at all. It was something that wore a voice like a costume.

"Well. Look what wandered into my territory."

Lucan’s head snapped toward the sound. The figure stood on the roof of the adjacent building close enough to see, far enough that teleporting there would cost him everything he had left. It was tall. Impossibly tall. And it was covered in black mist that writhed and coiled around its form like something alive.

A zombie general.

Not the one that had enchanted him. This one was different—leaner, sharper, the mist around it thicker and darker. But the same category of threat. The same order of magnitude that Lucan, at his current level, could not match.

"Stay back," Lucan growled. His voice came out rougher than he intended. Weaker.

The General tilted its head. The gesture was almost human, almost curious, and that made it worse.

"You’re the one who fell." The words carried on the mist, whispered from everywhere and nowhere. "The one who broke so easily. The other General told me about you. Said you were fun."

Lucan’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

"Did you enjoy it?" The General’s voice curled with something that might have been laughter. "Being their puppet? Saying whatever they put in your mouth? I heard you were quite the performance. The great panther Lucan reduced to a mouthpiece."

"Shut up."

"Oh, but I’m just getting started." The mist pulsed, and the General took a step forward. The roof beneath its feet didn’t creak. Didn’t shift. As though gravity itself had given up on the creature. "Do you know what the best part was? You didn’t even fight it. The enchantment slid right in. Like you were waiting for someone to take the wheel."

Every word was a blade. Lucan felt them cutting into the raw, exposed thing his arrogance had been hiding, the truth he’d buried beneath precision and dry wit and the careful construction of competence.

He was weak.

Not by ordinary standards. By the standards of what was coming. By the standards of what already existed in the world—Generals and worse, things that could reach inside a mind and twist it into a weapon against the people he loved. He was below level 100. He was nothing to something like this.

And he’d proven it.

"Your little fox must be devastated," the General murmured. The mist whispered around it, other voices, layered beneath the primary one, speaking in languages Lucan couldn’t parse. "Such a fragile thing. All that light. All that power. And you handed her the knife and told her where to cut."

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