Smooth Professor

The students gasped.

Several recoiled in surprise, while others leaned forward, stunned.

Nolan didn't hesitate.

He sat down, tapped his desk, and a stream of symbols danced across his interface.

His screen shifted, rearranged, and with a few more aggressive clicks, he activated screen-sharing across the class.

Each student's screen lit up.

Shared visual: NOLAN - LIVE

They could see everything he saw now. Every click, every flick of movement, every breath.

The interface glowed with intense precision, displaying the simulation settings, loading options, and dungeon access panel.

Nolan selected it with surgical accuracy.

He exhaled slowly. Clicked.

The loading screen faded into the all-too-familiar alleyway.

His voice echoed over the shared audio feed.

"Hey… little mutt heads," Nolan growled, tightening his gloves. "Watch your teacher show you all how it's done."

Immediately, Nolan's consciousness was sent.

Inside the game, the familiar digital prompt blinked onto Nolan's screen:

[Warning: Entering this simulation will yield no rewards. Proceed anyway?]

Nolan stared at it with a half-lidded expression. "Yeah," he muttered, clicking Yes without hesitation.

The screen shimmered. Then, it pulled him in.

A moment later, he was standing on a ruined modern street.

Cracks webbed through the pavement.

Burnt-out vehicles littered the sides, broken glass crunched under his boots, and the air was thick with the dry, sour stench of long-dried blood and rot.

The scent clung to everything like invisible soot.

He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.

He adjusted the grip on the worn-out combat knife in his hand. "Same smell," he said to no one in particular.

Then, casually, as if bored, Nolan raised his foot and kicked a glass bottle lying near the sidewalk.

But he didn't send it flying away immediately. Instead, the bottle lifted into the air in a perfect arc.

And with a second, fluid motion, his foot rose again—tap.

The bottle rocketed away across the street, clinking and rattling as it collided with a wall, spun down a pile of debris, and clattered to a stop.

Moments later, snarling groans rose in the air.

From behind a crumbled bus stop, a pair of infected came rushing toward the sound like starved wolves. Others soon followed.

Nolan didn't even look at them.

He slipped behind a rusted-out van, hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding his knife.

To the students watching on their screens, it was surreal.

"He's not even hiding," one of them whispered, voice shaking.

"He's not running," another gasped.

"He's just walking!"

In the simulation, Nolan passed from car to car, tree to tree, body to body—no tension in his movements. He never once crouched, never dashed, never panicked. It was as if the infected didn't exist in his reality.

But the infected did pass by him. Right by him. They sprinted toward the sound of the bottle, snarling and swiping at the air, while Nolan calmly moved like a ghost.

"He knows their detection zones," a student muttered in disbelief.

"No… it's like he isn't there to them."

"Wait, is this a cheat? No—wait, no, he's using cover…"

"Look at his timing… look at that footwork—he's not even trying to be stealthy, he just is."

The awe thickened.

They realized that Nolan was calmly using his surroundings to cover his presence to the infected whenever they passed him.

And his timing is impeccable!

Eventually, Nolan reached a large building—concrete pillars, half-collapsed signage, windows blackened with grime.

He walked through the open entrance like he owned the place.

Inside, the cracked marble floor echoed faintly. Dim flickers of emergency lighting flickered near the ceiling. The atmosphere was thick with danger.

The students leaned forward, breath held.

This is what they are waiting for.

This is where the real thing begins!

They wonder, what will teacher Nolan do now?

Then—movement.

An infected staggered into the hallway ahead, faster than the others they'd seen.

This one didn't moan. It growled.

Nolan didn't flinch. Instead, he tossed his knife a little into the air, lazily, like a coin.

It spun.

He caught it between two fingers.

Then—swoosh.

The blade sliced through the air and buried itself cleanly in the infected's skull.

The body stumbled forward. Nolan continued walking.

By the time the infected dropped, Nolan had already reached it.

Without pausing, he yanked the blade free and, with a swift wipe, cleaned it against the infected blood-stained shirt—before the body hit the ground.

Silence from the students.

It was deep silence.

Then it was chaos.

"WHAT?!"

"Did you see that?!"

"That infected almost killed me last time!"

"I had to lure it around a stairwell, kite it three times and use two full stamina bars!"

"He just—he didn't even dodge!"

"He's just… walking! Like he's shopping for vegetables!"

"I can't believe this—how is he so calm?"

"That throw—was that even a special skill?"

"No! That was a basic attack! He just threw it!"

As Nolan advanced deeper into the building, the students were gripping their desks, watching every movement with the intensity of live combat.

And Nolan? He didn't stop.

Another infected appeared.

Knife—throw—kill.

Wipe on the corpse. Keep walking. Again. And again.

Each infected fell with a clean strike to the head, perfectly timed, perfectly executed.

None of them touched him.

He made no sound beyond his footsteps.

The tension hit its peak as he stepped onto the second floor.

The infamous floor.

Every student remembered it.

This was where their attempts had gotten messy, rushed.

This was where two or three infected always grouped up, making it a nightmare to isolate them.

Many had failed here. Most barely survived.

"Here it comes," a student whispered, clutching their chest.

"What's he gonna do? They're grouped together."

"I had to spend two minutes just to split them!"

On their screens, Nolan turned a corner. There they were.

Two infected, almost side by side.

He kept walking.

The students screamed in their minds, "No, no, no, don't get close like that!"

But Nolan didn't break his stride.

He didn't even change pace.

The first infected and nearest of the two, lunged.

He flicked his wrist. Swoosh! The knife sailed through the air—splat!—straight into the forehead of the closer infected.

It dropped.

But Nolan was already walking toward it.

Still no rush.

He reached the body as it began to fall. In one swift movement, he yanked the knife from its head—and before the body hit the floor, Nolan shifted it.

He stepped behind it, using the falling corpse like a puppet, angling its torso outward.

The second infected slammed into it, snarling, disoriented for a half-second.

That was all Nolan needed.

He ducked slightly, stepped forward, and drove his knife into the back of its head in one clean, silent strike.

The second infected collapsed next to the first.

Nolan wiped his blade again—on the clothes of the first corpse—and walked forward, as if nothing happened.

As if it was just part of his morning routine.

The students watching were stunned silent.

Eyes wide. Jaws dropped. Breaths shaky.

Then came the uproar.

"WHAT?! WHAT?!"

"Did you SEE THAT?!"

"He used the body as a shield!"

"No… no, no, that's beyond shield—he made it delay the second infected!"

"He knew the fall time!"

"He timed the stagger frames!"

"Is that even possible?!"

"I'm losing my mind!"

Nolan, still in-game, showed no signs of acknowledging their frenzy.

He adjusted the knife in his hand.

Then, casually, he tilted his head toward the side—where a floating camera watched him from above, reflecting the class's viewpoint.

And just as he turned back down the hallway—

He smirked and sneered.

These Silver Blade City maggots are probably going crazy now. He could only imagine, but he's not done!