My 100th Rebirth a day before the Apocalypse novel Chapter 744

Not only was Hawk immune to cold and able to endure extreme temperatures without flinching when the weather spiked, but in the chaos of a zombie horde, he didn't even need to lift a finger.

He could simply stand at the center of the carnage, flames blazing around him like a divine barrier, and the undead would fall at his feet like flies—burning alive before they ever laid a hand on him.

Effortless. Unstoppable. Untouchable.

But the truth was—it wasn't as effortless as it looked.

Maintaining the flame that cloaked Hawk's body came at a steep cost. It devoured his spiritual energy like fuel, draining him rapidly. Keeping the lava armor ablaze was like burning through gas at full throttle, and with his limited reserves, he could only sustain it for about five minutes at most.

After that, he'd need at least an hour of rest just to recover enough spiritual energy to activate it again. _{frёeweɓηovel.coɱ}

So, while the ability looked godlike, it came with very real limitations.

At the three-minute mark, with only a dozen zombies remaining, Hawk wisely extinguished his flames and switched to close combat. He pulled out his dagger and fought with precision, burying the blade into one zombie's head, one after another.

By his side, Eagle stepped up to support. His element was water—versatile for humans, but tricky to weaponize against the undead. Still, Eagle had trained relentlessly, unwilling to be sidelined or feel useless among his battle-hardened comrades.

Through rigorous practice, he mastered a technique: condensing water into high-pressure spikes that spun at blinding speed, their tips sharp as drills. When hurled, they pierced through zombie skulls with brutal efficiency.

Water may be shapeless, but in Eagle's hands, it became a deadly weapon—proof that he wasn't just decoration on the battlefield.

Especially when standing beside Hawk—who radiated the overwhelming presence of a destructive Fire God—Eagle couldn't help but feel the pressure. But thankfully, his water spikes proved to be just as lethal in their own right.

As one zombie charged toward them, Eagle hurled a condensed spike of spinning water. The high-pressure drill-like tip struck the zombie square in the forehead, boring a clean hole straight through its skull. The impact sent a burst of black, foul-smelling blood spraying out the back, leaving a grotesque trail of gore in its wake. It was a grim, stomach-turning sight—but effective.

Eagle conjured one water spike after another, hurling them with precision at the oncoming zombies. Each strike hit its mark, piercing skulls with brutal efficiency.

Meanwhile, Hawk moved through the battlefield like a blazing phantom, his dagger burying into heads with practiced ease, almost as if he were dancing through death itself.

Dracon and his team, aside from the sniper's two silent kills, hadn't even made a move. Compared to Hawk and Eagle, they looked almost like bystanders—silent, unmoving, conserving their strength. The rest of the Winters' men stood back as well, eyes sharp, hands ready but idle, as though they were simply observing the show.

But this wasn't about apathy. It was strategy.

They didn't know how long they'd need to hold the line, or what threats might come next. It would be reckless to expend all their energy now, only to be left defenseless later when real trouble arrived.

Bald Eagle had learned this the hard way—how unpredictable the apocalypse could be. The moment they let their guard down, chaos always struck.

Better to be cautious than careless. If they burned out too early, they risked collapsing their entire defense line—and that was simply unacceptable.