Pussshhh—

The generator malfunctioned.

Following the manual, I carried out a procedural inspection, replacing parts prone to wear and running sequential tests, and determined there was no issue with the generator itself.

The problem was the fuel.

The fuel had gone bad.

Despite the carefully maintained storage tanks and the additives mixed in, the fuel preserved before the war had turned rancid.

Nothing is more absolute than time.

This batch was stockpiled before the war started.

At least five years old.

Of course, even rancid fuel can be used.

The problem is that rancid fuel contains too much water and grows viscous, which becomes the cause of breakdowns in the generator system.

Fuel can be replaced with synthetic oil or reclaimed through re-refining, but a broken generator cannot be replaced.

My generator is the heart of my bunker itself.

Even with maintenance parts on hand, I can’t just leave the high risk of breakdown unchecked and force it to run.

I drained every drop of fuel currently inside the generator.

Before I left the bunker, the generator had been running on a mix—half synthetic oil, half diesel from storage—but now I had no choice but to switch to 100% synthetic.

The problem was the amount of synthetic oil.

I’d received some through various requests, from Woo Min-hee and others, but I’d also used a lot, and Ha Tae-hoon had used and taken some while borrowing my territory.

What remained now was ten gallons.

That might sound like a lot to some, but for someone like me, running a large generator, it wasn’t much at all.

Each time I run the generator to charge the batteries, it consumes about 2.5 gallons.

Which means four runs. That’s it.

During winter, I ran the generator once a week.

That means I can keep it running for about a month, give or take.

Soon Defender will bring the cargo I entrusted him with, including synthetic oil, but that supply will only be about four gallons.

To use diesel again requires blending with a mixer and filtering through a refining setup.

That’s what creates so-called “recycled fuel.”

Such processes should really be carried out in a specialized facility, but back in the day, John Nae-non translated a Viva! Apocalypse! post that described how to do small-scale, home-industry diesel re-refining.

The problem was that even to follow the great John Nae-non’s translated method, I’d still need certain preparations.

Especially a mixer to blend the fuel evenly—absolutely essential. But me, who do you think I am?

In my storage I had a three-horsepower hydraulic mixer, covered in tarps, waiting exactly for this kind of day.

The remaining step was filtering. To make the blended diesel usable again, I’d need filters.

As expected of my past self, I had filters ready too.

It wasn’t for nothing that I, Park Gyu, became a multi-debtor.

All the junk I bought before the war has now become my greatest assets.

The problem is, re-refining diesel has to be done outside.

The stench and toxic gases that come from it can’t be handled even by the ventilation system I designed and Ha Tae-hoon repaired.

I’ll need to work on it little by little when I have time, converting it into something usable. But it won’t be easy.

I’d been away from the bunker for quite a long time.

Though five years had /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ passed since the war began, I’d actually lived in the bunker for only about three years.

More than two years were spent outside.

Creeeak—creeak—

The surveillance equipment Ha Tae-hoon gifted me shared footage over wireless LAN. As long as I was within range of the router, I could check whatever the cameras picked up on any device.

Thanks to that, even though it was broad daylight, I didn’t need to stand watch, and I could work inside the garage.

I assembled the mixer according to the manual and gave it a test run.

Whirrrrr—

The paddle-like blades inside turned slowly.

I wondered if this thing could really mix fuel properly, but it was designed by engineering PhDs.

It would work as intended.

Of course, beside me while I worked sat a laptop.

[ Necropolis Synchronization 4% ]

The Necropolis signal was being picked up, but not nearly at the level I wanted.

An 80% sync would be needed to use Necropolis again for globe-spanning communications like before.

I was idly fiddling with the mixer when—

Bang!

A gunshot rang out in the distance.

I went back into the bunker and checked Mark Two.

Mark Two was on the sofa, which I’d covered with an electric blanket, fiddling with a tablet.

“Cough! Cough!”

According to the advice of Kim Daram, a veteran housewife, the best way to keep kids quiet was with a phone. So I’d loaded up an old tablet with e-books and a few random games, and it worked wonders.

“Stay here. I’ll just step out for a bit.”

“Because of the gunshots?”

“Yeah. They weren’t close, but I still need to check.”

I grabbed my firearm and stepped outside.

A chill wind seeped through my collar as I climbed the hill to the camouflaged outpost.

Bang! Bang!

Two more shots.

Southwest.

The road toward Sejong.

I used the optical scope to check the direction the sound had come from.

Beyond the ridgeline.

The shots came from somewhere I couldn’t see.

Soon the gunfire stopped, and the snowfield was once again wrapped in familiar silence.

I lowered my guard and was about to head back to the bunker when the radio crackled.

Chhhzzzt—

Reception on a public frequency.

I’d heard this plenty of times before.

Usually, in these cases—

“I’ve been shot. Bleeding bad. Anyone who hears this, please, I beg you, help me.”

The dying broadcast of someone begging for aid came through.

But even those transmissions couldn’t be trusted in the apocalypse.

Pretending to be wounded, firing off a few blanks, and luring people in with fake pleas for help—only to ambush them and take everything—was a raider trick as old as the early days of the collapse.

Con men always start by scamming their own family, then graduate to scamming strangers’ goodwill.

“Please. Please, help me. My vision’s going dark. I can’t move. I’m stuck under the chassis...”

Broadcasts like that often went on for hours, sometimes more than a day.

On the forums, there were stories of people begging for their lives for three straight days.

The odds were fifty-fifty.

There really were people who needed help. Not a few.

But was there any reason to risk even one percent of your life for a complete stranger?

Usually, this was where you turned the radio off.

No need to hear more.

Even if that person really was desperately in need, so what?

These things happened all the time.

The quicker you turned it off, the quicker you forgot.

But today, for some reason, I didn’t want to switch it off.

I felt like listening longer.

I didn’t know why.

Maybe since I’d just returned to my own territory, it was a way of regaining some tension, some sense of presence.

And anyway, as long as I stayed here, I’d be hearing plenty of these desperate broadcasts.

“I know where there’s fuel! Cough! Free fuel! Nobody’s guarding it! Just a few landmines to get past! I know the spot!”

“Ahhh... Someone, please. Save me. I don’t want to die. Not like this, not here...”

“If I survive, I’ll kill every bastard here! Cough! Cough! Trash scum. Didn’t your parents ever tell you to help people?!”

The dying man showed the usual distress-call pattern.

Rambling in every tone, then suddenly falling silent, and then silence forever.

If a corpse was found, he’d been a desperate victim. If not, then just another raider.

I was just about to cut the radio and head back to the bunker when—

“...Do you know Kang Han-min is dead?”

My hand paused.

The faint voice continued.

“They say Kang Han-min is dead. That the one who killed him is in Sejong... Ha, ha... Fuck. This shitty world’s over. Over...”

At first it sounded like the usual curses and raving of a dying man.

But that story was directly connected to me—intimately tied to my life.

Still, that alone wasn’t enough to make me show myself.

Anyone could claim to have killed Kang Han-min.

But the next words moved me.

“Do you know what that bastard said...? Cough! Cough! He said... ha ha... monsters... can’t see him... fuck...”

 When I arrived, what I saw was an overturned vehicle riddled with bullet holes, and inside it, a man frozen stiff, shot up, like just another object in the snow.

He was dead.

No helping that.

But I still had to check carefully for ambushes, traps, or other risks before moving in.

From the time he’d mentioned Kang Han-min to the time I judged him dead hadn’t been long.

For thirty minutes afterward, he’d said nothing.

By the time I even set out, he’d already been a corpse.

Once I confirmed there was no danger, I investigated the vehicle.

A domestic compact car.

It seemed to run on synthetic fuel.

The engine had been shot up, so it was useless now, but the gauge showed there was still fuel left.

Whoever had attacked him wasn’t just some random looter.

It could’ve been a kill team sent by Jeon Si-hoon.

Defender’s former subordinates, now Jeon Si-hoon’s kill team, were said to be operating in the Sejong area, attacking or abducting travelers indiscriminately.

Most victims were killed on the spot, but valuable specialists like engineers were transported back to Seoul.

Sejong’s military had tried to push back, but the kill team simply scattered when faced with serious opposition, then returned once the soldiers withdrew—bleeding Sejong dry, literally.

Considering Sejong was built as a coalition of surrounding communities under King’s lead, Jeon Si-hoon’s strategy of starving it was devastating.

Anyway, there wasn’t a human shadow nearby.

No drones either, as far as I could tell.

I checked several times.

If I missed something, I alone would pay the price.

As I approached the vehicle, I saw the dead man’s face, mouth open.

Mid-twenties.

His face bore numerous scars, like from blades seared with fire.

No one had lived a smooth life in this world, but this man’s body bore life’s upheavals again and again.

Scars deeper than tattoos, as they say.

His belongings were still there, though nothing like an ID to confirm his identity.

The only personal item was a card, about the size of a business card.

[ Apgujeong ]

The colorful design and the silhouette of a woman in high heels suggested it was from some seedy nightclub.

On the back, in handwriting that looked like a woman’s:

[ When are we going out? – Yeori ]

Maybe this was the hostess he’d been looking for.

I pocketed the card and searched for anything useful.

Weapons had already been stripped by whoever killed him.

Food remained, but it was just nutrition bars—stuff even I wouldn’t eat, and Mark Two would absolutely refuse.

The bottled water smelled like dirty rags.

He hadn’t been living in a clean environment.

I drained the remaining synthetic fuel from the car and left the site.

Back at the bunker, Mark Two greeted me.

“Cough! Cough!”

The cough was worse.

“Hold on.”

I checked the thermometer.

37 degrees.

Normal.

But his appearance didn’t look good.

According to Kim Daram, children’s bodies heat up and cool down quickly.

Unstable, and more vulnerable than adults.

I gave him fever medicine, but the stock was running low.

Three days’ worth left. If I caught a cold too, it would be trouble.

Maybe I was just inventing an excuse for myself to go to Sejong.

Whoever that man was, the fact remains—he poked at my curiosity. And I’m the kind of bastard who has risked his life countless times on pathological curiosity.

But that same curiosity has made me what I am today.

“...”

Taptap.

SKELTON: (Shhh Skeleton!) How’ve you been? 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

For once, I messaged my friend, the new king of Sejong.

Message from iamjesus: Mem! Mem! Mem!

Soon a reply came from IAmJesus.

Leisurely, huh. Even while Jeon Si-hoon’s putting the screws to him.

But IAmJesus was a symbolic leader.

The actual running of the city would be handled by King’s loyal men.

IAmJesus just made the big calls, and when the city was in danger, played the role of savior.

Message from iamjesus: You’re alive?

Message from iamjesus: I heard a rumor you were dead.

SKELTON: I’m faking my death. Jeon Si-hoon’s gunning for me. So keep it a secret that I’m alive. :)

Message from iamjesus: Skeleton’s helped me plenty of times.

Message from iamjesus: ;)

SKELTON: How’s Sejong these days? Still suffering under Jeon Si-hoon?

Message from iamjesus: The troops Jeon sent have gone back.

Message from iamjesus: Something happened in Seoul, but we don’t really know what.

Message from iamjesus: Why do you ask?

IAmJesus had grown. He was talking like an adult now.

That small but large discovery gave me a quiet sense of emotion, and I told him what I needed to.

SKELTON: Have you ever heard that Kang Han-min is dead?

Kang Han-min can’t die.

The last time I saw him, he had transcended humanity in every sense.

He was neither man nor monster, but something assimilated into the Rift itself.

He was already a supernatural existence.

Message from iamjesus: I’ve heard the rumor.

Message from iamjesus: Supposedly there’s someone walking around the red-light district claiming he killed Kang Han-min.

Message from iamjesus: But it’s probably just a rumor.

Maybe it was.

But I needed fever medicine.

Not just for Mark Two.

I needed it to calm the fever of my own pathological curiosity.

“...”

Taptap.

SKELTON: I’m thinking of going there. Without anyone knowing.

That line stuck with me—monsters can’t perceive him.

I had to see with my own eyes if there was someone else like me.