Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 108.1: Swamp (1)

Ha Tae-hoon had agreed to stay behind and guard the bunker.

The departure schedule had also changed.

In the past, I usually waited until nightfall to set out on these journeys. But now, we left before sunrise.

With Cheon Young-jae’s detection ability on our side, daylight actually worked in our favor—it made identifying friend from foe easier, and visibility was much clearer in case of a fight.

Of course, Cheon Young-jae wasn’t invincible.

“If someone fires a Javelin-guided missile at us from beyond my range, we’re dead.”

Still, not many people were wealthy enough to waste an expensive guided missile on a lightweight truck.

Following the old highway, now littered with abandoned vehicles and debris, we made our way toward Ballantine’s hideout.

"What kind of guy is he?"

Cheon Young-jae asked about Ballantine.

“A network specialist.”

“A network specialist?”

As expected, he looked unimpressed.

“Does he have any combat experience?”

“Not much, and I don’t intend to use him as a fighter.”

“Then what the hell do you plan to do with him?”

I met his skeptical gaze and replied calmly.

“I’m going to hack the Jeju network.”

“The Jeju network?”

“Yeah. I’m going to punch a hole in the government’s intranet.”

To be more specific, my goal was to bring the hammer of judgment down on the Red Archive board.

Of course, Cheon Young-jae had no idea what I actually meant by that. He mumbled in stunned disbelief.

“...Wait, are you saying you’re trying to get your hands on classified Jeju government intel?”

“?”

“Damn... did you really plan this far ahead, Park-seonbae?”

“......”

“As expected of ‘Professor.’ I gotta say, I didn’t see that one coming. I thought you just picked up some random network guy, but you had this in mind all along.”

“......”

“Anyway, is this even possible?”

“I’ve already made all the preparations. All that’s left is the man himself.”

The vehicle rumbled down the cracked and broken roads, steadily approaching our destination.

On the navigation system, it was marked as a sports park—but in reality, not a °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° trace of any park remained.

When the war started, the Chinese military didn’t just target major cities and strategic locations with nukes. They also hit critical infrastructure like dams with conventional bombs.

The Han River flood control dams were among the targets. Once they were destroyed, the river swelled uncontrollably.

The overflowing water surged past the levees, swallowing entire residential areas, farmland, and walking paths. The very shape of the land had changed.

Ballantine’s hideout had turned into a swamp.

"I've been here before."

Cheon Young-jae scanned the murky, marshland terrain.

“There used to be a public sports park here. We once did a field training exercise in this place.”

“In a place like this? You guys have a dedicated training ground in Yecheon, don’t you?”

“We handed that over to the Ministry of National Defense.”

“Really?”

“You know how it is. Our class was always the black sheep.”

Cheon Young-jae gestured toward the swamp.

“Anyway, looks like someone’s out there.”

“I see them.”

A solitary ruin stood amid the swamp.

<GAISO>

A discount store chain that used to sell everything for 1,000 won.

The building’s first floor was completely submerged, with gaping holes where the walls had collapsed, leaving steel beams exposed. Probably the result of artillery shelling.

It was far from an ideal hideout.

And the swamp itself was enough to deter most people.

But on top of that—

CRACK!

There were zombies.

A rotting corpse lunged toward us, only to have its skull caved in by Cheon Young-jae’s metal cudgel, which looked like a flagpole.

“Need help?”

Five more zombies were shambling toward us.

“No.”

Cheon Young-jae casually swung his weapon, crushing their skulls one by one.

As always, his close combat style was utterly inelegant.

Not that it was wrong, but as Jang Ki-young’s disciple, it was just a little hard to watch.

"How do we get across?"

I surveyed the area.

There.

A road marker—painted red and white—peeked out from the overgrown grass.

Digging beneath it revealed a rope.

After brushing off the grotesque insects clinging to it, I pulled the rope up.

As the tension tightened, something emerged from beneath the mud and water—the rest of the path leading to the store.

“Oh.”

Beside the rope was a small raft.

We lowered it into the swamp and used the rope to pull ourselves toward the ruin.

Before departing, we camouflaged the vehicle.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

A net cover concealed the truck, and additional grass and foliage provided further disguise.

Losing the truck while we were gone would be a disaster. This was a hassle, but a necessary one.

Once we were done, we climbed onto the raft.

Ssshhhk—

I pulled the rope, guiding us toward the ruin while Cheon Young-jae covered me with his rifle.

I couldn’t see anyone yet, but Cheon Young-jae warned me there were at least three people stationed along the outer wall.

We had drawn close to the building when a sharp voice called out.

“Who’s there? What do you want?”

The voice carried not just hostility but also fear.

Hearing it, I thought to myself—

These must be Ballantine’s “unpleasant” neighbors.

I fixed my gaze toward the still-unseen figures and replied.

“I’m an acquaintance of Park Man-su.”

Park Man-su was the alias Ballantine used here.

A cold response came from beyond the ruin.

“There’s no one here by that name.”

I glanced at Cheon Young-jae.

We understood each other.

I gave him a nod.

BANG!

Cheon Young-jae fired a single shot into the air.

As the gunshot’s echo faded, I stared back toward the ruin and spoke again.

“Let me ask you one more time.”

*

The ruin, shattered by shelling, had been split down the middle, forming a deep chasm.

Cheon Young-jae already had his rifle raised, aiming straight ahead. I, too, gripped a pistol in one hand while pulling on the rope to steer the raft.

A vast, water-filled interior came into view. Beyond the crumbling walls, three men stood watching us, their makeshift firearms trained in our direction.

“Seonbae.”

Cheon Young-jae whispered.

One of them was wearing a military uniform.

The man looked well past his late forties, but the real issue was what he was wearing.

His old digital camouflage uniform was covered in badges and insignia, plastered across his chest pocket all the way up to his shoulders—a grotesque imitation of a North Korean general’s attire.

It was a style typical of the old Corps faction soldiers.

Especially those who had served on the front lines—they competed with each other, decorating themselves like peacocks.

The officers never intervened.

No, they couldn’t.

With the miserable support they received, these soldiers were already full of resentment, constantly risking their lives on the battlefield. Trying to discipline them further would have only led to mutiny.

By the time the frontlines collapsed, many of these soldiers had outright rebelled, forming warlord factions by overthrowing their superior officers.

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The man standing among them was likely one of those soldiers.

He wasn’t particularly frightening, but a trained and battle-hardened soldier was always someone to watch carefully.

The other two men were ordinary civilians—one appeared to be in his mid-fifties, while the other looked like he was in his early thirties.

They didn’t seem malnourished, but they were far from healthy.

As we entered the building, a powerful stench immediately hit us.

The swamp’s rot, mixed with human waste, unwashed body odor, and the damp air, filled the space.

This wasn’t a good living environment.

Sure, it was hidden from view, and difficult to access, reducing the risk of outside threats.

But sanitation—often overlooked yet crucial for long-term survival—was severely lacking.

I pulled a dust mask from my pocket and put it on.

Cheon Young-jae did the same.

The raft reached a customer conveyor belt leading to the upper floor.

Under their cold stares, we climbed up.

"Skelton-nim!"

A familiar voice called out from behind a crumbling wall.

Ballantine.

The men watching us shot him a sharp glare.

There was a palpable sense of resentment and hostility.

One of them, the man in his fifties, turned to Ballantine and asked harshly,

“How the hell did you contact them?”

He was short, balding, and painfully scrawny, with a weak and unimpressive build.

Ballantine didn’t answer.

The man in his thirties spoke up instead.

“That damn computer of his, probably.”

He was tall and well-built, with a face that was almost attractive but not quite.

Though he had a solid physique, it was clear he had never received proper military training.

He also had a slight limp in his left leg.

“Thank you,” he said sarcastically. “Now, thanks to you, we can finally get the hell out of this shithole.”

Ballantine must have had enough of these people.

He gave me a glance, then muttered in a low voice.

“They’re absolute nobodies. Just a bunch of refugee bottom-feeders. Feel free to ignore them.”

Park Man-su—Ballantine’s alias here—began moving his luggage.

Cheon Young-jae tried to help, but I stopped him with a look.

There was no need—Park Man-su could handle it alone.

As he carried his belongings inside, the man in his fifties approached, flanked by the military guy.

His gaze scanned me up and down, filled with displeasure.

Then, in a curt tone, he asked,

“...Are you close with Park Man-su?”

I nodded.

“Are you his friend?”

I simply stared at him.

It was obvious where this conversation was going.

I already knew what he was about to say.

He was going to badmouth Ballantine.

“I don’t know what you see in that bastard, but he’s a disloyal snake.

He slacks off whenever he can, and the moment things don’t go his way, he’s ready to stab you in the back.

Hell, I heard he backstabbed his last shelter before running off.”

More than his words, what caught my attention was the scrawny military man.

For some reason, he had his head tucked in, his white eyes glaring at me, while his hand fiddled with a combat knife.

Flick, flick—

He was twirling the blade in his fingers, performing tricks.

Was this supposed to be a threat?

Apparently, Cheon Young-jae noticed too, because he suddenly smirked and pulled a coin from his pocket.

“Crane.”

He flipped it into the air—and in the same motion, raised his pistol.

BANG!

The bullet struck the coin mid-air, hitting the exact spot where the crane was engraved on the 500-won coin.

Both the fifty-something man and the soldier’s faces went rigid.

We weren’t trying to threaten or humiliate them.

It was just a natural show of force.

A group of men trying to assert dominance over another group—it was nothing new.

Our only objective was to get Ballantine out of here.

We had no interest in the fates of these people, slowly rotting away in this swamp.

"What do you guys do?"

The man in his fifties asked again, this time with a slightly more respectful tone.

I coldly replied,

“I’m an acquaintance of Park Man-su.”

The look I gave him was deliberate—just enough irritation to make it clear I didn’t want to talk anymore.

Apparently, they weren’t completely oblivious, because they finally backed off.

Still, they kept their distance, whispering among themselves.

I ignored them.

Cheon Young-jae and I stood on guard, simply waiting for Ballantine to finish moving his things.

“There are more people here than I thought.”

After about three minutes, Cheon Young-jae spoke, eyeing the area beyond the walls.

“How many?” I asked.

“At least ten, maybe more.”

“Where?”

“Inside. They’re all gathered where Park Man-su went.”

Hearing that, I quickly realized these weren’t combatants.

They were hidden civilians—probably the weak and elderly.

And my guess was confirmed soon enough.

Faces began peeking out from behind the wall, watching us cautiously.

They were people.

Their ages varied—young women, middle-aged women, even a boy barely taller than an adult’s waist.

The man in his fifties suddenly yelled at them.

“I SAID STAY INSIDE! GET BACK IN THERE!”

His rage echoed through the hall.

The women and children scurried back, terrified.

Not long after, Ballantine reappeared, dragging a wheeled suitcase, mocking expression on his face.

“Well, would you look at that—the head of the household himself.”

He said it loudly, clearly for them to hear.

The fifty-something man glared daggers at Ballantine.

“Park Man-su.”

“What?”

Ballantine stood beside me, glaring back.

“You got something to say?”

“Park Man-su!”

The older man stepped forward, but the soldier stopped him.

Ballantine smirked at me.

“You get why I’m pissed now?”

Then he gestured toward the group of people.

“Half the people who followed this bastard here are dead. The other half? He’s keeping them trapped here with his goons.

If you guys hadn’t fired that gun outside, he wouldn’t have even let you in.”

As Ballantine moved his belongings toward the conveyor belt, he added,

“He’d rather die than admit he was wrong.”

The fifty-year-old man exploded in rage.

He stormed toward Ballantine.

Click.

I raised my gun.

BANG!

The bullet whizzed past his ear.

He froze, his face going pale.

Cheon Young-jae and I didn’t even glance at him.

We were already watching the other men holding guns.

Ballantine sneered.

“...See? Always the same story.”

From behind the walls, countless hidden eyes watched us.