Free Web NovelA reply came from Kang Han-min.
Message from Anonymous68: Sorry! I've been working on something lately. That’s why I’m late replying! Just a little more and I’ll be done, okay? Hang in there! I’ll send someone once I’m ready!
Message from Anonymous68: P.S. Let me know if there’s anything you want to eat. Anything's fine—except the impossible!
There’s plenty I’d like to eat, sure—but what mattered more was that I’d finally heard back from him.
The current state of Seoul makes it painfully clear why, before the war, the so-called illness of “political apathy” had spread like a plague.
Everything is a shitshow. Chaos, pure and unfiltered.
According to Cheon Young-jae, who claims to have found enlightenment through the internet, in underdeveloped countries, politicians intentionally commit disgraceful acts in unison to drive people into political apathy. A long-term strategy to maintain power, he says. But I wouldn’t know.
All I want is to hear Kang Han-min’s real intentions and get the hell out of this city.
Of course, if I can help anyone on the way out, I will.
People like the Defender siblings. Woo Min-hee. Maybe some of my old teammates too.
Anyway, what I’ve been paying attention to lately isn’t reality—but the forum.
Among those who returned to Seoul from Jeju were quite a few from that once-peculiar social stratum: former celebrities.
Unlike the leftovers who remained in Seoul, they were recognized as “Class A” entertainers by the Jeju government—honored with the privilege of boarding a flight to paradise.
But now that no one can guarantee tomorrow, hardly anyone cares about them.
As with any profession, entertainers have an expiration date. And without popularity, a celebrity is no different from a regular person.
There was one man, once called a top star.
He was so popular they brought him to Jeju, and even there, he filmed multiple promotional videos.
After returning to Seoul, like the others, he was abandoned by the Jeju government—forced to live out his days as just another average person.
But he didn’t resign himself to being some cog in a merciless machine or sweat under the blazing sun.
To survive, he looked for his own way.
The Viva! Apocalypse! forum, built atop Necropolis, and all its surrounding side services—those were the escape routes he found.
Here’s some of what he posted:
Shin Sang-jin_the_actor: The once-top-star Shin Sang-jin takes on a poop-bucket challenge!
Shin Sang-jin_the_actor: Starring actor from “Partisan,” Shin Sang-jin eats cockroach cuisine!
Shin Sang-jin_the_actor: Actor Shin Sang-jin, once rumored with world-class girl group Gweerie’s Jeong Ye-jin, finally tells all!
...
... freёwebnovel.com
A very familiar scene.
Probably the best person to put that into words would be Hong Da-jeong, who was watching the screen with me.
“It’s just like when all those washed-up celebrities used to crawl back onto YouTube,” she said with a smirk.
“But it won’t work like it did before. As you know, our board doesn’t allow monetization or ads. He might get some shallow popularity or views, but who even remembers him anymore? The guy’s in his mid-forties. No matter how hard he tries to stay fit, you can tell.”
She showed me another post.
“This one.”
The title read:
BlueCherry: It’s kinda hot today.
Just a personal online diary. Worthless. Doesn’t even deserve a click.
Probably has a sister post like “NowPlaying.”
But the post had racked up a ton of comments, and the upvotes were rising fast.
One look, and the answer was obvious.
“...Hmm.”
A woman.
Only the area under her eyes was visible, but her facial structure left no doubt she was gorgeous. Her outfit, showing a hint of cleavage, was blatant sex appeal.
“She’s an internet whore,” Cheon Young-jae muttered bluntly.
He still hadn’t fully reconciled with the Defender siblings.
But this was our office—Unit 803—and quite a bit of time had passed. With me as the middleman, their relationship had “naturally healed” enough to share space.
If they want to truly make up, they’ll have to talk it out themselves. For now, there’s no visible hope.
After hearing Cheon Young-jae’s crude remark, Da-jeong looked over at Defender with a grimace and shook her head.
There’s no denying that Cheon Young-jae is a bottom-tier netizen.
Sure, he “learned life from the internet,” but if all that learning is just biases and prejudice, what real insight could there be?
“What? What? I’m right, though. Isn’t that what you call them? BJs? That kind of thing, right?”
Smart guy, but every time he opens his mouth after reading the internet, I can’t help but sigh.
Hong Da-jeong completely ignored him and began explaining.
“Doesn’t this girl look familiar?”
“Not really.”
I never watched TV or movies.
The only media I ever really enjoyed was beatbox videos.
I’ve dabbled a bit more post-war, but if I’m not interested, I still don’t know much.
Yet Cheon Young-jae knew something I didn’t.
“Huh? Isn’t that Hyeon-seo?”
He glanced at Hong Da-jeong, but she deliberately ignored his gaze.
Then he turned to me.
“It’s Hyeon-seo, right?”
“Not sure.”
“You know, the lead in that ten-million-ticket movie Woojung-ga.”
“Oh yeah?”
I looked back at Hong Da-jeong.
She finally let out a small sigh and nodded.
“Yeah. That’s her. See the mole next to her eye? And the one on her chest, right above her tank top? It’s her.”
I don’t know the details, but she was clearly a big deal once.
But what she’s doing now... no matter how generously you view it, it’s not that far from the insult Cheon Young-jae threw at her.
“...So she’s making money off this?”
Hong Da-jeong nodded.
“Melon Mask. That bastard unlocked all the accounts, remember? Now anyone can get one.”
She gave Cheon Young-jae a sharp glare.
Noticing the look, he turned to protest, but she immediately looked away.
Side note: Cheon Young-jae also made an account.
[HandsomeYoungjae (Looking4GF)]
The kind of username so transparent, it’s practically embarrassing.
No telling how much crap Da-jeong’s been talking behind his back.
Anyway, back to the point—Da-jeong was talking about the darkness Melon Mask unleashed onto the internet.
“...Now that anyone can make an account, anyone can send messages. What do you think that means?”
“...”
It’s not hard to guess.
What she’s saying is that our once-sacred message board has turned into a marketplace for prostitution.
With the addition of private messages, those filthy transactions have never been easier.
It’s shameful, but Da-jeong just kept calmly peeling back the layers of the rot.
It was that same actress from earlier.
“Pretty girls like Hyeon-seo get flooded with attention just by showing a bit of skin. Meanwhile, Shin Sang-jin over there does all sorts of weird crap and still doesn’t get a single comment. Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”
Defender, who’d been silent all this time, suddenly exclaimed, “Ah!”
“Hmm.”
Yeah, there was someone like that.
Not a top star—just a mediocre comedian, as I recall.
When survival got tough, he logged onto the forum through PaleNet and tried anything to get attention. And how did that end?
“He’ll give up soon enough.”
Unlike that poor bastard, this time there’s no sudden cold snap. Even with politics in chaos, at least the bare-bones supply chain is still working.
As long as he has the will to live, he won’t have to die trying to make someone laugh.
Besides, the courage to die often correlates with how dire your surroundings are.
The more hellish your environment, the stronger your suicidal urge. But when things are calm, that urge rarely surfaces.
Still, it seems people underestimated Shin Sang-jin.
While we were talking, he posted something new.
Shin Sang-jin_the_actor: Important supporting role in Hollywood’s “Hunter VS Monster”! Shin Sang-jin opens a monster capsule!
I clicked it immediately.
“...”
This guy. He’s really gonna open the capsule.
*
After the Nemesis War, monsters around Seoul were wiped out, and even the previously infected zones are slowly being cleared.
It’s gotten to the point where vibrant colors have returned to Gangbuk, which was once painted in ash gray.
According to Lieutenant General Gwak Sang-hoon, who succeeded Kim Byeong-cheol, his next goal is to reclaim the outskirts of Seoul and establish a grand anti-erosion barrier.
Anyway, under these relatively safe circumstances, the appearance of a capsule in the city is a full-blown emergency.
Capsules—our term for those small monster teleportation devices—don’t just pop up out of nowhere.
They only appear under certain conditions: when a nearby area is under the control of infiltrator-type monsters, or recently cleared, or if a bunch of monsters were annihilated and dispersed into light particles.
A capsule doesn’t just appear hundreds of kilometers away from an erosion zone.
If that were possible, we’d find capsules inside Melon Mask’s space bunker by now.
I wish we would.
Still, exceptions exist.
There’s one other possible cause for a capsule appearing where it shouldn’t:
It was brought there—by a human.
Just like I once did.
It’s insanely risky, but moving a capsule is all about luck. If your luck holds, even a non-Hunter can manage it—if they have enough guts to die trying.
The way I see it, the capsule Shin Sang-jin posted was probably carried by hand.
Naturally, we went to find him.
With Defender’s help, we found his home and knocked.
The once-top-star was living in a 13-pyeong public housing unit.
Maybe that’s small by Shin Sang-jin’s standards, but in reality, a 13-pyeong unit is reserved for families of two or more.
According to Hong Da-jeong, Shin Sang-jin was living alone—so clearly, he had some strings pulled.
“Anyone there?”
Defender’s rough-looking teammates knocked.
I had refused, but Defender insisted they come along.
As expected, people visibly avoided us on the streets.
I get it.
These are the kind of people who’ll gladly do the things I could do—but don’t want to.
“Are you home?!”
BANG! BANG! BANG!
They forcefully opened the door.
A gaunt, but still handsome man appeared behind it.
“Who are you?”
“No need to know.”
Defender’s men shoved him aside.
“Hey, why are you pushing people?!”
Shin Sang-jin protested.
Click.
The men pointed pistols at him.
Finally realizing what was going on, Shin Sang-jin stepped aside, face stiff.
I looked at Defender.
Expressionless.
This was probably routine for him.
So this is what people mean when they say your role shapes who you are.
“Captain. No capsule here,” one of the men said after searching.
Defender looked at me.
I nodded, then approached Shin Sang-jin.
“Hello.”
He stared blankly.
Didn’t recognize me.
Not surprising—my personal information is probably the one thing the Jeju government and I actually agree on keeping private.
“I’m a government-affiliated Hunter.”
No need to say my name.
Displeasure briefly flashed across his face. Not my problem.
“I saw online you had a capsule.”
“That’s right.”
He admitted it easily.
He was scared, sure, but this didn’t feel like fear-driven honesty. More like reluctant pride hiding beneath a decent face.
I asked, “You know how dangerous a capsule is, don’t you?”
He nodded.
“I do. I know.”
“Then why are you doing something so reckless?”
Defender’s men jeered from the side.
“Guy’s in his forties, huh.”
“Guess no one’s calling him anymore. Has to find some way to survive.”
“That’s why a man needs a family. Nothing to live for, and you start chasing death.”
I signaled to Defender, and he ordered everyone out.
Now it was just me and Shin Sang-jin.
Defender could’ve stayed, but he understood—he’s my internet buddy, after all.
Shin Sang-jin sat down.
There were no chairs, so he just perched on the floor like it was a heated slab.
He fished through his inner pocket for a cigarette, but only found lint.
He sighed, then looked at me.
I’ve never seen a man in his mid-forties with such crystal-clear whites in his eyes—no bloodshot veins, no discoloration.
His face was weathered, yes—but his eyes still had that pristine clarity that actors are known for.
He must’ve been taking care of himself.
Not just bulking up—truly managing his appearance, like it was second nature. A lifestyle.
“...You said you saw me online?”
People who don’t know Viva! Apocalypse! call it “the internet.”
A prideful oldbie might correct that on the spot, but I let it go.
I nodded.
“You saw all my posts, then?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think?”
He seemed to be asking for a review.
I chose the most neutral way to phrase it.
“It seemed like you were really trying to live.”
At that, he laughed.
“Yeah. I am. I’m really trying. Sure, it’s nothing compared to my prime schedule—but when it comes to effort, I’m throwing myself into it more than I ever did back then.”
I checked the time.
Three minutes. That’s all I’d give to his story.
Then I’d ask where the capsule was.
“But you know,” he said, “it’s not like I’m doing this because I need money or anything.”
“You mean... for popularity?”
His lips curled oddly.
“Popularity, huh...”
He let the word roll around.
“Maybe. But it feels a bit different.”
I let him talk.
But even he didn’t seem to know what exactly he felt.
Three minutes passed—my self-imposed limit.
I sighed and said, “I don’t think playing around with something as dangerous as a capsule is «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» wise. If it goes wrong, others could get hurt.”
His eyes sparkled.
The moment I saw that look, I realized—
He wasn’t listening to a single word I’d said.
“It means staying on stage,” he whispered, staring into the void with a strange thrill in his eyes.
