Free Web NovelThe flagship of the southern expedition team, which Pyo Won-sang had named Panokseon-ho, possessed three powered train cars. Once coupled together, these powered trains had now scattered to separate locations.
One of them was now used as the main base and forward operating post for the expedition team under its new leader, Cha In-seop.
According to follow-up reports heard later via the internet, Cha In-seop was now tirelessly engaging in so-called “splitting tactics” against the armed survivor groups he had allied with. However, his intentions were so transparent that the locals were mocking him.
Still, a battle with those survivor groups was not expected to break out any time soon. A large group of Japanese survivors had recently landed in Pohang, and upon quickly acquiring the rumor that Jeong Dae-kyung had vanished, they were preparing an offensive. Thus, there was no choice but for both sides to join forces for now.
As always, all responsibility for the massacre fell squarely on Pyo Won-sang alone.
There must have been no shortage of people who either actively participated or passively enabled it. But as is often the case, the situation demanded someone to be made into “the bastard,” and Pyo Won-sang had been chosen—allowing the rest to slither away like snakes over the wall.
Another train car was now stored in a warehouse, protected by concrete barriers repurposed from a military munitions depot. In an emergency, it was the only viable means of escape from Shangri-La.
The other potential escape method—a light helicopter—had been transferred from Pyo Won-sang to Cha In-seop.
And the last of the powered train cars belonged to us.
It consisted of two passenger cars once used by Room 803, one cargo and armament car, and the train car currently used by our own Room 803.
Because the expedition team had been selected mainly from people who intended to settle down from the beginning, there weren't many who hoped to return. Even so, about thirty people had agreed to go back to Seoul. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
It had been over five years since the war, but the systematic massacre orchestrated by Pyo Won-sang had left wounds deep enough to tear holes in people’s hearts.
A minor, yet telling piece of evidence backing my prediction that Pyo Won-sang wouldn’t last long.
The train was running smoothly now.
The tracks had already been repaired, and the rear line was secure.
Unlike the southbound trip, which had taken over a month, the engineer said we’d reach Seoul within a week at most.
But even on this short journey, a new story was beginning.
“It’s weird. Seriously weird. I can see it with my eyes, but I can’t feel it. There’s no presence or anything.”
The most important story, of course, was mine.
According to Cheon Young-jae, ever since I came into contact with Lee Haeng-taek, he could no longer detect me with his sensory ability.
“No exceptions. This ability can detect the location of all living things. People, monsters, zombies, even Chihuahuas. But you? You feel like an inanimate object—absolutely nothing.”
An exception.
Something I’d never imagined would apply to me was now happening.
But Cheon Young-jae was the only sensory-type Awakened aboard this train.
Had he told me sooner, we might’ve verified this with the sensory-type under Ha Tae-hoon’s command. But in this situation, taking the words of a single person as fact would be premature.
Being undetectable by a sensory ability is a massive advantage in close-quarters combat.
I’ve said this countless times since my days as a lone survivor: for people like me, who hide houses, sensory-types with companions are scarier adversaries than over-level-10 Awakened.
Still, the cause of my change and whether this effect applies to other sensory-types remains unverified.
Meanwhile, something else had occurred on the internet—something that might be more significant, perhaps even world-altering.
My spiritual homeland, Viva! Apocalypse!, had shut down.
*
MANGJA2313: Fuck, trying to get back into this after so long feels kind of lame.
MANGJA54813: What’s the problem? It ran fine even after the war started, didn’t it?
MANGJA448: This is why people say once you’ve lived somewhere nice, you can’t move to a dump. This interface is Stone Age-tier.
MANGJA1113: Didn’t PaleNet barely last two years? Running a large server these days isn’t easy.
MANGJA88211: If you're shutting down, at least give us a warning, seriously. Fuck...
MANGJA2382: Did Melon Mask die or something?
MANGJA5421: OPEN THE DOOR! (bang bang)
...
...
My personal test confirmed it: Viva! Apocalypse! was completely blocked—satellite access, Necropolis-based access, everything.
Literally, Viva! Apocalypse! had ceased operation.
Sure, it was always a given, a predetermined fate predicted by every single one of us message board friends, myself included. But few expected that shutdown to happen so suddenly, so contextlessly.
Viva! Apocalypse! had multiple layers of redundancy and was based in what was supposedly a safe zone—either California or Arizona—where the U.S. government still maintained order.
Above all, Melon Mask, who held absolute authority over the forum, was in outer space—completely untouchable.
For Viva! Apocalypse! to shut down, it would have to be on Melon Mask’s command.
And we knew exactly what kind of person Melon Mask was.
As shown in countless past tantrums, if the server were really shutting down, Melon Mask would whine for attention in full public view.
A global-scale attention whore.
Knowing this, oldbie users like myself and Umchang remained unfazed by the sudden board closure.
“Guarantee it—he’ll reopen it in a few hours, whining for attention.”
Umchang flaunted his Captain Umchang-like insight.
Reporter Guy, who’d been playing Trump cards with us, and Woo Min-hee also shared the sentiment.
“He’s like a bratty kid. A fifty-year-old man-child.”
Losing access to the board during a dull train ride was no small blow.
Trying to seek comfort by accessing Necropolis yielded no joy either. That place wasn’t designed for fun.
There’s no individuality there—just fragmented communication. Finding joy in a place like that wasn’t easy.
And to make things worse, the train broke down.
The engine had issues.
We had no choice but to stop at the second Shangri-La.
That territory was controlled by a warlord faction led by Sim Yu-gyeong, with whom I had exchanged some goodwill in the past.
But this was an era where betrayal and killing came easy.
The massive justification called “survival” rendered most of our former values meaningless.
Fortunately, Sim Yu-gyeong did not treat us as enemies.
“Ah, Captain Park Gyu? Welcome! Come on in!”
They must’ve known what happened in [N O V E L I G H T] Gyeongju.
They must’ve known what Pyo Won-sang had done.
Perhaps that’s why he never once asked about it.
Instead, he provided us with a tunnel, equipment, drinking water, and food, and stationed guards at both ends of the tunnel.
He wasn’t hostile to us—but he wasn’t going to be caught off guard by us either.
We made no unnecessary movements outside.
The only request we made was regarding an issue with the onboard sewage tank.
Aside from that, nothing else happened, nor did I expect anything to.
But the unexpected always finds a way.
The Kang Han-min kids.
Park Hae-min and Go Jun-hee came to see me.
Even from afar, as they walked toward me, I could tell why they were here.
They intended to get off the train.
“We’re sorry, Captain. But we think we have to get off here.”
There could be many reasons.
Lack of prospects in Seoul, fear of being marked by Kang Han-min, uncertainty about Seoul’s situation.
But more than anything, I suspect it was the mass slaughter committed by Pyo Won-sang that shook them.
They had witnessed tens of thousands dying up close.
What I later heard from others was far more brutal than I had imagined.
When Jeong Dae-kyung’s citizens rose in revolt, soldiers under Cha In-seop’s command fired combat tear gas en masse to drive them into shelters.
Not ordinary tear gas—combat tear gas, toxic enough to cause respiratory failure and death.
Once the citizens were incapacitated, Pyo Won-sang’s trained killers butchered them.
And it didn’t stop there. Even the civilians trapped inside the bunkers were targeted.
Small, enclosed spaces—perfect for gas attacks.
VX gas was released into them.
My comrades and I had only seen it through footage, but Park Hae-min and Go Jun-hee had witnessed that massacre firsthand.
“...I saw a mother clutching her baby, both dead.”
Go Jun-hee, once blazing with patriotism, spoke quietly, her spirit broken.
I had no reason or justification to stop them.
If they didn’t want to stay, they were free to leave.
“All right.”
I gave immediate approval.
And added—
“If you need anything, take it from the storage. We’ll give you what we can permit.”
A small gesture of support for these young people starting anew.
They looked at each other, clasped hands tightly, and bowed politely to me.
Another Kang Han-min kid, Moon Yang-gyeong, stood with her arms crossed, silently watching.
She said nothing about this.
She had succeeded in her original mission—getting the Kang Han-min kids to go elsewhere—but she didn’t look happy.
Too many emotions had mingled with that so-called mission.
Her feelings? Probably somewhere between loneliness and sorrow.
Like how we’d lost Viva! Apocalypse!—even if just briefly.
Before they left, Park Hae-min and Go Jun-hee came to see me one last time.
They said it was to say goodbye.
Park Hae-min, true to character, gave a breezy smile and nodded casually.
But Go Jun-hee, more emotional than she looked, seemed like she had something more to say.
It was a midsummer night, the sky filled with stars.
We sat in camping chairs near the tunnel while Sim Yu-gyeong’s soldiers watched from afar.
“Honestly, I don’t know what to do. It just happened, kind of suddenly.”
“Have confidence. Regular Awakened are welcome anywhere. Shangri-La may be unique, but any proper group will treat Regulars like elites.”
“I know. But what matters more is how I feel.”
Go Jun-hee, always so combative and fierce, now looked up at the stars—where even Melon Mask might be hiding—with a bitter smile.
“Hah.”
A sigh.
“I don’t even know what to say. Everything feels meaningless. To be honest, this feels more absurd than when the war broke out. I can’t make sense of anything.”
I’d felt that way before.
When Kang Han-min and Na Hye-in appeared before me—two Alpha-class Awakened.
That moment marked the end of the Hunter Era and the beginning of the Awakened Age.
Just as Don Quixote ended the age of knights, ridicule is the sharpest weapon for ending an era.
We Hunters became relics—mocked as “Old School”—and fell rapidly.
Even I, the best of the best, had to shed my combat gear and wear a suit to survive.
“...”
Not long ago, I truly believed—
That someone like me, outdated and left behind, was destined to die in a bunker.
Perhaps it was my pride and elitism, but I had fantasized about becoming humanity’s final survivor even if it meant dying in that bunker.
“My dad was a liberal guy—he did overseas volunteer work often.”
Go Jun-hee let out another sigh.
“Mainly in Indonesia. Especially among Indian refugees doing mission work.”
“Is that so?”
“It was a poor area, of course. Lots of beggars. But they weren’t like the ones at Seoul Station. These ones had gangsters behind them, forcing them to beg.”
“Ah, child beggars.”
“Right, something like that. One of the most common types was women begging while holding babies. But those babies weren’t theirs.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’d pass the baby around like a prop—taking turns begging. It was midsummer. The heat was brutal—up to 40 degrees Celsius. But one woman came out, begging while holding a baby wrapped tightly in cloth.”
“Maybe the baby had a cold?”
Go Jun-hee shook her head.
“No. It didn’t move at all.”
I understood her expression.
It was dead.
A dead baby, used as a prop to beg for a few coins.
“At the time, I didn’t know what to think. I just accepted it and moved on.”
She looked up at me.
“Right now feels like that. I don’t know what to do or what to think.”
After a pause, I looked at this distant junior who was now focused only on me.
“You don’t have to think about everything. Even someone like me gets swept up in the tide. There are problems thinking alone won’t solve.”
From afar, someone called to me.
It was Umchang.
“Skelton! The board’s back online!”
Suppressing a smile, I tapped my chest lightly and looked at Go Jun-hee.
“What matters most is not forgetting yourself.”
Exactly.
“Whether you’re talented or not, denying yourself does no good. That’s one of the few bits of advice a veteran doomsayer like me can offer.”
Everyone who denied themselves—without exception—died.
Some had no choice. But those who gave up too soon faded from the board and never became a Name.
Go Jun-hee showed a strange expression.
I didn’t expect her to fully understand me.
I wasn’t some philosopher with persuasive words or charisma.
“Live well. Keep in touch.”
The only thing I could offer was the sweet hope of tomorrow.
The next day, the train left Sim Yu-gyeong’s territory.
Among the people lined up beside the rails, waving at us, were Park Hae-min and Go Jun-hee.
Hand in hand, they waved lightly to see us off.
I wish them good fortune.
But at least for us, it’s clear that luck doesn’t exist.
MELON_MASK: I'm going to die soon.
