Chapter 241
Chapter 241
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 241
Chapter Title: Chapter 13. Hunter, Cleaner, and Swordsman (9)
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“Yeah... I see...”
Ian couldn’t read the old man’s eyes at all—what was going through his head? One thing was certain: Woojin wasn’t the same man Ian had known in the past.
After stroking his chin for a moment to choose his words, Woojin placed the empty PET bottle that had held Munglow on the table.
“That PET bottle. The four bottles of oil Kesseling gave me. What do you think I did with those things that felt like dying messages from people I’d spent so much time with?”
“Did you... bring them?”
“No. I used them up.”
.
.
.
.
“What?”
“People I spent years with in the hospital. They turned in an instant from thinking, speaking beings into mere fuel. When the kids and I escaped, they became fuel for the vehicle we rode out in. Do you know what I was thinking then?”
The four listeners didn’t even breathe as they heard the old man’s tale.
In the chilly air of the small diner, as he dredged up the memory, tears overflowed from the old man’s eyes, hard as dry branches. No warning, no emotional fluctuation—just quiet tears streaming down.
“Please help us. Please, help us shake off this wave of insane mutants and survive. I begged them like that, their names like a mantra on my lips, crawling like a bug over Buggyka’s frame, pouring them desperately into the fuel tank.”
There was no moral compass in that act, no choice. Just the vehicle, the fuel, and three people who needed to flee in a hurry.
“If you ask whether mutant byproducts are the starting point of moral collapse, I’d say yes. Because I did it—me, who begged them for help like a ghost seeking forgiveness, hands trembling like aspen leaves. But I don’t think that’s a reason not to use mutant byproducts.”
The old man’s wrinkled, knobby knuckles traced the ridges of the empty PET bottle.
“Truth be told, even without mutant byproducts, the world is full of things that turn ordinary people evil. Ever seen someone starved for three days? Not just hungry, but the head of a family forced to watch his whole household starve to death? He’d become a devil who’d do anything. What if antibiotics for a loved one dying of sepsis are in someone else’s hands? Man or woman, in that moment, they’d gladly become a thief for the sake of their beloved. We’re living in an age of ruin. The perfect environment to fall if you’re going to fall, to become as evil as you can be. But look at that city. Are we all that evil? Have we become as horrific and vile as those raptor beasts, indistinguishable from them?”
No. Ian could say that firmly. He knew a friend who’d lost his father to war, buried his own mother due to his mistake, survived alone in the harsh wasteland—and yet shone brighter than anyone with his personal brand of righteousness.
Reading his expression, Woojin smiled softly.
“Yeah. That’s it. Things are just things. In the end, it’s people who make people. Believe in people. Even in this hell that’d make Sodom and Gomorrah flee in fear, believe in those who haven’t abandoned their last shred of humanity. The ones who haven’t broken yet have erected their own sturdy pillars in their hearts. I believe in those standards they’ve built in their souls, forged from their consciences. Of course they’ll waver. Some will fall, turn evil. Reality isn’t that simple. But... in the end, they’ll overcome. Like everyone in history, they’ll move toward something better. I believe it.”
Ian felt his foggy mind clear sharply under the old man’s gaze—legs gone, but eyes still blazing fiercely.
It was simple, boiled down. Good people still exist, so just believe without evidence.
But it was also the clearest answer to a question with no solution.
“...Damn, if you’d gone into politics instead of medicine, you’d have made it big. Your tongue licks every crease in the brain.”
“I’m no good because of this mouth of mine, kid. Don’t you remember? I turned that fool Ian Desmond—who lost his wife and went dumb—into the Metal Jaw you are now. Back then, you were so cute. Stiff as a wax doll, saying stuff like [I’m fine.] [I owe you.] [No need to worry about me, old timer.]”
“Damn it.”
Embarrassing memory. Truth was, Woojin had helped pull him back from insanity. Ian’s stick-straight personality had picked up some of the cranky doctor’s quirks in the process.
“Keuheheh! Who’d live with a guy like me for a year?”
“Kuhuhuhu! Second-best choice of my life.”
“Gotta call it second? What was first, punk?”
“Obviously, chasing after my wife to shoot her and confessing instead.”
Ian flashed a relieved grin and raised his fist. The old man eyed it with disbelief, then met it with his own bony, wrinkled fist.
That old greeting finally drew a hearty laugh from the gloomy elder.
“So... fun time at the market?”
“One of a kind. You see that slot machine? Perfect for topping a treasure island built for guys like me.”
“Keuheheh. Corbett’s got skills. Even get my prosthetic parts made there. If you got grabbed at the Munglow stall, you haven’t seen the byproduct market yet, huh?”
“Eh. No reason to anymore. Not missing it.”
“Let’s see if you say that after. Walk it off, digest a bit. Got something to show you.”
Back to his usual grumpy face, Woojin grinned and wheeled his chair back.
Ian stood, naturally taking position behind the wheelchair.
“Hands off, punk. I’ve still got arms.”
“Don’t wanna burst a vein pushing a cripple around. Butt out.”
“Sheesh. Get all buddy-buddy after I solve one of your worries.”
“Kuhuhuhu. My head’s small— one thing like that crawls in and I’m done for. And it’s intangible, can’t smash it.”
“Didn’t need to worry; it ended ages ago. Skin mask. Forgot? Made from a Mugler respirator. When you used that, did you feel guilty, like some cannibal ghoul? And that was half-alive? Right?”
“...Fuck me. You’re right.”
“Dumbass. My professional opinion as your doc: the badass commander Desmond from back then vanished with his brain damage. Metal Jaw ain’t leader material—quit it.”
“Hope so. Soon as that Professor guy shows, hand it off and I’ll be action captain. So, where to? Byproduct market?”
“Nah. Later. There—two shelves past the canned goods, corner.”
“Corner? Which side?”
“There. E-14 shelf. Tarps galore.”
Instead of out, deeper in? Ian was puzzled by Woojin’s order but pushed obediently, figuring there was something.
“Tarps are big in BDSM too.”
“Shut up and look.”
Woojin waved Ian back, then yanked a tarp from the stacked shelves. Chain rattled from the end, followed by clanking from behind as something shifted.
A hidden door in the cluttered warehouse.
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“Whoa. What the...”
“Looks like it, but this is Dome’s biggest black market. Gotta have a panic room.”
“So. Where’s this tunnel go? Electric field outside? Or Dome interior?”
“No tunnel. My lab.”
The clanking stopped, and a sliver of light seeped through the dim warehouse. The heavy shelf slid aside, and a backlit figure opened the door from within.
The hammer-wielding brute from the entrance beside Lisa earlier, now in glasses and a white lab coat. The daytime ferocity seemed gatekeeper duty; now he beamed kindly, warmly.
“Mahmer. Burning the midnight oil on research?”
“Saw you two weren’t strangers at the gate, so I prepped. Honestly, I’d wanna brag to old friends too. Even polished the stuff I’d set aside for research and hung it up.”
“Pointless busywork...”
“Dunno. Seems pretty useful to the guests.”
Woojin scowled at the suddenly lit room and turned. Sure enough, three jaws hung slack, as Mahmer said.
“What’s the shock? I told you I stole raptor research and learned it? What else do they obsess over?”
Ian didn’t reply, slowly removing his sunglasses and hooking them on his forehead.
“So... all that’s...?”
“Yeah. My tweaks on their tech: combat gear using mutant byproducts.”
A large-caliber rifle wrapped in rough sand-colored leather.
A bulletproof vest highlighted by bone-white panels.
Weird pouches blinking red in a fridge-like box.
Ian pinched his cheek in the otherworldly lab. To be sure, he twisted Budram’s nearby— the scream confirmed reality.
“You know, in what makes a man, memory outweighs the flesh by far. Unlike the body that fades soon, memories accumulate over a lifetime. For me, they implanted horrific ones. So awful, unforgettable till death.”
Eyes resolute, Woojin caressed the bizarre weapons.
“If you wanna condemn a doctor blinded by revenge making weapons, go ahead. It’s true. But I don’t see them as human. They’re a deep-rooted disease in this world. If incurable, gotta cut it out whole.”
Whoosh!
Woojin tossed Ian one of the nearby odd guns. The pistol’s rough sheath felt oddly lukewarm. Knowing the gesture, Ian asked once more.
“You’re so hung up on being a doctor, but if I kill them with this... you sure you won’t call me a murderer and wallow in guilt?”
“What’re you on about? What I just gave you is a prescription and medicine. A special cure for one illness. And they’re the ones who made me abandon doctoring, so they owe some responsibility.”
“...”
Click!
Unwavering answer. For that final question, Ian racked the slide of the strange firearm.
“How much for the lot.”
“All? Handmade, filthy expensive? We’re pals, but business is business—no discount?”
“I didn’t idle while you slaved. Our rich Chairman Young paid plenty. Speaking of, how about trading with Dome over black market? Earn way more. Med supplies too.”
“Forget it. That Young guy’s unreadable. Unlike me, he doesn’t trust people. Thinks byproducts cause chaos, prepping crackdowns. Too late. Raptors are pumping out acid grenades right now.”
Shockingly, Woojin knew Dome’s unannounced policy. Mobidic’s reach went deeper than thought.
“No true transition since the fall, but now especially. Sometimes only radical treatment stops the spread. Was wondering who to hand these to... perfect timing.”
Ian easily read Woojin’s blazing eyes as he passed the gun.
‘Wanna see those bastards’ corpses before I croak.’
Classic Woojin.
The old man who remembered petty squabbles for months—they’d gifted him an eternal horror. Easy to imagine why he’d built this lab in the hospital.
“So... wanna see how good these babies are?”
“Not as flashy as they look—temper expectations. Gunsmithing ain’t my specialty; Mahmer made most. Could’ve kept ’em plain, but he adds useless decorations and shells...”
“What nonsense! Useless? A special gun’s gotta scream what it does on sight—that’s cool!”
Mahmer, eyes sparkling unlike his bulk, grabbed a huge shotgun from the wall and approached Ian.
“You like shotguns usually—wanna try this? Specialized mutant, old 2.5 type—the ones shrieking to burst eardrums. Know ’em?”
“Yeah, seen a few similar.”
“Whole vocal sac ripped out and mounted as secondary armament. Transfers rear powder blast to sac, booms ’em out at once. Ammo’s proprietary, supply’s a hassle, but ignores cover for suppression. No two mutants identical, so unique firearm—no mass production. Why they’re pricey.”
“Oho.”
“Armor too? This one’s dermal layer from impact-resistant mutants, blended for a stab-proof suit—massively buffs penetration weakness...”
“Ohooo!”
Intellectual unlike his looks, Mahmer passionately pitched his passion projects. Ian fell hook, line, and sinker for the bizarre weapons’ allure.
That night, Tusknip Delivery—illicit trade and errand pros—hauled massive boxes from Mobidic black market all night.
Whatever was inside, triple-wrapped crates all headed to BDSM vehicle outpost.
Deep night, operatives unwrapping casually shrieked at the writhing, lifelike bulletproof vests.
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