Chapter 297
Chapter 297
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 297
Chapter Title: [Thousand Stream Emperor Side Story] Erecting Na-R (3)
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****
Bang—
A gunshot. Thousand Stream Emperor looked up at the sudden noise but soon returned his gaze to the magazine in his hand. Gunshots weren’t all that rare anyway. Someone had gotten angry, and someone had died.
His attention was fixed on the cheap magazine rather than some commonplace death.
A magazine he’d scavenged from the outskirts of the slums. It was full of stuff he had zero interest in—like suits and watches—but Thousand Stream Emperor was putting all his effort into taking it in.
Just yesterday, he’d suddenly felt this burning desire to do something. The outside world had to be dazzling beyond compare to this shithole slum, and for an ignorant fool like him, getting fleeced or dropping dead screaming was par for the course. So he wanted to learn at least a little before heading out.
Bang—
He set down the magazine—where the pages with women were strangely torn out—and reached for the next one, featuring a massive snow-capped mountain on the cover. That was when the second gunshot rang out.
Two gunshots. Two bullets. This wasn’t good. If they’d just unloaded a barrage at once, it could’ve been a simple execution-style hit. But gunshots spaced out like this meant a firefight had broken out.
‘Cartels must be clashing.’
Thousand Stream Emperor set the magazine aside and slightly lifted the tarp covering his sewer hideout. If a cartel skirmish was happening nearby, he figured he’d better make himself scarce for a bit. Back in the day, he’d have been too strung out to care—let it all go to hell, die if he died—and gone out swinging. But now that he had something he wanted to try while alive, the thought of dodging danger crossed his mind.
But when he pulled back the tarp and poked his head out.
“Ugh, uwaaaagh! Stay back! Stay back, you junkie fuck!”
“Grraaaargh—aaaaagh! Kyaaaagh!”
“Aaaagh! Get it off! Somebody get this psycho off me! Aaaaaaagh!”
Bang! Bang-bang! Baaaang!
“No! I never took part in that goddamn drug trial or experiment or whatever! I heard the guys handling the cash were involved, so I was gonna check them out—”
Baaaang—!
Thud.
“Experiment Zone 14. Street escapees cleared. Moving out.”
Through the faint light filtering from above came the sounds of countless feet pounding and voices shouting. There were madmen savagely tearing into the forehead and cheekbones of a fallen man, and soldiers in bizarre uniforms firing wildly into the crowd.
‘People have gone mad. Full-scale shootout. Dangerous.’
Thousand Stream Emperor quietly turned back from the exit, planning to shut off the heater and retreat into the sewer. Even his drug-riddled, hole-ridden brain could figure out he’d die if he went out there.
But then he spotted something snagging his toe as he moved. He couldn’t help stopping in his tracks.
Yesterday evening, he’d scoured every trash bin on the outskirts of Cracolândia. He’d even eyed the kindling in folks’ burning drums and snagged these outside magazines.
In the dark, dingy sewer, the vibrant hues of the magazines gleamed like they were questioning him.
Was he really going to crawl into this pitch-black pit? Hadn’t he forgotten something?
“Ugh...”
The usual hallucination that hit when the drug high wore off. At a time like this, of all times.
Thousand Stream Emperor’s eyes darted back and forth between the wobbling sewer entrance ahead, the exit leading outside, and the magazines shimmering like a mirage in the faint glow inside the sewer.
Click.
His choice: snatch up the two swords leaning against the corner of the sewer.
“...Han Seoho.”
It was because he suddenly recalled that guy—out there somewhere now, spitting sandwich crumbs everywhere as he ranted about the government’s clinical trial.
****
Splash splash splash splash
“Hahk, hahk!”
Thunderous gunfire echoed relentlessly through the sewer, battering their eardrums. Amid the pounding headache rattling his skull, snippets of static-laced chatter trickled in along the floor.
Tsssh—
“[Zone C, briefing and containment complete.]”
Tsssh—
“[Multiple samples in Zone D. Enter immediately and provide support.]”
“[Roger.]”
terse exchanges and the swift patter of multiple footsteps.
‘Someone’s... holding them off? But they’re leaving the sewer open.... Not cartels or gangs? Outsiders?’
Thousand Stream Emperor remembered how awed Seoho had been the first time he showed him the sewer paths. Seoho had pictured buried pipes when he thought “sewer,” not this wide-open tunnel where you could walk upright.
Outsiders seemed unfamiliar with the roads beneath the city’s skin.
‘If it were cartel or gang fighting, they’d have sealed the sewers first thing.’
The armed outsiders clearly had no reason to crawl underground.
“Ugh, uuuugh...”
In the sewer’s dim light, he spotted someone huddled up.
Clothes stained with filth. Gaunt, pale face. Drool marks.
‘Junkie.’
As expected of locals—they’d beeline for the sewers to hide. When chaos hit, they either ignored it or slinked into the shadows.
Clink.
He gripped his sword. They looked exhausted. Asking around the slums for a conspicuous-looking Asian wouldn’t be hard.
Until the fallen man sprang up like a coiled spring and lunged, Thousand Stream Emperor’s mind was solely on whether Seoho had jumped into the sewer as he’d advised.
“Kaaaagh! Uuuuuugh!”
Incredible strength from a skeletal frame. The cowering junkie was gone—now it was bloodshot eyes flashing and rotten black teeth bared.
Thousand Stream Emperor was slammed to the sewer floor by the force. He flailed punches wildly at it. He’d lost track of his sword.
His hammer-forged arms smashed the junkie’s nose and shattered its rotten teeth, but the boar-like addict clamped down hard on his shoulder.
“Ugh, uuuugh!”
Thousand Stream Emperor shoved at its forehead with his left hand while his right frantically groped in the shallow sewer water. Please. Please...!
And then—as the jagged broken teeth pierced flesh and impossible jaw strength bored toward his shoulder bone.
—Shluck!
In the slimy muck, his hand closed on something solid. Thousand Stream Emperor swung without looking, and his sword plunged into the thing’s side.
Crunch—
“Uuuuuugh!”
Shoulder pulverizing, he swung again.
Slaaash!
Stab the gut, and strength fades. An instinctive reaction beyond willpower. Yet even as the blade sliced cleanly through flesh, it wouldn’t let go.
“Ugh, uwaaaagh!”
Shluck! Splurch! Slash! Crunch!
Chest. Gut. Lower back. Throat.
Thousand Stream Emperor’s sword hacked desperately in proportion to the pain, mangling it. Then, reverse-gripped, the blade plunged into the bloodied neck.
“Huuuugh... huuuuh...”
Finally, wind hissed through punctured lungs as it went limp.
Clang, claaang!
“Hahk, hahk, hahk, hahk!”
Freed from the monster’s grip on his shoulder, Thousand Stream Emperor shoved its head away, gasping as crushing pressure released from his chest.
He’d seen junkies go berserk on drugs before. But no way a little paring knife stab keeps you going—getting skewered repeatedly by an 80cm blade shouldn’t leave you with that kind of freak strength.
“Ugh. Uuuugh...”
Through his torn shoulder, its blood must’ve gotten in—the throbbing and cramping was intense. He tried to think what the hell was happening, but his drug-damaged brain refused deep thought.
Only one thing surfaced. The only thought he could muster.
I want out.
Outside is chaos. I could slip away.
But I don’t want to.
Why not? Thinking hurts. Floor’s waving like the sea, head’s burning up, shoulder’s agony like it needs ripping off.
“...Han Seoho.”
Ah, the Asian. Suddenly, in his broken mind, it hit him: Seoho hadn’t really enjoyed reading the magazines that much.
Tonight. That guy, giggling about executing their clinical trial plan and grabbing some decent grub with the payout.
Thousand Stream Emperor had been looking forward to asking him about what he’d found in the magazines.
He’d never bonded with anyone, so he couldn’t express how he saw Seoho.
Friends? Seoho called them that, but the gap between them was too vast for equals. If he was a sewer-crawling worm, Seoho felt like the mythical bird carrying the sun.
Lust? He’d sampled women in this trash life, but no such spark. He’d even asked Seoho outright once, and the guy swung a knife threatening to kill him—so not that either.
Awe. That fit best. Like a cave-dweller beholding the rising sun for the first time, gazing at the dawn horizon every day after. Reverence, worship of existence. Gratitude that this breathing human embodied it—and that even he, deemed hopeless, glimpsed faint possibility of becoming such.
Yes. In his eyes, Han Seoho was worthy of awe. Just sharing humanity with him sparked hopes of new life. Utterly awe-inspiring.
Thousand Stream Emperor picked up his dropped sword.
Not all outsiders were the same. Their paradise might dwarf this place, but like junkies varied, so would they.
So he wanted to learn from Seoho. See the world through his eyes—maybe even he, rotten from birth, could take on a bit of that unyielding vitality.
Those thoughts turned his steps. From the path to the slums’ edge, toward groans like those of the thing that attacked him.
He’d still be alive. Such a being. One who shone even in this dump wouldn’t vanish so pointlessly. More vital than anyone here—he’d be the last to die.
That conviction moved his numbing feet amid the eerie fever.
The hotter something crawled up his spine to tickle his brain, the harder he swung his sword.
Dispelling the drug haze, clearing his dizzy head with steel.
Slash—
Ssssh!
Thousand Stream Emperor, drenched in their blood, plunged into the sewer.
And there, in the corner. Where the manhole cover hadn’t even fully closed, and sharp gunfire stabbed his ears.
“Uuuugh... ughk, grrruh...”
Unhappily. He’d found him.
****
Bang—brrrrrtatata—bang—
Outside, gunfire blared nonstop, and the sewer dutifully swallowed the influx, staining red.
At the end of a blood trail dragging like a corpse, there he was.
“Han Seoho.”
“Ughk, kuhk... cough!”
‘...No way he’s alive.’
Even “dying” was too generous.
Ripped shirt exposing a torso mangled by bullets. He’d seen gunshot wounds before—tiny entry, massive exit. If the front was that bad, the back must look chainsawed.
Bite marks and tears everywhere, slide locked-back pistol explaining how he’d made it here.
“Ryuje... fuck.... This ain’t a hallucination.... It’s really you...?”
But Thousand Stream Emperor, who’d cut through droves in similar states, charged forward at Seoho’s recognizing voice.
“Grrrk... damn.... Wasn’t just a clinical trial... cough!”
“Don’t talk. If you talk...”
Thousand Stream Emperor cut him off, hesitating on what to say. Talk and what? Wound opens? More blood?
He looked ready to collapse at a touch—like a serial killer’s shredded victim. How was he even alive? What do you say to that?
“...Am I hurt bad?”
“...”
“...Can’t feel shit... except my head.... Eyes won’t focus.... Am I hurt bad, I said...”
“...”
“...Fuck. Deaf again.”
Through blurred vision, Seoho read the endless despair blooming on Thousand Stream Emperor’s face, grasping his own state.
The iron lump of a guy, face alight with hopelessness. Probably mirroring his hopeless condition.
Joining the trial was a mistake, sure—but regret wouldn’t come. Even if it was a new drug test. Even if sketchy enough to come to this sewer-slum cesspit, who’d predict it’d turn people into rabid beasts?
Just bad luck.
It started with someone screaming horrifically post-injection. Then soldiers zapped the dosed with electric nets.
Seoho, who’d slipped the perimeter hunting someone coherent, witnessed the rest.
Some didn’t drop even from skin-smoking voltage. They lunged at soldiers with insane strength. Soldiers hosed them with live rounds, no hesitation.
“Zombie flicks... only watched A-listers...”
Wild, huh? Guts spilling to the filthy sewer floor from waist down, spine barely holding—yet an itch crawls up his back.
With mind-clearing sensation licking his brain folds like a tongue, Seoho realized his turn was coming.
“Seoho.”
“Don’t... pull that sappy shit. Don’t leave a dying man regrets.”
Thousand Stream Emperor. Name he’d tossed out as a joke, and the weirdo actually liked it.
He’d thought the spark returning to those dull eyes was a good sign lately. Guess his fate was just that cursed.
Still, better than twitching limbs seizing up, zombies lunging, and heading to hell arm-in-arm.
“Got... a favor.”
Seoho raised a finger—barely knowing if it moved—pointing at Thousand Stream Emperor’s sword, then his corpse-like self.
Head’s a bit fried from drugs, but he ain’t dumb. He’d get it.
“...No.”
“C’mon.”
“Said no.”
“Hey.”
“Why me! Specifically!”
Seoho chuckled wetly at Thousand Stream Emperor’s twitching eyebrows. Deathbed clarity, huh? Seeing stuff he never noticed.
“Even in this dumpster, I lived as ‘me’.... Losing it to one shot... feels wrong. Bugs me.”
“You...”
“...Do it. Before it’s... too late.”
Twitch.
For an instant, Seoho’s sprawled corpse-leg jerked. Impossible for him squeezing out final words. Like the other junkies, he’d been infected too.
In the arduously raised blade, his idol’s reflection—already a corpse.
Seeing that, Thousand Stream Emperor knew he couldn’t refuse Seoho’s plea. Despair crashed down.
****
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