Chapter 105
Chapter 105
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 105
Chapter Title: 57. Judgment (1)
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Meeting a group of judges happened back during my days as a multiple debtor.
What I remember is that they wore clothes that set them apart from everyone else, sitting high up on the bench, and we had to stand when they entered.
Most people did stand.
Only those with some baseless stubbornness stayed seated, but even they stood during the appeals court, as far as I recall.
According to what I looked up online, standing when the judge enters isn't about respect for the judge personally—it's a gesture of respect and reverence for the South Korean judiciary as a whole.
I'm not so sure.
It looked more like most people stood because everyone else did, or out of fear that they'd suffer if they caught the judge's ire.
I wonder what they think when they gaze down from that lofty podium at everyone scrambling to their feet just because they appear.
Do they vow to judge fairly so no one leaves wronged? Or picture themselves on the scales of justice symbolized by the statue outside the courthouse?
Or maybe they just note the case number of the guy who doesn't bother standing, without any grand sense of duty.
Either way, it's got to be a tough job.
Judging isn't just about workload—making decisions always carries heavy weight.
That's probably why the selection process is so rigorous.
Sitting in that position demands more responsibility than most.
After the war, the image of judges in their robes faded from memory.
No reason to deal with them, no news to hear about them.
A chance encounter brought me back to a courtroom like the one I'd once stood in.
*
Secondary evacuees are a whole different breed from the first wave.
Unlike the first-timers who naively thought they'd have a shot at survival if they just stepped outside, these folks know full well the world out there is hell—and they're ready and willing to do whatever it takes to live.
Crackle—
"Buying bullets~ Trading for oil. I'll give you a generous deal. Oil's great. Starting lot number 4."
The K-walkie-talkie spitting out messages more frequently lately ties into the same trend.
Not every secondary evacuee is a murderer hunting down users from our Viva! Apocalypse! Korean board.
We're a handful, and so are the ones gunning for us.
Most are just people seeking a new foothold.
Sure, if they luckily stumble on a bunker, they'll gladly rob us blind.
With evacuees pouring out in droves, it wasn't just pure refugees milling about.
Leave it to the trading nation—some were trying to do business with them.
"Ah, we've got women too. Lonely big brothers, come treat it like a favor and unwind a bit. Special discount for anyone who knows Manseok from Gaepo-dong~."
One such mystery merchant had recently started operating within range of my frequencies in my territory.
His mainstay was synthetic oil, but he also patched tires, handled basic repairs, and even pimped out prostitutes—a full-on corporation.
I had no clue how big the operation was or how many of them there were.
The signal reached me, but they were positioned beyond what I could observe from my bunker.
The K-walkie-talkie has a feature to limit public frequency reception range, and I'd set mine to max 15km.
Even if far, they were roughly within 15km.
"Ah? That loudmouth making noise lately? I've seen him."
Defender, whose voice had regained some pep lately, had apparently spotted the merchant in question, true to his networker nature.
"He's at the old highway rest stop site. Pretty big crew. Four buses and a truck. Didn't count the sedans. Looks like gang activity to me."
Everyone knew gangs lurked in the cities—no need to point it out.
Those wannabe "kings of the night" kept popping up endlessly like mosquitoes or flies, no matter how many you killed.
This noisy trader seemed like a gang fleeing the crumbling city in search of fresh prey.
I had no desire to tangle with their kind, but...
"5.56mm, 30-round mag per drum—about one drum's worth~."
The offer was too good.
Ammo was precious, sure, but my bunker overflowed with it.
I'd scooped up the ammo depot first after the U.S. military pulled out.
What I lacked was oil.
Synthetic oil, especially, had become my new lifeline lately.
To replace the expired, barely viable old diesel as fuel for my grand and glorious generator—the Skeleton Heart.
Considering trade started with pure barter of surplus resources, this was exactly what I needed most.
We could scrape through this winter with what oil and wood we had, but beyond that, oil was essential for any semblance of civilized life.
I knew the risks, but the deal tempted me enough to hesitate anyway.
"...Hmm."
Truth be told, Defender hadn't been sitting well with me lately.
How to put it.
We'd confirmed our differences, I guess.
I knew we were different, but seeing and feeling that gap firsthand was an emotional issue, not rational.
Even if they were intruders, butchering a helpless family like pigs and bragging about it online as a comeback stunt—that was hard for me to wrap my head around.
Sure, I'd have killed them gladly if they'd invaded my turf, but I wouldn't have broadcast it.
What could I do, though?
He was the only connection I had.
"What? You're gonna trade with them?"
Defender pondered for a second before answering brightly.
"Cool. I'll go with you."
"...".
No one's perfect in this world.
If such a friend existed, it'd only be in imagination.
I set a meetup with my trusted pal Defender at a midpoint.
He always showed up with something scavenged and jury-rigged, and this time it was an electric scooter.
The crude frame and haphazardly bundled wires suggested he'd made it himself from parts.
"Oh. That new?"
"Yeah. Saw your motorcycle and got inspired. Whipped one up from what I had."
I glanced at the sky.
A drone hovered far up.
As my eyes reached it, the drone buzzed in a figure-eight like a bee.
"Essential these days."
Defender waved at the drone.
I nodded and waved too.
"Yeah. Makes sense."
I didn't ask about recent happenings on the way to the rest stop.
No need to hear it.
If he'd killed someone, he'd post proof for his comeback.
Since I stayed silent, an awkward quiet settled between us.
I was quiet by nature, and so was he.
He chattered when there was a good topic, but he wasn't the type to force the mood.
"Skeleton. You hear about that?"
Defender's sister broke the eternal-seeming silence.
"What?"
The distance garbled her voice with static, making it hard to catch.
Probably lose signal soon.
"A named mutation popped up near our neighborhood."
"Named mutation?"
"You know? The Seven Wonders, Five Mysteries, Three Divine Beasts... whatever. Comic-book stuff."
"Ah. That."
I'd heard about it in Hunter Street.
It was the decisive reason I returned to my bunker.
Sticking around there meant facing worse than armored monkeys.
"One of the Three Divine Beasts... crackle... appeared...".
Her already spotty signal cut out midway.
I pondered briefly.
Should I stop the motorcycle and backtrack?
Defender signaled the descending drone to hold off, then filled me in himself.
"Heard one of those Gangwon headaches swam down to Incheon lately."
"Why?"
"More food."
"Hmm. What kind? Cat? Dog?"
"Nah. Eagle owl."
Hearing the species made me nod instinctively.
"Of all things."
"Yeah. Of all things."
A silent-flying nightmare scooping people up at night.
And smart as a human.
Deserves the divine beast label.
Just hearing about it, I couldn't see a way to fight.
"They call it 'Hoot.' Even gave the Legion trouble. Sneaks up soundless, and you're dead or crippled on impact. Legion hunters went after it multiple times—couldn't bag it."
"Intriguing news. Where'd you see it? I should check it out when I have time."
"Nah, not online. Heard it."
"Heard it?"
"Got contacts from back in the day. We chat sometimes."
"Ah."
I didn't pry further.
Uncomfortable topic for both.
Defender having Legion ties.
Better to change the subject than let silence fester.
"...If something like that shows up, this area's riskier too. We could be next."
"Staying in at night."
I'd curb my nighttime outings too.
Mutations might seem like monster lite, but at that level, they don't just shrug bullets—they're far trickier and deadlier.
Still, that mutation talk shortened what could have been an awkward trip.
The old rest stop ruins came into view.
Four trailers walled off a modest apocalypse shop, shabby but stocked, open for business.
"...Heard you were trading."
Under cover of a rock overlooking the rest stop, we radioed in.
"Mind if we stop by to check it out?"
Trading meant risking your life these days.
Especially with city gangsters.
Caution wasn't optional—it was survival.
"Oh, customers?"
An overly enthusiastic voice crackled over the K-walkie-talkie.
"Come on in! It's Manseok from Gaepo-dong!!!!"
*
"Ah, you can leave the radio on. If we pull any funny business, just blast it. Max power, and everyone in 20km hears. Kills our business."
First impression of Gaepo-dong Manseok: average uncle.
Medium build, unremarkable face etched with just the right touch of life's worries.
Baggy black suit pants and a once-white dress shirt rolled to short sleeves.
Not all gangsters are jacked tattoo canvases like in movies.
Being a gangster requires the resolve to ink an indelible mark on your soul.
Manseok's normalcy didn't last.
Stepping into the trailer-walled shop made it clear: this guy was evil to the bone.
Women inside the containers, clear signs of abuse.
Next to stalls of assorted goods, stereotypical tattooed thugs played cards with grim faces.
The standout was the elderly man chained, holding a crude "Manseok Shop" sign.
"...".
He was naked.
His gaunt frame covered in abuse scars, collared like a dog.
One glance told me he'd endured soul-crushing torment from this Manseok punk for ages.
"Hey, you bastard! Hold that sign straight!"
Sure enough, Manseok barked at the naked man en route to his desk.
The guy trembled at the mere shout.
Yet to me, he flashed a mask-like smile and asked smoothly.
"Selling bullets?"
"Yes. Half a crate?"
"Half drum—about 800 rounds?"
"Yes."
"Wow. You must have a stockpile. Rough times like these."
Manseok tapped his laptop, glancing my way.
"What line of work you in?"
"Evacuee."
"800 rounds... that's how many drums? Gonna be heavy hauling it back."
"Bringing the truck."
"Ah, got it."
"Can I check the goods?"
Despite the tense vibe, the deal went smoothly.
You could feel it everywhere.
Manseok wasn't just a thug—he'd set this up for real business.
"This is what we've got now. Come tomorrow, I'll fill any shortages. Ah, synthetic oil's from Changwon—trustworthy. If quality's bad, burn us down at night."
We'll see.
Whether these gangsters planned to trade straight or not.
"By the way, boss~ Need a woman?"
As I turned to leave, Manseok grinned slyly, nodding at the women's container.
"Good price. Can't vouch for STDs, though."
"No thanks."
"Why? Girls not to your taste? Or don't trust us?"
"No. Don't do that."
"Ah, you don't know who Gaepo-dong Manseok is, huh? Been in business since right after the war. Built on trust."
He kept pushing prostitution.
I didn't want to look at the women or face that reality—flat refusal.
Instead, recalling the nagging naked sign-holder, I asked Manseok.
"What's with the guy on the sign? Employee?"
Joking lightly to avoid offending him.
Manseok beamed.
His eyes—ordinary at a glance, writhing with immeasurable malice—gleamed as he said.
"Selling a judge."
"Pardon?"
I didn't catch it at first.
Word I'd long forgotten.
"Judge. You know, the pricks who strutted on high benches before the war."
Manseok sneered, hatred spilling out.
"'I'm different from you rabble~ Up in the clouds~ Love me some reflection essays~.'"
I thought it over.
Was his loathing aimed at judges as a group, or this one specifically?
Maybe both.
That venomous expression held a gloom too profound for one target.