Chapter 132
Chapter 132
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 132
Chapter Title: 69. Message from Space (1)
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Even people with zero interest in current events have heard the name Melon Mask at least once.
He'd already made billions in his early twenties by creating an internet payment site, then went on to succeed in cutting-edge ventures like electric vehicles, artificial intelligence, space business, and more, becoming a global icon.
He's also the creator of our message board.
Opinions are divided on whether it's quantum communication or not, but the Obelisk system—far superior to conventional satellite tech—and its twin, the Viva! Apocalypse! community, were projects Melon Mask launched purely out of his own tastes, without chasing profit.
It's well-known that he had a strong attachment to what he called "communities."
To the point where he shelled out trillions to acquire the barely profitable SNS service "Trbook" just because he wanted to tinker with it however he pleased.
Yet this showman who craved the spotlight and cutting-edge image was presumed dead after the war began.
Why? A guy who loved flaunting himself that much would've surely taken the throne on his own Viva! Apocalypse! if he were alive. He didn't.
Some say he vaporized in one of the 72 nukes that hit California. Others claim his private jet crashed in the fallout winds.
There's even talk he vanished through a mysterious portal in the Bermuda Triangle to another world.
Rebecca's a die-hard believer in the third theory.
"Melon Mask went to another world!"
The most realistic take—backed by his relatives or bodyguards who resented him—is that they killed him amid the chaos and seized everything. But on the English board, his home turf, the consensus is that the unparalleled entrepreneur is out in space.
Rumors swirled even before the war that he'd built a space bunker, backed by solid references. And right before it all started, massive rockets launched from Melon Mask's space center were confirmed.
In other words, Melon Mask is living comfortably in a state-of-the-art, fully self-sufficient orbital bunker.
Rebecca even showed me his "space colony concept art," which looked like pure sci-fi made real.
But even for Melon Mask, isn't that a bit too far-fetched?
A space bunker?
I hear even the U.S. President is holed up in an underground one.
Well, my bunker might be smaller and cheaper than theirs, but Park Gyu here is plenty satisfied.
Woooong—woooong—woooong—woooong—
The boiler hums contentedly, devouring the old diesel fuel,
and
Hiss—
the steam radiator emits faint vapor, chasing away the chill seeping into the room.
The freak polar cold snap from the Arctic couldn't touch Skeleton House.
In this stable comfort, I've lately been immersed in a new project.
I'm converting the mini Skeleton House next to the cabin where Rebecca and her family will live into a sauna.
The inspiration came from my pre-war survivalist DVD stash.
Finnish folks building saunas to battle Arctic cold left a huge impression.
It's not complicated work.
Just tear down parts of the kinda ugly mini Skeleton House, spruce it up nice, use industrial packaging vinyl I embezzled from my old job for sauna curtains, lay fragrant wood like hinoki cypress neatly, and craft some benches.
No hinoki or birch around here, but I've seen platycladus orientalis planted by that rich family's graves on the sunny south slope of the opposite mountain.
I drove the truck over, clear-cut without mercy, and got to work.
Winter's brutally cold, sure, but it's easier to move around in.
The colder it gets, the less humans stir. The snow-blanketed ground makes spotting approaching people or beasts a breeze.
I spent a full day sawing and shaping the platycladus with a carpentry saw for the sauna's interior paneling.
Hard on the body and stamina, but it felt great.
Somehow good for the mental health.
Truth be told, Rebecca's family leaving shook me a bit.
Guess I've grown attached.
To shake it off, the internet helps, but throwing myself into physical, rewarding labor seems even more therapeutic.
These days, logging on just shows misery anyway.
No food. Fuel shortage. Save us.
Common posts lately.
One user even snapped a pic begging like a beggar inside their bunker, pleading for charity.
If they were close, I might've helped, but they weren't in my reach.
Three years since the war began.
Even us doomsday preppers on the board are hitting our limits.
"···."
I skimmed the feed, planning to log off at bad news and watch animal docs instead.
But something new caught my eye.
Atop the flood of posts, bigger than the rest, in flashy, shimmering multicolored font—like John_nenon's dying post—a message stood proudly.
Its content:
"Huh?"
The creator of our world was alive.
*
True to form, the world's most successful attention hound plastered his post—simultaneously translated—across every language board as a notice.
Even the half-finished Mayan board had it.
Why had this super showman stayed silent for over three years since the war?
Let's borrow his fingers.
Melon Mask then revealed his shelter, "Plus Ultra."
Melon Mask's space colony wasn't some ordinary station.
It was a little world: small building-sized modules fused for living, food, water, power, work—each specialized.
The water zone held so much it was practically a small sea. The food zone ran fully automated ag-bots that seeded, watered, fertilized, washed, and shipped produce without a human touch.
Every environment controlled by a high-end AI manager, letting residents kick back worry-free in perfect comfort.
The crown jewel? The work zone—a mini rocket itself.
Ready to ferry Melon Mask back to a monster-free, peaceful Earth someday.
But nothing's 100% perfect.
He brought a pet when heading to Plus Ultra: a sloth pup named "Bumphy."
Slow, quiet, low-maintenance eater—perfect for space.
Adorable as a baby, too.
While docking modules, optimizing, prepping life support with his crew, Bumphy thrived on staff chow.
They never saw the disaster coming.
Bumphy mutated.
Unknown why.
They scrubbed for mutation factors, UV-sterilized repeatedly. No dice.
Maybe it started when poachers killed its parents and snatched it from the jungle.
His crew were space, machine, hydroponics experts—no monster pros.
Couldn't tell "mutation" from "growth." Pegged Bumphy's weirdness as space adaptation blues.
One guy tried killing it once: comms engineer Donald McGully.
Ex-military, combat-savvy. Suspected mutation, pushed to end it.
Ignored.
Bumphy fans—including Melon Mask—protected it.
The attention king, dreaming of wowing the world post-repairs with his "space sloth," wasn't offing it.
They paid dearly when Bumphy showed its true colors.
Plus Ultra has five modules.
Melon Mask's in the habitat one.
The rest crawl with mutated and zombified ex-colleagues.
Worse: he lost a leg.
Fleeing Bumphy, slamming emergency shutters—it crushed and severed his left leg.
Donald nursed him through, but now Donald's gone too.
Suicide, he says.
More ingenious than all humanity's wildest dreams, his space bunker turned three years into prison.
Trapped in habitat sans crew or leg, scraping by on emergency rations.
Thankfully, three years' effort paid off: remotely locked the root of evil—Bumphy—in the grow module.
Problem: four zombies.
They don't run or jump.
Float dormant in zero-G, life signs paused.
Thought they'd die in three years. Nope.
Crack a shutter? Eyes snap open, limbs flail, hellbent on killing Melon and his last buddy.
He unveiled Viva! Apocalypse!'s secret weapon: Live! Apocalypse!
A global broadcast across all boards.
Needs: Obelisk sat gear + video-sharing device like a smartphone.
Users apply via Live! Apocalypse! tab, get approved—orbitals prioritize bandwidth for FHD real-time streaming.
First demo: our world's creator.
"Hey, everyone?"
Over real-time subtitles, a gaunt, bushy-bearded, hollow-eyed skeleton of a man waves a bony hand.
No doubt.
Thinner than his chubby past, but those eyes and jawline scream genius entrepreneur Melon Mask.
"HQ's still up, thank God. Before I kick it, doomers—got a surprise gift for you."
He pops up a window:
"···."
Thump.
Heart races.
My razor gaze, honed killing monsters and mutations, spots the board change.
There.
Top-left tab: "Live! Apocalypse!"
Click.
Tap tap.
"···."
Don't care if Woo Min-hee catches me.
If I make history as the first act? Perfect cap to my ideal last human record.
Especially sharing beatboxing—my specialty culture.
Reply pings.
Hit Live. Unleash my polished skills.
"Boom-chicka-boom-chicka-beatbox···."
Sudden English popup:
- You have been banned!
"?"
Translates real-time:
-You have been forcibly ejected!
"What?!"
Rush to laptop, try raging in chat—banned, no dice.
Deep breaths calm my ragged breathing. Top-left blinks: Live!
Someone else got it?
"···Hoo."
Swallow rage, click Live!
Ashen gray backdrop appears.
Ragged, phlegmy breaths—still strong.
Rustling behind, baby-like gurgles.
Crystal clarity, pre-war HD quality.
Shake—pans elsewhere.
Gray-filled ruined city.
Ghostly skyscrapers through fog, dim gray-white lights flickering gloomily.
"···."
No mistake.
Erosion zone.
A massive metropolis, once.
Where? India? China?
Guessing from hazy towers—speaker blares familiar, unwelcome sound.
"···Nom."
Shivered at that last bite...
Recommendations: 88
While we're filming apocalypse on Earth, he's solo space survival vlog.
Recommendations: 62
This chapter's epic and fantastic Melon Musk in space and Live Baek Seung-hyeon... Thought it'd be m9
Recommendations: 44
No way no way "Nom" lmao
Recommendations: 31
You're alive, Dongtanmom! Dongtaesik!
Recommendations: 24
<End of 69. Message from Space (1)>