Chapter 157
Chapter 157
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 157
Chapter Title: Hiding a House in the Apocalypse
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"Dead people?"
"Isn't that Failnet too?"
Come to think of it...
"A bunch of Failnet users dropped dead. That Foxgames title? It's basically one big graveyard. Even that guy who seemed pretty mentally tough couldn't hack it."
Right.
This is reality.
The top post was from Foxgames himself, spilling his guts about how he just couldn't keep running the game anymore.
The surreal vibe on the Gather! Animal Island! — Modo Island board wasn't just from their over-the-top friendliness.
Dajeong tossed out one possibility right there.
"What if one psycho's playing all the roles solo?"
Her theory? Multiple-account sockpuppeting.
It's when one person juggles several accounts to fake being a crowd. Turns out it's an old-school internet trick, dating back to the PC comms days before the web.
"Look, they all talk about money the same way? All spaced out, obsessed with that Ismail kid like it's a zoo, not a playground. Straight-up NPC chatter."
She had a point.
If it wasn't sockpuppets, how could twelve active users pump out over one post per minute and still rank the Modo Island board equal to ghost-town boards?
"From what I know, Failnet's flooded with fakes and trolls, so they count activity by unique device IDs or phone numbers—one per machine, not per account. Hell, anyone can pull a one-man multiverse just by swapping nicknames."
"Hmm."
One guy faking a bunch of people.
Easy enough to watch and see.
Time's the one thing I've got plenty of.
I pulled up the Modo Island board and, for the first time in a while, got to work on my gun imports.
Five rifles and two pistols laid out neat on the gun mat.
Click!
I lined up the disassembled parts on the mat, wiping each one down with an oiled rag while keeping an eye on the board.
Posts popping up: one every minute, five tops.
Click!
Reassembling the broken-down guns in sequence—back to perfect condition—was one of the few hobbies I had back in school.
Not the fastest, but never a single mistake.
Even if someone shook the mat and scattered the pieces, no sweat.
My personal puzzle game.
Hands are slower now than back then, but the careful, flawless assembly? Still spot-on, years after graduation.
Click—
I pulled the trigger on the empty gun, that faint tick echoing as I stared at the monitor.
...
A decent pile of posts.
I wiped the oil off my hands lightly and clicked through them with the mouse.
Most matched their titles spot-on.
Some had pics attached—right on theme.
Like CueHam's nutrition bar rant: photo of that same roach-colored bar I'd seen before. Roaker's game console post: pic of it on a blanket.
But those two photos? Lighting, vibe, backgrounds—clearly snapped in different spots.
Friend colors, room tones all mismatched.
No way to fake that with lights or angles.
Roaker's looked like inside a tent. LolCueHam's? Apartment vibes.
No way they're the same.
"Hm..."
Apartment in this mess? Thought everyone was bunked in evac camps.
Anyway, pics alone make Roaker and LolCueHam look like separate people.
I kept maintaining the guns, glancing at the board between steps.
Scroll slowed sometimes, but over ten posts an hour. Checked each—no spam, no junk. All legit to their titles.
Regular gamers enjoying their cozy little game.
Problem is, that peace clashes hard with the apocalypse outside.
I wrapped up the gun work and dropped a chat.
The board's off-kilter mood had me treading light. No subject line—my usual trademark. Fancy metaphor for this skeleton's unease, maybe.
Right after my post, another popped up.
Off-topic nonsense. Ten-second gap from mine—probably posted blind.
Sure enough, GingerCookie bit soon after.
Right after GingerCookie's invite...
A landslide of posts hit the board all at once.
...
"......"
Even with my rep for being internet-clueless, I'm not so dense I miss the creepy in that freakshow unfolding before me. Something's off. Big time.
This board.
GingerCookie prods—like she's herding me.
What to do?
Gut says ignoring this seals the deal—GingerCookie cuts me loose.
Feels like an ultimatum.
Could ghost, but curiosity bites.
Didn't sit right, but I dragged the convo.
Shelter 258?
No clue where that is.
"......"
Tastes sour. Real sour.
Today. Right now.
Classic bait for internet lures—rob and kill.
And cue the murder whiff: my online pal pings the comms like a hawk.
"Hey. Skelton."
Defender.
"Those guys scream bad news."
Probably eavesdropped on me and Dajeong, lurking the Modo board.
Comms are handy, but squad-tactics gear means zero privacy.
"Murderers, right?"
Anyone else says it, in one ear out the other.
But from my content-killing buddy? Carries weight.
"Why think that?"
"No normal folks demand 'right now.'"
"Common sense."
"Plus, shelter 258? Gone two years at least."
"Yeah?"
"Last winter, mass die-off—reorganized shelters. Easier herding into fewer spots for management."
"Over 200-seaters? Wiped in the reorg. Big ones left top out at low 100s."
"You know your stuff."
"Dug it up prepping to smash JusticeMin."
"Got it."
Trust: 200%.
Defender kept going.
"Luring kills via boards? Our spot's had cases, but Failnet's infested."
"Figures."
"Bait ain't just girls or kids. Loneliness, fear—tools too. DS-style."
"So you see those board psychos as killers?"
"Likely. But weirdos, these."
Defender tsked.
Even he found this case odd.
"Can't pin it. Good log analyst could ID the bot-spewers easy."
While chatting Defender, a new post floated up.
Right after GingerCookie...
...
Another text bomb rains down.
In that eerie swarm, silence was my only play.
Dajeong nailed it.
They weren't a crowd—one lone user.
The hyper-friendly schtick, twisted fairy-tale setup? All one man's delusion play.
But the chats during my gun cleaning? Not solo.
Those voices, surface-level but distinct personalities—multiple people.
Told Ballantine that.
Ballantine followed with analysis.
Ballantine posted on Modo Island.
Then...
...
"This..."
No doubt.
Exact same warm welcome I got on debut.
Missing just the "named user Skeldon" bit. Chills.
Ballantine explained on.
"......"
The truth of my brief sanctuary, Modo Island board.
Called out the one who lured me.
No reply.
Just 2-year-old ghost murmurs filling the dead air.
Would've been nice if that wrapped it.
But story ain't over.
Another truth hid beyond the wire.
That's when National Crisis Committee freelance hunter Cheon Yeongjae—low-level Awakened—led three Old School hunters and two scavengers to raid the basement behind old shelter 258.
No Awakening power—just school tracking skills to sniff the hideout. Reported to his client, the one who hired him.
"Found one guy slumped dead over his computer. Fresh-ish death, but shape was so bad, rot would've been mercy."
Client? Defender.
He filled me in.
"Next room: pile of mummies. No burial—lined up neat."
Defender tsked.
"All chewed on. One guy ate 'em. One by one."
The dying cannibal called me.
Why? Unknown.
To eat me? Or beat loneliness?
Maybe both.
Eating and bonding both fill voids, after all.
One thing's sure: that man-eater handed cornered me a comeback shot.
"......"
My first popular post in ages.
Side note: Cannibal's original handle was Ismail, not GingerCookie.
Rec: 75
Dragged to the tiger's den? Still tops popular—satisfied!
Rec: 71
Promised board admin? I'd go even knowing it's a trap.
Rec: 70 -4
Board posts are copies of old ones. But Ismail's replies? All "......"
Lonely even there? Or main didn't wanna play. Creepy af...
Rec: 63
Skelton turning cannibal ghost-town into casual post fodder? True horror...
Rec: 58
Info: Ismail's the cannibal from Moby-Dick.
Rec: 55
Normal folk? Offline for weeks from fear.
Skelton's unbreakable prof mental. Cannibal can't break comms.
Rec: 48
The "come now" was hunger pangs.
Rec: 35
Teens' sockpuppets can't snag 300-man Skelton.
Rec: 28
Good comments scarier. Glad not Animal Farm-tier human farm gallery.
Rec: 2
“This board feels like a haunted village. Thanks, pros Ballantine and Cheon Yeongjae. Haha.”
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