Chapter 17
Chapter 17
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Classmate (1)
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That school was a cruel place.
They plastered the rankings for every grade, from first to dead last, on huge posters for all to see.
The weak were weeded out and sent packing on their own two feet.
It demanded competition over cooperation, mechanical detachment over humanity.
Creativity wasn't tolerated. Only obedience and discipline were enforced.
It had to be that way.
Our enemy was merciless, forgiving no mistakes whatsoever.
Boys and girls straight out of middle school were reborn as machines in there.
To stand against humanity's foe: monsters.
Motivations varied. For me, it was hatred.
I'd lost my parents and sister to monsters, left a penniless orphan. That hatred was razor-sharp back then—hard to even imagine now.
Lee Sanghun was my polar opposite in every way.
He'd grown up in comfort, parents still alive, drawn to the school by honor and prospects.
A flower raised in a greenhouse beating me, a guy left with nothing but venom? It was probably doomed from the start.
From enrollment to graduation, he hit a wall named me and stayed stuck at second place.
Back when we started, he'd never dreamed that number two would become his trauma.
But our rivalry ended in a totally bizarre way.
The game board flipped.
Think of it like classical musicians competing in a concerto hall, only for the genre to suddenly switch to rock and heavy metal.
Music genres are about taste—no better or worse.
But on the battlefield, rock and metal were what cut through.
Mozart and Salieri? Outdated relics, laughed off in the corner.
The overlooked nobody rose as the hero, basking in the spotlight.
We got shoved to the fringes, enduring the dark jeers and scorn that always follow those types.
One left. One stayed.
The leaver turned wild. The stayer turned bureaucrat.
Their rivalry was over.
The last thread tying them snapped.
I figured I'd never see him again.
Then the guy tracked me down himself.
What the hell could he want?
Old Man Kim had said it: folks reaching out after ages rarely mean well.
"You're the one who dumped that capsule on Road 13, right?"
"How'd you know?"
I admitted it straight away.
I knew his type well.
Lee Sanghun was a perfectionist.
He obsessed over every little detail, which was why he always trailed me.
"Why pull something like that? What if someone rips it open mid-transport and summons a monster?"
"Summons? What're you talking about?"
"You still think those are eggs?"
"Aren't they?"
"Capsules are mini-portals. Confirmed. The infiltration types use 'em as portable rifts."
"...I see."
It'd been ages since I retired from active duty.
I'd known from experience they weren't eggs, but realizing my knowledge was now outdated hit bitter.
"I can guess why you planted it."
"Take a shot."
"You hate refugees swarming your bunker area."
"Sharp as ever. So, what's up? Busy man like you."
"Ever thought about Jeju?"
No way he's scouting me.
Not the vibe I want.
"What for?"
I'd turned it down before.
But now that he was some big shot, he seemed clueless about that.
"Instructor spot opened up. Candidate bit it three days ago. Got other noms, but none clicked. Then I spot you moving that capsule."
"Instructor, huh."
"Better than rotting underground like a worm."
"Stressful gig?"
"That life's the real stress, no? Living solo, I hear. No word to anyone, no friends, nearly two years ghosting solo—that's punishment in itself."
"Not even close."
I countered seriously for the first time.
Really wasn't.
Last two years? Sure, dogshit moments cropped up, but mostly chill, laid-back days.
Friends? Online buddies galore. Talk? Journal it out.
No forum love? Whatever.
I've got neighbors swapping Christmas greetings.
"For real?"
His voice cracked.
Couldn't believe it, from his tone.
I doubled down firm.
"I like it here."
Jeju'd be warmer, sure.
But that's it.
Full of faces and realities I wanna dodge.
That's why I bailed, birthing this unpopular user Skeleton.
"Still trapped in your inferiority complex, huh."
Lee Sanghun sneered coldly.
My face went rigid in an instant.
"......"
Couldn't see my eyes, but they'd be sharp. Not school-days sharp, but close.
"What can ya do? No talent. None. You or me."
His snark turned to sighs.
"You know how rough it is for me?"
I stayed silent.
Intellectually, I got it.
High position means heavy responsibility.
Seoul crumbling—think he's breezy?
But empathizing? Too much bad blood, too many grudges.
We were rivals. Never friends.
"Let's grab a drink for old times. Got decent wine."
"Tempting, but the capsule."
My replies grew half-assed, numb.
He wasn't dense enough to miss it.
"Fine."
His voice faded.
"Take care, Park Gyu."
Link cut—or so I thought—then a faint mutter leaked from the speaker.
"Your nape."
"Huh?"
That was it.
What he'd meant gnawed at my imagination for ages.
Panicked, felt my neck—fine as ever.
To hide a tree, hide it in the forest.
Even in the community, some users had bases smack in Seoul.
Not selling bunkers, but turning overlooked apartment nooks into fortified hideouts.
That reporter guy feeding us fresh Seoul scoops? One of 'em.
He'd welded his apartment's steel door shut, drilled into the unit below for entry—possible 'cause the downstairs fam all offed themselves.
Reporter's blowing up lately.
The pic showed hundreds of thousands of furious citizens packing the government plaza.
Not just there.
Protests erupted at every government building.
Seoul flipped upside down.
No surprise.
"Hope" candy-coating only hides reality so long.
Protests turned rowdy, violent.
Slogans simplified.
Save us.
Their one demand.
Seoul's plane crash kicked off.
Community reactions? Ice cold.
I got their bitterness.
This country's got a model life-rail. Deviate? Relentless pile-on.
We doomsayers? Rail-jumpers.
Faced heavy social flak and mockery.
Me? Got called schizophrenic by a civil servant over building codes.
Refugee exodus accelerated.
Anyone with escape will bolted from Seoul.
Seoul's "pioneers"—glorified refugees—were military-backed.
Sign up as pioneer, form a group: get weapons, gear, rations. Succeed? More supplies, settlement aid.
How many make it? Dunno. But they're raiding all the prime spots, killing off our community users left and right.
Human hunter's swamped, apparently.
Why no posts lately? Busy killing and burying, he says.
But one proof pic sparked a stir.
A slender shadow in it looked female.
Even that screamed era's gloom to me.
Old days? Corpse pic would've sent me fleeing or gulping. Now? Seen so many, I notice side details.
One guy zoomed Defender's shadow, even sketched the silhouette in Paint to push the "Defender's a woman" theory.
Unicorn18's splash fizzled quick.
Defender doused it himself.
Human hunter a woman?
Skeptical.
Saw his bootprints. Man's size.
Other reasons too.
Gun makes man-killing easy for a woman. But hauling and disposing? No picnic.
Me, few bodies drained me dry. Daily like him?
Tough for a fit guy.
A woman? Brutal.
Chimed in, got zero likes.
Friend request for what, then?
Anyway, refugee drama rages on forums. Me? Miles away.
Thanks, capsule.
Military, cops, few hunters guard it, road blocked.
Hunters? Fresh grads, probably.
Gunfire's quiet lately.
"Hey. You alive?"
Quiet enough I ping the sniper mom-duo.
"Meds."
Sniper always wants drugs.
"Morphine. Got?"
Painkillers especially.
Probably dope she's after.
Life perched high, filthy, starving, sniping all comers—grueling.
Sometimes ponder it.
Hand over my dummy bunker?
Tough sell.
They won't budge, and I don't trust 'em.
Random shots could end two years' acquaintance.
War's raged one year, eleven months now.
Heat easing, wild rice patching gold, heads bowing.
Seoul worsening, but I'm serene: rolled pants, harvesting scant rice, bagging for milling.
Never milled before, but vids exist. Fine.
City boy, but Old Man Kim taught basics. Bowlful at least?
Trial-error's joy for me.
For lifers like us, time's not capital—obligation to burn.
Rifling rice sack homeward.
K-Walkie buzzed odd tone.
Private ID ping.
Sanghun again?
Up to me now.
Seoul's less asset, more plague source.
Checked ID.
Personal ID: DARAM
Not Sanghun—Kim Daram.
She's turned as hated as him, but slaved under me once. Old times' sake, I pick up.
"Long time, Committee Member Kim."
Requests? All denied.
Excuse ready: capsule.
Handy guy.
First from radio: sigh.
Curious, wiped sweaty brow on sleeve, awaited.
"Lee Sanghun's dead."
"What?"
Ears doubted.
"Sanghun? My classmate Lee Sanghun?"
"Yeah. Your peer, Senior."
Never liked him.
His death? No ripple expected.
But ties cling weirdly.
His end shocked unexpected.
Makes sense: sixteen to twenty-six, same turf, same grind.
Fought together, saved skins.
Vividest? Ironic peak beef: school days.
Now ash-toned memories flooded thick.
Guy always front-row, buzzcut dome bobbing, hand up questioning.
Obvious answers, shameless for instructor brownie points—that hustler's back filled my view random.
Chaos hit. Snapped at radio.
"How? KIA? Protest crush?"
"Suicide."
Student Sanghun ghosted before me, turned.
Face blurred beyond ID.
What'd he even look like?
Sanghun.
Unresolved, pressed on.
"......Why?"
My voice rasped rough—even surprised me.
Kim Daram sighed, deflated.
"Gotta have at least one or two to take the fall, right?"