Chapter 221
Chapter 221
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 221
Chapter Title: 95. Signs (3)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"Where are you off to? Rehearsal over already?"
Judging by his bright expression, Defender had no idea what was unfolding up front.
"Not quite done, but I've got business to handle. Heading home."
"You came all this way—mind seeing my little sister before you go?"
"She's here?"
"Yeah. In the hospital."
"That bad?"
"Not bad exactly, just a pain-in-the-ass illness."
"What kind?"
"Tumor. Not cancer yet. Right on the cusp, though?"
"Damn."
So that's why he'd thrown in with the Legion faction.
I couldn't picture a guy like Defender bending the knee so easily, but now it made sense.
"It's not a big deal. Thanks to Jong-chul, they caught it early and treated it fast. Honestly, she might be all clear now."
"Even a pile of crap has its uses sometimes."
"That guy's a weirdo, but knowing him never hurts."
Defender pressed the invite again.
"Da-jeong's been asking about you. What do you say? Head over now?"
What to say to that?
After a moment's thought, I laid out the truth for him.
"What? Monsters...? A massive horde heading here?"
Sure enough, his face said he'd never heard a peep.
"Since we're on the topic, let's bail together. I'll help clean out your bunker."
He hesitated at my offer.
"Thing is..."
He let out a sigh, staring up at the sky.
"She needs one more treatment."
"When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Memorial Day?"
"Yeah."
"Can't skip it?"
"Nah. It's chemo. Can't get it anywhere else. Might as well go all-in while we're at it."
What to do?
The easy play was ignore it all and bolt to my turf.
But I knew better than anyone that wasn't an option anymore.
I wouldn't ditch my people for a solo run and trash my bonds and honor.
"...Here's the plan."
I walked him through it.
"That could get dicey. Full fallout with the Legion faction, for one."
"But if a massive monster horde hits the city, survivors'll be few and far between."
The moment mid-tier monsters that slaughter like breathing take the city, most humans are toast.
Someone might say just escape when it's overrun, but slipping out of a chaotic city ain't that simple.
Try driving, and dozens swarm your car. Walking? Any moment, some opportunistic human turns predator and slits your throat.
Best bet's always evacuating a step ahead, before the threat peaks.
But with that off the table, half a beat early was our only shot.
"Hook me up with a car. Doesn't matter the shape. Something that can put 100km between us and Seoul in two hours—that's plenty."
"...No choice, huh."
Defender wasn't 100% sold, but he'd Hunter'd in China too.
He'd seen cities fall to monsters plenty.
Once we'd hashed out a deal, I slipped into the city.
War or no war, subways were key infrastructure.
Subways make killer mass bunkers.
Lots of entrances suck against humans, but against low-IQ zombies, barricade 'em and you've got kill zones galore.
The Gaebong Station I'd picked was already claimed by a group of refugees.
<< The Third Shelter > >
A flag fluttered at the entrance—ripped from some pre-war political banner, scrubbed of the politicians and their lame slogans.
Armed folks under it glared with killer eyes.
"Who're you? New face."
"Third Shelter" wasn't just for show, apparently.
The gaunt young gatekeeper seemed to know most of their crew on sight.
"Nowhere else to go. Mind if I crash a couple days?"
"We only take our own shelter folk."
A woman in a full-face gas mask said it ice-cold.
She packed a judge killer, with spares on her back.
"Kinda stingy. I'm from Incheon originally."
"Which shelter?"
The guy asked.
"...Hunter Street."
Not a lie.
I'd bailed in a day, but I'd scored a house there—fact.
"Hunter?"
I nodded.
My gold fleece badge was tucked away.
Bad if someone recognized me, but in this world, cutthroats eyeing valuables outnumbered pre-war by miles.
"Hunter? Not a Zealot, then?"
He smirked.
I nodded.
He scooped a stray can off the ground, balanced it on his palm.
"Then hit this can..."
Bang!
Before anyone twitched, I punched a hole dead center.
Can't tag a can's heart from 8m in under a second? You're no Hunter.
Folks froze for a sec, but I ignored it.
He grinned quick.
"Real deal, huh."
"Can I come in?"
"Not yet. Interview's pending."
"Interview?"
"Yeah. One more Hunter inside."
Armed guards flanked me front and back.
Our gas-masked pint-sized guide led on.
Her mask muffled her voice, twisting it, but she sounded young.
They marched me down endless dark stairs to the open concourse.
Tents, tarps, cardboard walls everywhere, reeking of lived-in hell.
They took me to an old staff room.
A guy lounged there, chair turned away, neck craned, half-reclined, dozing.
"Agrippa."
She called; he waved without looking up.
Sign language.
Situation report, from what I caught.
She replied.
"Brought a guy claiming Hunter."
He signed again.
Numbers and order, seemed like.
Vague, but she decoded it smooth—lots of practice.
"Asking your class."
She eyed me.
"13th."
"13th?"
Then he spoke.
Voice rang familiar.
Sure enough, he spun the chair, face revealed—I knew him on sight.
"Cheon Young-jae?"
My junior from Hunter Street, the slick one.
Why he was here? Best not dwell.
Standards, ranks—all crumbling. Humans just drift like seaweed in this world.
"Clear out."
Cheon Young-jae shooed everyone.
They looked puzzled, but his pull was strong.
No arguments; they obeyed.
Once alone, he flashed his trademark playful grin.
"No way, Senior Park. What's the gig? Finally promoting me?"
"Cut the crap."
"...Gonna need two more visits to snag a runt like me."
Gaunt cheeks aside, still flashy as ever.
Hunter perk: optimism baked in.
We knew from experience—pessimists snap like Kim Daram.
"Crashing here two days."
Just us, so I whispered the sitrep. Lighthouses included.
"Heard of segregating combat-unfit Awakeners, but using 'em like that? Never crossed my mind."
Cheon had rolled in warzones long, knew National Committee insides—grasped it fast.
"We should bail too, right, Senior?"
"But the whole shelter bolts sudden? Legion won't sit idle."
"True that."
He'd slimmed some, but otherwise unchanged.
Thrived through chaos—impressive. Had to ask.
"How'd you wash up here?"
"When Woo Min-hee ditched us, we stuck at Hunter Street. Then Zealot warlords seized power, Kim Daram tried captaining— who sticks? We scattered."
"Zealot issue's bad, huh."
I knew.
What cancers they were to the world.
No grudge against Chinese Hunters' raw hate.
They deserved death—human tumors.
"...Tolerated their preaching crazy, but snatching kids and women? Nah."
"That bad."
"Our shelter lost a few. Me and the guys busted 'em. Use your imagination—not fit for polite talk. Human sacrifice vibe."
Cheon stayed breezy, but his face iced over on Zealot atrocities.
"Kim Byung-chul gets it, but Manryu Church is dug deep in Legion. Rumors high officers converted. Surgery to live, but risky knife."
"No picnic."
"Was planning escape anyway—thanks to you, speeding it up. I'll pitch the shelter cap. Make yourself comfy. Not your bunker luxe, though."
He grinned, handing over a sleeping bag.
"Need this?"
That smile hit me with long-lost academy camaraderie.
No real rooms in the station-turned-shelter, bar a few spots.
Folks pitched tents in least-freezing/stuffy spots, cardboard walls for turf.
Traveled light, no gear—but with the bag, I unrolled in a corner, lay back for rest.
"..."
Short time, big events.
But no deep thinks.
A day passed in this strange haunt.
"Tomorrow marks the historic signing of the Sino-Korean War armistice. China repents bitterly for three years and six months of unforgivable sins against our nations and the world, offering unconditional surrender and ceding Manchukuo to Korea. Commander Kim Byung-chul hasn't stated outright, but word is we'll reclaim the Manchu lands lost since Balhae."
Legion radio helped purge my hate for their warlord blob.
Loved the main host's crisp, elegant voice.
That voice flowed from someone else's radio.
Listeners varied: snorts here, cheers there for flattening Chinese noses.
Manchu news hooked the elders big.
Curious who voiced it.
Not crush— just wanna see who broadcasts like that.
Lost in fancies, killing time the usual way.
Kwa-boom!
Blast nearby.
Shell hit right overhead.
Wheeeeeen—
Sirens wailed through the station.
Vets of this: women and kids calmly grabbed essentials, headed deepest in—cooler than me.
Fighters, men and women, guns up, rushed entrances.
Trailing them, bumped Cheon Young-jae.
"What's up?"
"Checking."
We hunkered in the kill zone by the sole exit, 1-3 gates, awaiting word.
Radio's king in this.
But.
"Reclaiming Manchu could spark our nation's second leap with North recovery. Vast resources, Bohai Gulf gas fields with huge potential..."
Radio? Useless.
One guy ordered another to kill his set.
True—no help now.
Distant booms.
Not us.
Scouts from outside returned—my five gatekeepers.
"Military's rounding up Zealots."
Scout yanked mask, slumped on stairs, weary.
"No clue why, but brutal. Recommend staying put."
Words barely out, someone in the kill zone yelled.
"Radio on!"
"Spouting nonsense."
"Try again."
They fired it up.
No mention of this mess.
Day dragged in grim tension.
That night.
Chijijik—
Defender's comms crackled alive.
"SKELTON. This side's set. Secured ambulance 3130. Hop in. I'll grab sis post-treatment."
Hospital I knew well.
Where Kim Daram force-fed me "internet addiction therapy."
"Obliged."
"Leaving already? Wasn't it two days?"
"Plans shifted."
"Cool. I'll swing by your bunker after."
Cheon flashed his Awakener glow-pupils, grinning.
"Come. Dinner from my homegrown crops."
Streets dead quiet—no ants even.
Military vehicles rolled, but few troops afoot.
Obvious why.
All frontline fodder for Kim Byung-chul's glory.
Smooth sail to the hospital; found the ambulance.
Door open to climb in—I froze breath, drew pistol.
Someone inside.
Tampering ignition.
"Shit! Why won't it start?! Keys fit!"
Not Defender.
Not Da-jeong.
Stranger.
No window peek—instead, circled back, tested rear door subtle.
Opened easy.
Breath steady, yanked door, gun leveled.
Damn familiar face.
My shrink.
Not alone.
Wife, twin toddler boys—pale faces staring back.