Chapter 268
Chapter 268
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 268
Chapter Title: 110. Debt (3)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
King's whim had led me to meet a man named Seol Chan-do—one I'd never known and could never hope to understand.
"Hello?"
Seol Chan-do's first impression was utterly ordinary.
A lean build, average height.
Just one thing stood out: a massive, ugly scar marring his left cheek.
"This isn't from the battlefield."
He noticed my gaze fixed on the scar and touched it gently as he spoke.
He'd been a captain at the time of his discharge.
Not from the start, though. During operations, his superiors had dropped like flies, forcing an unwanted field promotion.
"I was only planning to do my short-term service and get out. An older buddy said he'd hook me up at his company."
He rolled his eyes, sinking into thought.
"Let's see... how many did I kill? At least a thousand. Yeah, direct kills only. Indirect ones—like starvation—probably top a hundred thousand, no problem."
Seol Chan-do recounted his deeds in Pyongyang with complete detachment.
There wasn't a trace of guilt on his face.
It was a trait common among villains, but he showed none of their usual bravado or smug pride.
"Just did what had to be done. Someone else would've anyway."
He added this while sipping his tea.
According to King, Seol Chan-do faced heavy suspicion for involvement in over a million deaths in Pyongyang.
Among the 7th Corps—whose records the government had conveniently scrubbed—only he and his direct superior, Major General Park Jung-deok, had been prosecuted for war crimes.
He'd dodged a dishonorable discharge as payoff for his silence.
The other pillar, Major General Park Jung-deok, had taken his own life in prison. And once the press caught the scent, they swarmed Seol Chan-do.
He'd never set out to become a butcher of North Koreans.
Higher hazard pay than other units, the thrill of venturing into the unknown, pride as an elite special forces alum—that's what made him volunteer.
Per his account, the 7th Corps had started out as just 1.5 divisions' worth, despite the grandiose name.
Instead, they'd cherry-picked top aces from each unit to form elite squads and appointed frontline-vetted officers as commanders.
Under Major General Park Jung-deok—who'd served as a military advisor in China and would soon end his own life—the 7th Corps rolled into North Korea quietly with armored vehicles in tow.
Things started off great. They felt like liberators.
Civilians and even soldiers in North Korean uniforms had welcomed the ROK forces with open arms.
The unit advanced smoothly to Sariwon without a hitch.
Trouble brewed once they passed it.
An armed group hiding behind the cheering crowds had massacred civilians and soldiers alike.
The ROK forces hit back hard, wiping them out—but that brief clash was a grim preview of the brutal future awaiting them in the North.
"Some did welcome us sincerely. But not everyone. They claimed they had nothing to lose, but that wasn't true at all. Too many had plenty to lose."
North Korea's near-total militarization of every organization only fueled the fire.
Those groups, shaped by a century of iron-fisted rule, ensured underlings never dared defy their leaders' whims.
Attacks on ROK forces erupted everywhere—day and night, without mercy.
The world's mightiest army had crushed Iraq decisively, only to bleed out over endless occupation and withdraw.
The same fate befell our forces.
Casualties piled up, heroes rose.
The legend of self-proclaimed Awakened General Bang Su-byeon—who'd later make waves—began around then.
"You know what it's like?"
Seol Chan-do asked casually as he lit a cigarette.
"Even some gamer kid fresh from LoL marathons—lose a buddy right next to you, and your eyes roll back?"
Every attack sparked bloody revenge.
That's when the butcher in Seol Chan-do first sprouted.
"Suddenly hit me: these guys with 'nothing to lose'—royals all dead—and they're still desperate to tear us apart?"
He personally interrogated a captured village quasi-military leader.
Interrogation? More like torture from hell.
Only after reducing the man to an unrecognizable pulp did Seol Chan-do get his answer.
Instigators. From Pyongyang.
Front-facing pleas for ROK aid, backroom orders to local outfits to harass and bleed us dry.
The goal? Prove Pyongyang still held the provinces' reins—to cling to power in reunification.
Seol Chan-do dubbed them the Pyongyang aristocracy.
"That's when I decided to wipe Pyongyang clean."
His boss, Major General Park Jung-deok, harbored the same thought.
With the prior company commander dead and Seol Chan-do stepping in, the general's bold plan kicked off.
A blockade op.
Seal every road to Pyongyang, cut power and water—to flush the "Pyongyang aristocracy" out.
Once outside, they'd be powerless, the late general figured.
Their power stemmed from the symbolic soil of Pyongyang itself.
Inhumane, sure—but North Korea's isolation, ROK cover, and global pandemonium kept it off the media radar.
India was losing tens of thousands daily to death or disappearance.
A day into the blockade, Seol Chan-do met unexpected reinforcements.
North Korean soldiers in shabby uniforms.
"Pyongyang fuckers. Time to give 'em a taste of heat—wanna join?"
Troops from the provinces, not the capital.
They volunteered weapons in hand to seal off the backroads.
Seol Chan-do slotted them into his chain of command on his own authority.
Less than a day later, trouble from the non-Pyongyang troops.
Drugged-up soldiers stormed into Pyongyang, slaughtering, raping, looting luxuries indiscriminately.
Major General Park Jung-deok saw it as a disaster.
Ironclad soldier, but political too.
His ambitions stretched beyond the North.
Absorb it, etch eternal fame, become the first military president since the dictatorship.
His plan? Bully the aristos into line, grant lesser perks than they craved, secure the untainted territories.
No direct harm intended.
Seol Chan-do's solo call, so he got grounded.
Freed in under a month.
His replacements—company, battalion, even regimental commanders—got terror-killed.
Unit under siege from all sides, no end in sight.
Worse: brigade-level revolt against the general's plan.
Rumors swirled of government mulling full withdrawal.
Park Jung-deok, ass on fire, ditched the useless stars for Seol Chan-do with unlimited leeway.
Seol Chan-do took a defector NK unit over his old one.
The butcher's legend ignited.
To set an example, he declared an admin district an "intro zone," gave one day, then struck—killing everyone left.
Men, women, needless to say.
In front of a medal-draped old vet boasting his glory, Seol Chan-do hurled the man's grandkid out a window, then beat the raging elder to death with rifle butt and boots.
Never raped himself, but ordered his men to go wild.
Hellscape unfolded.
Some fought back with guns, but couldn't stem artillery barrages, provincial rage, or Seol Chan-do's small-unit mastery.
He was infamous for cracking machine-gun nests.
The city drowned in blood, fully sealed.
Cut lifelines turned it into a plague incubator.
Corpses rose as zombies, attacking loved ones; numbers exploded exponentially.
Seol Chan-do torched it.
White phosphorus mix razed another district to ash.
Pyongyang aristos started surrendering then.
Stubborn holdouts finally fled in packs.
He saw his men chase refugees but let it slide.
This tale diverges sharply from the news.
7th Corps peacekeepers arrived to a ruined, infested city, they said.
Truth: it stood intact.
Home to a 20-million-blood-fueled aristocracy clinging to old sway.
One man ended it.
Over a million souls; fewer than half survived. The rest? Purged by the locals they'd bled dry.
"Pyongyang's Butcher" Seol Chan-do finished his calm recounting and fixed me with a stare.
"King heard my past, asked if I could handle the weight."
He glared into space, nodding as if King stood right there.
"I fired back: what exactly do I have to bear? I just did my job."
No hint of remorse, no room for redemption.
Words alien to Seol Chan-do.
He stood tall. Utterly shameless.
Not proud, but no guilt either.
"Like I said a million times: I was there by chance, played my part. Someone else would've anyway."
His sole take on his past.
But karma doesn't vanish.
Seol Chan-do knew it well.
"Every action has a price, though. A kind of debt, right?"
He caressed his scar.
"Got this in the city. Some Pyongyang bastard shot me."
"Pyongyang folks here?"
"Plenty. Refugee camp nearby; lots filtered in. One recognized me, spread the word."
Seol Chan-do cracked a grin.
Only now did I notice: the deep scar left his left cheek immobile, even in smile.
A half-smile frozen on his face, he spoke.
"This is the only burden I carry."
Seol Chan-do rose, bowed politely, and left.
King never summoned me again.
One of his men whispered King was off negotiating with local warlords.
The rabbit-masked woman led us to a solar panel vendor.
Walking the bustling market, I pondered King's intent.
What was he trying to say through Seol Chan-do?
A drunk stumbled into me, shoulder-checking hard.
"Fuckin' asshole!"
He bellowed at me, then staggered off.
Not a great moment, but something flashed in my mind.
I dimly grasped what King meant.
Most sins are personal: perp and victim, bound like coin sides in grudge thread.
This is the end times.
No pre-war social outrage spice on crimes.
So if the perp feels no mental debt, his load boils down to one thing.
Revenge. Physical debt.
Outside, Ha Tae-hoon and Cheon Young-jae hustled, installing the solar panels.
"Alright! Right there! Perfect!"
I grabbed the water bottles laced with King's lemon slices and headed their way.
Cheon Young-jae gulped the cool water and teased.
"Park Sunbae. That girl from before—the bunny mask one. She said let's meet again. Green light, right?"
Ha Tae-hoon swigged beside him, grumbling.
"Still chasing skirts after that ass-kicking? Settle for a doll like me."
Both hunters turned to me.
"How'd you even buddy up with King?"
Cheon Young-jae asked, wide-eyed.
Ha Tae-hoon nodded along.
Feeling sheepish, I brushed it off.
"I'm just popular like that."
The new power setup wrapped up smoothly.
The solar generator pumped out stable, high output beyond expectations. The batteries—supposedly under a year old—performed like champs.
Whirrr—
My domain, once guarded by a lone passive motion sensor, now bristled with alarms, drones, and defenses.
No sign of academy hunters yet, but I wasn't dropping vigilance.
Academy or not, someone'd come sniffing sooner or later.
"Procession spotted northbound. Heading south?"
"What's south?"
"King's city, probably."
People numbers swelling.
Radio chatter ramping up,
Bang! Rat-a-tat-tat!
Bang! Bang!
gunfire echoing more often.
Word came that Seol Chan-do—found shot dead in a ditch—not long after the generator spun up.
Defender's reply—silent for ages—pinged right around then, like clockwork.
Busy with chores, I didn't check till dusk, last lemon water in hand.
Qualify.
A word Seol Chan-do never uttered.
Simple term, but it highlighted the gulf between Defender and Seol Chan-do.
I gathered my thoughts and replied.
"..."
Felt insufficient.
Added a line.