Chapter 269
Chapter 269
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 269
Chapter Title: Hiding a House in the Apocalypse
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111. The Cold Coffin (1)
It's been four years since the war broke out.
The total societal collapse—a full-on war we'd anticipated even before the fighting started—is finally coming into sharp focus.
In Legion faction territory, fanatics are pulling off sporadic terror attacks and sabotage left and right. Seoul's turned into a hellish clusterfuck of Legion goons, fanatics, and refugees with nowhere left to run.
Refugee numbers have spiked because of it.
The big buzz lately is these massive migration groups.
Refugees from Seoul shelters are banding together by camp and heading out to safer spots loaded with resources.
Most aimed for Legion-held zones like Wonju or Chuncheon, but a chunk went chasing this sketchy city called Sejong.
One of those groups showed up in my turf.
Valentine spotted the migrants.
He'd been punching holes in the Jeju intranet like always when he stepped out for a breather on the hilltop—and to light up a smoke—and caught sight of a distant road clogged solid with people shuffling our way.
"Hurry it up! Cover the solar panels with the camo nets!"
Alert stations, everyone.
No drones in sight, but a horde that size? Bound to have a scout drone or two. No harm in playing it safe, so we threw covers over anything that'd pop from the sky, drone recon prep.
The migration train rolled right through my area, bound south.
Crackle—
"Sejong, you copy? Taking the whole shelter on faith from our contact's word. Just double-checking outta paranoia—got room for us? Long, rough trek; hate to show up and get bummed out."
Crackle—!
"Capacity's there. But you'll be earning your keep. No freeloading like back in Seoul-Incheon, or it'll go tits up."
From the radio chatter we intercepted, they were gunning for Sejong City.
Wasn't even a public band, but we picked it up clean—big props to Ha Tae-hoon.
"Pulled plenty of wins with this in Incheon. Not rocket science. They broadcast on basic freqs anyway."
Ha Tae-hoon muttered, stroking his stubbled jaw.
"Sejong, huh. Really blowing up now. Last year, it wouldn't even hit the shortlist for relocation spots."
"Got a capable leader there."
"That King guy?"
Ha Tae-hoon cocked his head.
"Prime spot, no? Far from Paju, far from other rifts. Barely took hits after the war kicked off. Easy for folks to flock from everywhere."
"Sure, but it's King's leadership keeping the gang bosses in line. Without him, the city's toast—shredded to dust."
Ha Tae-hoon wasn't buying it.
No point shoving my take down his throat, so I dropped it. But his vibe? Straight out of pre-war "average Joe" playbook.
Whenever someone's crushing it, instead of props or takeaways, folks chalk it up to luck, daddy's money, connections—anything but skill.
"Never succeeded themselves, so they can't buy others doing it."
That's a snippet from an audio diary John_nenon left behind—voice notes Valentine dug up in the archive yesterday.
"This one? Yeah. Old man—er, John_nenon—set up a recorder as his health tanked. Jotted voice memos whenever inspiration hit."
"You're handing this gem to me?"
"Knew you'd dig it, but not this much. Should've dug it up sooner."
"Nah, this is perfect! Best gift ever!"
Backstory from Valentine: John_nenon originally wanted video diaries, not just audio.
Ditched for storage issues, but he regretted not capturing his mug, apparently.
Lately, my wind-down ritual? Grind till I'm soaked like a drenched sponge, shower off, then drift off to my idol John_nenon's profound inner world.
"Back in my day, folks dreamed the internet would unite the whole damn globe. What we got? A flood of garbage info. Worse, it spotlighted inequality, shattering the illusions propping up society—laid the foundation for the whole collapse."
"Some rando asks me, 'You've been burned by the net—why keep at it?' I flip it: 'Ever gone named even once?'"
"Tonight's dinner: crackers slathered in Nutella. No real taste, but that crunch? Same as ever~ Mmm~ Yummy~"
Conking out to his voice? Moods lift, sleep hits deeper.
"Senior, you seem chipper."
"Park Gyu, what's got you buzzing? Score a girl?"
Others are clocking my glow-up.
Good vibes are good—especially in an era where life's joys or goals are thin on the ground. Day-to-day wins matter.
More than that, John_nenon's tapes let me watch a giant's struggles and mundanities forge one massive, epic stride.
His everyday banality? Spotlights his greatness.
Beyond dailies, he documented stuff like elite survivalist services we plebs never knew about.
"Tons of rich folks in this country. Ever think how many buildings in Seoul? Not apartments—proper buildings. Commercial complexes. All owned by someone, right?"
Like that luxe VIP bunker I scoped once—turns out the apocalypse black market's buzzing with post-doomsday perks for the wealthy.
Obvious when you factor elites' info edge: they'd out-prep us normies on bunkers and such.
John_nenon tumbled into this high-end survival scene partly from lecture cash, but mostly 'cause blue-blood clients tapped him for advice.
No one topped his pop-culture doomsaying cred.
He reminisced:
"Raked in fat stacks consulting. Y'know. Started with speeches, leveled up to rich-folk gigs. Swam in 50,000-won notes. Peanuts to them—skipped mall trips—but hey."
Our boy John_nenon? No saint, conscience pristine.
Hell, his fame spiked from jacking that French user's vid without permission.
Even he called the elite prep market a cesspool of jaw-dropping scammers.
In his riveting memoir, he spotlit the most inventive monster:
"This Nelson Yong-beom prick. Name says it—black-haired foreigner. Claims top U.S. uni, molecular chem major? Sure. Dude ran the most batshit cons."
Never heard of Nelson Yong-beom.
But this guy? Had even John_nenon shook.
"Cryo-freeze humans, he called it."
Precisely? Long-term hibernation tech.
Researched for near-future interstellar jaunts: stick folks in stasis pods, slash bio-functions to zilch, cruise decades sans aging.
Not real yet, far as I know.
Peacetime maybe, but rifts nuked global science—poured into rift-cracking.
Nelson peddled this pipe dream to elites like it was prime stock.
We lump "rich" together, but elites tier hard.
VIP bunker sales hit ~$100M whales; Nelson's VVIPs? Didn't track monthly intake.
Same playbook as VIP bunkers: no ads, word-of-mouth only among the tippy-top.
"Nelson's gold? U.S. citizenship, fancy diploma. Young, sharp look sold trust. 'Prestige Ivy League Yank peddling secret service for America's richest'—hook, line, sinker."
A VVIP tipped John_nenon off.
Smelled BS on the cryo, consulted the other "expert."
John_nenon? Hit English/French boards, searched "hibernation."
Zip. So he jury-rigged a post via crappy web translator.
"Toughest part. Those translators sucked ass."
Pre-Melon Mask wonders, but he got the query out to foreigners.
Consensus matched his: "Wait 100 years." One nerd: "Just cooling ain't enough—need metabolic nukes that spare blood cells."
John_nenon cursed a blue streak there.
"That fucker cost me a whale deal. Nailed that old timer's bunker gig? Bigger, safer base for Failnet. Better nuke genny too! Wouldn't be this fucked health-wise!"
VVIP inked with Nelson anyway, spite John_nenon's red flags.
Never heard from him since.
"Dude locked 10 obelisks. Him, wife, son-in-law fam, daughter-in-law fam, grandkids, staff couple."
Sats galore, but no show.
Not till John_nenon kicked it, anyway.
"Stalked my nic daily post-ban. No hits? Logged off."
He dwelled on it—curiosity.
"Wanna know what went down. Probably croaked, but humans gotta peek. Know the cryo spot—boozed his sec'y for deets. Ah... health! Bit more pep, I'd scout it..."
Then crisp address drop: Anseong outskirts, mountains.
Not far.
But blind turf to me.
No people, I figured.
Mega-city migration cleared small-towns.
Abandoned spots? Zombies, mutations, monsters standard.
Maybe sneaky raiders holing up.
Time to flex the board's upside.
Long time dropping a query.
Shitposts flop, but questions draw okay.
Bingo—reply ping.
"Hm?"
Sticky commenter, though.
Dies Irae, huh.