Chapter 334
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 334
Chapter Title: 135. Generations (1)
I once read a satirical comic about social issues from the pre-war bestseller corner.
It covered chaebols, vested interests, historical problems, regionalism, excessive competition, and rampant materialism—all the hot-button topics of the time. But it skipped over the one everyone knew was a real problem, the one actually tearing society apart.
Generations.
If it was just cultural or era-based clashes, it would've been the same old generational conflict that's existed since Socrates' time. But back then, it went deeper—straight into money, survival itself.
I don't think the author was clueless about it.
He was probably older by then. Not ancient, but definitely not a young buck anymore. And yet, he wanted the youth's attention.
Blending seamlessly with the young crowd is a privilege reserved for a rare few old-timers.
Up on the high peak to the east of my territory sits a community of elders.
My first impression from visiting their turf wasn't great.
They'd shut themselves off after getting hurt, showing fierce hostility to outsiders—like a savage tribe.
They'd faded into the back of my mind until that autumn day when the mercury first dipped below 10 degrees.
*
Bang! Bang!
Gunshots echoed late in the evening.
From the east.
At least 5 kilometers away, by the sound.
I tried gauging the distance and position from the muzzle flashes, but none appeared despite the shots.
Seemed like a firefight around the scattered abandoned apartments and factories.
Not serious enough to sound a full alert, so everyone stuck to their routines.
The shots came sporadically, stopping around 10 p.m.
Gunfire had been rare lately, but we had too much on our plates to dwell on it.
Winter housing was in full swing, and stockpiling firewood and food was already overwhelming.
Hunting kicked into gear once Rebecca fully joined our group.
I tag along sometimes, but "Hunter" doesn't quite fit—I'm not used to tracking and killing wild game.
Snagging the occasional opportunistic shot is my limit. I've never learned or cared to stalk prey and slit its throat.
Today's quarry: cattle.
Cheon Youngjae reported spotting a herd mixed with dairy cows while commuting to our turf, so Rebecca and I headed out.
Cows beat roe deer or wild boar hands down in value.
Like the saying goes, nothing goes to waste—meat, bones, even organs all edible. The hides are tough, stretchy, and versatile.
The meat's probably tasty too. Sweeter than pork or venison, at least to my refined palate.
Four years into the war, how these glorified livestock survived is a mystery. But today's plan: bag as many as possible and haul them back.
"Let's do a barbecue."
Rebecca mimed slicing her tongue.
Tongue skewers, huh.
Rebecca's grand scheme fizzled before we even spotted the cows.
We found people instead.
A corpse.
Gunshot wounds, bleeding out, crawled a long way before collapsing.
The gun lay 50 meters back, along the blood trail.
No other bodies or footprints nearby.
Checking the body: mid-teens boy.
Stubble and tattoos tried masking his youth, but his unaged skin gave it away.
"Gang rat."
Rebecca nailed it on sight.
Agreed.
Organized raiders.
No gangs nearby, though. Must've come from elsewhere.
Pat-down yielded no location intel.
Worn military pants, goblin's needle burrs like tumors, forest debris, torn rags—he'd wandered the hills before dying.
Eye contact with Rebecca: we were on the same page. Retreat.
No point lingering with armed raiders about.
Left the gun. North Korean pistol, junk from the start, poorly maintained.
Risk of alerting their pals by taking it outweighed any gain.
Back at base, fresh intel awaited.
"Looks like they tangled with the old folks on that mountain."
Cheon Youngjae had the rundown.
Like Defender, he runs serious radio gear, eavesdropping on distant chatter.
I could do it if I wanted, but I don't bother unless close-range.
Sniffing out trivial comms 10km+ away feels pointless outside dire straits.
Anyway, Cheon Youngjae—different mindset and hobbies from me—pieced together last night's drama from the shots and late-night traffic.
"Two groups trading messages."
One: the elders. The group I'd spotted before, barely escaping from that nursing home.
The other: youngsters.
"One side sounded like a kid gang."
Matched the raider we found today.
Without traditional ties like school, blood, or region, folks gravitate to peers their age.
Instinctively, we shun differences: language, skin, looks, religion, hometown, alma mater, workplace.
Pre-war, olds hung with olds, youths with youths, kids with kids.
War didn't rewrite that.
Elders distrusted other gens, formed their enclave. Kids' gang distrusted adults, did the same.
Clashes between oddballs like them? Everyday now.
But Cheon Youngjae spotted something weird.
"Odd part: even mid-fight, they kept talking."
"Yeah?"
"Like old acquaintances."
Slow-talking elder.
Gravelly young male voice. Past puberty, but word choice and tone screamed green.
From the logs, these two—who shot it out last night with casualties—had been trading partners before.
Not your typical raider ambush on settlers.
Started civil, went south somehow.
Bang! Rat-tat-tat-bang!
Fighting resumed at night.
Fiercer than before.
Gunfire till dawn.
Each burst sparked tiny flashes on the distant peak.
I tuned in this time.
Definitely not my thing.
Emotional echoes drown the signal—maybe one or two keepers.
Ditched the headphones, crashed.
Next day, Cheon Youngjae returned. His usual mocking smirk gone, face sharp as a blade.
"Listen up."
He played the chaotic night's recordings.
Hapyeong-ri: Cheon Youngjae's hideout, Gold Pack's old haunt, Old Man Kim's lifelong home—now mine.
The mountaintop elders knew we existed.
High ground advantage.
Higher vantage sees farther, wider.
Groups get spotted more easily too.
Our turf hides from below but screams from above.
They knew us like we knew them.
And more—they were threat-masking as pleas.
Assuming I'm there was their guess.
Doesn't matter if wrong. Age brings calluses—and shamelessness.
"Hopeless bastards."
Cheon Youngjae bared teeth.
Ha Taehun smirked sidelong.
Cheon eyed him; Ha glanced at me, playful.
"Can I say it?"
"What."
"How much you hate old folks."
Didn't catch Cheon's face, but some gesture passed between them.
Ha clammed up; Cheon moved on.
Tension hung; Cheon steadied his tone.
"...Those geezers know where we are. Makes sense—clear air, good scope, easy spot."
True.
Outer walls up, solar panels gleaming.
Building winter houses now too.
Prime visibility.
"..."
Accepted risk.
Grouping up means that.
Bigger profile, easier target.
Just a matter of time.
Unexpected timing, unexpected foe.
"Since it's come to this... got a proposal?"
Cheon rarely this eager.
"Wipe 'em all out?"
Smiling, but dead serious.
He meant the whole elder crew.
His gaze hit me.
"..."
I know.
Call's mine.
Thinking...
No special respect or contempt for elders.
Pre-war issues? Personal beefs.
Not right to demonize a whole group.
Fanatics aside.
Vetoed the massacre.
They're busy with raiders—no need to butt in.
Not fishing for gains, but why meddle in strangers' beef?
"Ammo's always short. Not now, but soon."
But next day's intercept? Hard to ignore.
Same slow elder.
Clear warning.
Ding-dong-ding-dong—
Peak lookout alarm soon after.
Vehicles incoming.
Six junkers. Ramshackle heaps belching black smoke, barely rolling.
Open roofs packed with scrawny young men, standing tall. Faces? Early 20s tops, generously.
"Wanna bet?"
Cheon, elder-hater extraordinaire, sneered.
"Geezers sent 'em. Probably lied we're loaded."
No clue what sweet-talk flipped the raiders our way mid-bloodbath, but one thing's sure.
Kachunk!
"Battle stations."
First fight since grouping up, on our turf.
Win? Meh gains. Lose? Everything gone.
"..."
Knew fights would come, but not like this.
"Kill these punks, then the geezers."
Cheon wired today.
Thrilled, almost.
Adrenaline pumping—moves way more aggressive.
Ha Taehun eyed me, words pending.
Our eyes met; he beckoned.
Slipped over, minding hyped Cheon.
"He was in a pioneer squad briefly."
Ha whispered, half-uneasy.
"Ace material."