Chapter 335
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 335
Chapter Title: 135. Generation (2)
The enemy numbered around fifty.
A large group, but a motley crew of rabble.
No training, no discipline.
They just bellowed loudly and charged in a frenzy.
Some were so hyped up it looked like they were on drugs.
Their gear was even more pathetic—mostly North Korean rifles, with just a couple wielding domestic or American guns.
Against those fifty foes, four hunters spaced out along the outer wall.
The wind was calm, visibility good.
The 10 a.m. sun shone down on everything without obstruction.
Click!
Click!
Each chambered their weapons and waited for the enemy to appear.
A one-sided slaughter was inevitable.
Vrooooom—
But they were human, not dumb computers content to just take it.
One car barreled toward us in a mad dash.
Likely an IED using the vehicle.
They'd welded armor plates over the engine, anticipating gunfire.
"I'll take the left front tire."
"Then I'll get the rear."
We were hunters.
Not professional soldiers, but marksmen specially trained for precise shots on demand.
Bang! Bang!
The two shots rang out, and the entire left tire of the charging vehicle exploded.
Screeeech—
With one axle collapsed, the car wobbled on the slope and bumps, then screeched as it spun 180 degrees and slammed into rocks and trees.
Vrooooom—
Even then, the pinned accelerator kept the wheels spinning wildly, so we fired again.
BOOM!
A spectacular fireworks display erupted right in front of the outer wall.
The ground shook from the intense blast.
"SKELTON. You okay?"
Rebecca, waiting in reserve behind us, called out.
"No problem."
I kept my rifle trained on the ridgeline below.
Behind their huddled cluster of junk vehicles, I spotted the raiders peering cautiously.
With the K-walkie-talkie set to a public frequency, I spoke to them.
"I don't know why you're suddenly attacking us, but you'd better back off now."
Whether advantageous or not, every fight costs resources.
Killing them all would leave bodies.
Dealing with corpses is grueling, tedious, and bad for mental health.
Could make prisoners do it, but handling prisoners is a hassle too.
If negotiation's an option, better to talk.
No response from their side.
Soon, they began advancing.
About thirty strong.
Dodging behind cover, sprinting, crawling—it looked tactical enough, but from up high, they were just slow-moving targets.
"Open fire once they crest that white-painted rock."
I'd always focused on territorial defense, so I'd prepped for this exact scenario.
Using terrain markers for range is an ancient tactic from before the Middle Ages.
I'd marked distances on natural features along the ridgeline—especially sturdy granite rocks—with various paint colors.
That white-painted rock was 400 meters from the wall.
Far, but we could score meaningful hits with aimed shots; their untrained bullets wouldn't reach.
Farther on was the blue-marked rock, and at 100 meters, a pile of waste for cover.
Obviously, I'd cleared the approach path of anything usable for cover.
The painted rocks were low platforms, no more than 30 cm high.
Not smart to charge up here unprepared against four academy-trained hunters.
Bang!
Bang Jae-hyeok fired first.
"Aaaagh!"
A man crumpled, spurting blood, with a death cry.
Beyond the white rock—easily 450 meters.
Bang Jae-hyeok shrugged at me.
"This much is fine, right?"
"Doesn't matter."
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The rifles barked.
Superior marksmen from high ground against exposed foes—devastating.
"Aaaagh!"
"Urk!"
Each shot punched holes in raiders, bringing death.
Five minutes in, they left ten bodies and retreated.
Bang!
Make that eleven.
I ordered a ceasefire and grabbed the radio.
"You gonna keep going?"
Short question.
"...What are you guys?"
Response this time.
Voice trembling with fear, even without seeing their faces.
I eyed their camp—vehicles piled as a wall.
A tall guy in something like a suit seemed the leader.
Green-dyed hair—where'd he get the dye?—looked early twenties, like the others.
"Answer me."
Calm query.
I'd considered all possibilities, but my outlook was positive.
Four years since the war.
Age didn't matter.
Those four years had taught lessons harsher than forty under any master.
"...We'll stop."
"You're permitted to retrieve your dead and gear."
"..."
"Or just leave it and go."
"No, we'll retrieve."
Ceasefire established.
Less than ten minutes since fighting started.
That one-sided.
Combat power on different levels entirely.
Raiders crept forward cautiously to collect.
Click—
In case of betrayal, Bang Jae-hyeok and Ha Tae-hoon stayed hidden behind cover, muzzles trained.
Men with tattoos and bizarre outfits dragged bodies; women grabbed guns.
Eerie silence blanketed the ridge above and below during the cleanup.
Halfway through, I radioed.
"Were you the ones fighting those old folks at the nursing home?"
"Yeah."
Green-hair in the suit glanced our way.
Recovered from shock, but thoroughly demoralized.
Lost a third of their force at the outset.
Maintaining composure like that marked him as no ordinary raider.
"What'd they tell you to come here?"
Just as Green-hair opened his mouth—
Noise, then a third party cut in.
"We didn't say anything."
The old man from before.
I saw Cheon Young-jae's eyes twitch.
"We didn't say a word. They came on their own."
I ignored him.
Glared at Green-hair instead.
"We..."
As he started—
"Aaaaaaah!!!!!!!"
Childish interference.
Cheon Young-jae sighed.
"Let's wipe 'em out today."
He headed down from the wall.
"Those aren't human spawn. Dry their seed, not one left."
I agreed special measures were needed for the old men.
But,
"Aaaah! Ah! Aaaaaah!!!!!!!"
Could people get this ugly?
Green-hair had guts, at least.
Radio jammed, he tossed it and strode forward, shoulders squared.
From atop the wall, I watched him approach.
Close enough to see eye whites, he yelled.
"Hey!"
I nodded.
Can't radio? Shout it out.
The old man on the ridge still babbled nonsense.
"Aaaaaaah!!!! Aaaaaaah!!!!!!"
Dementia?
He approached unarmed, no threats in my line of fire—plus Cheon Young-jae confirmed no dangers with his ability.
I lowered my rifle, descended, and met Green-hair face-to-face.
"Why attack us?"
"Heard you had tons of supplies here. Few men, small numbers."
"We know nothing about those old men. Just that they live there. No trades, no contacts."
Suddenly, someone above blurted,
"You got played."
Cheon Young-jae.
"The geezers tricked you."
Green-hair's face hardened menacingly.
I shot Cheon a warning look.
He shut up, but his eyes still burned with murder.
Discuss this separately later.
I glared at Green-hair.
"What happened?"
He pondered, then spoke in a tone laced with regret and resentment.
"...Those old geezers. Truth is, they saved my life."
He'd long been tied to the ridge old men.
"I'm a beggar from the streets."
"Beggar?"
"Yeah. They saved my skin. Fussy old coots, but not bad people. But y'know, relationships grind and creak without oil."
Old men had meds; Green-hair had labor.
Fall came, he farmed and chopped wood; they paid in medicine.
Mutual benefit.
But gripes grew, leading to fights.
In the drawn-out feud, the old group dangled tantalizing intel.
Nearby stash of food, booze, meds, fuel.
"Even showed photos."
That led to our clash.
"..."
I mulled it over.
Kill them all? Or let go?
Too many to slaughter.
And they had nothing worth taking.
Junk North Korean guns with handmade ammo.
Vehicles barely roadworthy.
Only salable assets: a few young women, but STD risks—and we don't traffic humans.
Above all, my turf's too big for secrecy.
Who knows when more like them show up.
Could be tonight, or day after tomorrow.
They'd lost will to fight, felt the power gap bone-deep. Sending them packing wasn't bad.
No need to corner desperate rats.
After recovering bodies and gear, the raiders headed south.
One issue resolved—but another remained.
Click—
"Alright, time to finish it."
Cheon Young-jae looked ready to go solo and slaughter the old men.
He stared at me.
"What's the play, hyung?"
I nodded.
"Obviously, we retaliate."
Bloody revenge.
Not right or wrong.
Like input to a function yields output.
They inputted death.
We'll output death.
They crossed the line.
*
Before the fight, I'd heard Ha Tae-hoon's old story.
His expression said he didn't care if caught.
"Young-jae was at a shelter near the end of Gapo before joining us. Obviously, it was packed with bigshots from Korea who thought they were hot stuff. Asked why—he said he hated rich folk. Wanted to watch the pre-war elite crash and burn."
Ha Tae-hoon came from money.
"...Took fifty with him. Headed to Chungcheong somewhere. Came alone."
"Alone?"
"Solo survivor. Lost vehicles, gear, team."
Ha Tae-hoon smirked.
"A real ace, huh?"
His "ace" dripped sarcasm.
Ace who wipes out friend and foe alike.
Fits an explosive end.
That incident put him at odds with his pioneer group; he fled to us. Another tale.
Crunch—Crunch—
Now, 10:20 p.m.
Climbing pitch-black mountain path by faint moonlight filtering through trees, silent.
Combat team: two.
Me and Cheon Young-jae.
Could've brought Ha Tae-hoon, but raiders might hit my turf again—left him on watch.
No drones or vehicles for perfect ambush.
20km round trip—not impossible; we know the terrain.
Biggest threat: mutations. Cheon Young-jae's detection works on them too, minimizing surprises.
As breath grew heavy, the eerie silhouette of the nursing home loomed dimly ahead.
"Three on patrol."
Cheon Young-jae murmured lowly, his glowing eyes piercing the dark.
"Gotta wait?"
No guns unless last resort.
We waited for an opening.
Nightfall chilled the earth fast.
Not winter gear cold, but sharp drop made the body tense.
"Sorry."
Maybe the cold, or adrenaline crash—Cheon Young-jae apologized suddenly.
"Been too worked up lately?"
"Reason?"
Good chance to ask.
Pioneer group past isn't stellar resume.
"They say life's chances come once or twice?"
His glowing eyes stared piercingly into the dark beyond.
"Those bastards are on high alert, though."
Makes sense—fierce fight last night, plus they earned our grudge.
I'd stand watch all night too.
As wait dragged, Cheon Young-jae sighed deeply.
"...The pioneer group looked like my shot."
"Pioneer group?"
Surprised.
He'd admit it himself.
And cautious Ha Tae-hoon spilled, so not huge secret.
Cheon Young-jae's eyes drifted to the past beyond the void.
"There was this old-timer at the shelter. Big presence, booming voice—even in rags, classy."
A sneeze echoed from above.
Loud as hell.
Ignoring the nose-blowing, Cheon Young-jae reminisced.
"Near-chaebol rich guy, he said. What was it? 1-3 trillion club?"
"Loaded."
"His catchphrase: hidden bunker. War hit too fast; trapped here without entering."
The tale rewound to war's chaotic dawn.