Chapter 347
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 347
Chapter Title: Hiding a House in the Apocalypse
Current temperature: 5 degrees.
Even on this relatively mild day, snow was falling.
The weather was all over the place.
Warm days and cold nights.
Snow fell and melted, the ground froze and thawed over and over.
The vast plains, excluding the roads, had turned into mudflats.
The refugees who used to dot the landscape were nowhere to be seen, and all directions were silent.
The fluttering snow soon turned to rain.
Going out on a day like this was inefficient.
"We're taking a break from work today. Everyone, rest comfortably at home."
I gave everyone the day off.
No sentries either.
Regular patrols could be handled by surveillance gear, and judging by the weather, neither humans nor mutations would want to move.
If someone picked a day like this to attack, well, they'd get what was coming.
It was a perfect day for the internet.
Over the past few days, I'd neglected the boards due to local events and missed some hot topics.
I could catch up quickly by skimming recent popular posts, but sometimes I felt like slowly reviewing from a point I hadn't seen.
Isn't catching up on the flow part of life's fun?
This was, so to speak, a review.
Quuuuuuuuurrrr--
I ground the beans left by my friend, Mr. Dragon, and brewed some coffee.
There weren't many left now.
By the end of this winter, I'd probably never again savor this fragrant, irreplaceable flavor.
With the aromatic coffee in hand, I dove into the popular posts, starting from the parts I hadn't read.
And here was the main culprit that inspired this romantic notion of a review.
Melon Mask.
When the Necropolis invasion began, Melon Mask showed no particular reaction.
Only after two weeks did he make his first public move.
He didn't look in a great mood.
In the following post, he listed the factors making him unhappy, and surprisingly, the Necropolis wasn't a big one—unlike what I'd worried.
What was truly strangling Melon Mask was his health.
In the next post, Melon Mask shared an update on his partner, Bumpy.
The ferocious sloth mutation floated like a water droplet in the dark zone, eyes closed.
Its exact condition was unknown, but it looked unhealthy.
Even mutations couldn't survive the harsh space environment.
Melon Mask revealed a sad, distinctly aged face and spoke bitterly.
Our world's creator, Melon Mask, wouldn't die immediately, but he wouldn't last long either.
To recover, he needed his birth planet, Earth.
But we knew the odds of him reaching it were slim.
His space bunker had a rocket to Earth, but maintenance was a chore, and even landing safely didn't guarantee survival.
About 40% of habitable human land was overrun.
The rest was paradise for raiders, killers, mutations—and even dodging those, nature was unforgiving.
Interesting story, but far from my world.
I didn't have ocean-faring ships or space tech knowledge.
I just noted his Earth return plan was now explicitly underway.
Next issue: Baek Seung-hyeon, the board star from our school.
After reaching Scrap Island, he'd posted sporadic survival updates. While we watched our neighbors' fight, he flooded the boards.
The massive tanker The Hope, carrying Dongtanmom and 868 others, arrived off Jeju.
Two warships with a chilling aura greeted them.
"Warning. Turn back immediately. You have one hour's grace. Leave this area now!"
The difference between their barely moving sluggish ship and the cannon- and missile-armed modern warships was obvious.
Baek Seung-hyeon's young wife, once naive, now exuded strength rivaling her husband's, shouting via loudspeaker for aid supplies.
"Everyone's starving, water's running out. Can't you give us water, food, even basic aid?! We won't go to that cramped island corner, so give us something!"
"We're all citizens of the Republic of Korea!"
Whether swayed or just to send them off easily, the Jeju warships sent aid via drone.
The aid was pathetically meager: starch powder bars resembling improved nutrition bars, recycled plastic bandages, white anti-inflammatory painkillers.
For over 500 people, it was barely enough for 30.
After sending the token aid, the warships circled threateningly, resuming shows of force.
"No further aid possible. Turn back immediately. Repeat: No further aid. Turn back immediately."
Baek Seung-hyeon turned course, ending his brief series.
No next destination announced, but folks guessed south.
At least less cold there.
I was curious where my senior would go.
Not that we meshed well or I liked him personally, but I hoped he'd survive.
In a crumbling apocalypse, he was one of the hardest fighters.
I checked the clock and stepped outside.
The rain had thinned.
The ground was so sticky I swapped shoes for boots and climbed our domain's guardian hill.
Ha Tae-hoon had built a simple outpost-cum-observation deck there.
Plywood blocked wind, with a vinyl-sheltered nook in the corner.
I stepped on the sturdy wooden platform and scanned around.
As expected, no approaches.
Not the rain—the ground itself was the issue.
Outside packed roads, it was ankle-deep quagmire.
If anyone approached now, it'd be via road, but no one risked such weather for their life.
Only those with clear purpose would push through.
Body nicely chilled, I returned to the bunker.
White steam and the savory aroma of baking bread wafted from the winter house chimney out front.
Inside, Rebecca and her daughter visited.
"SKELTON. Try this."
Rebecca offered freshly baked bread.
Unlike bakery loaves, it was a lumpy, charred-in-places mass.
Tasting it, mild savoriness coated my tongue over sweetness.
The crumb wasn't soft but stretchy and chewy like hand-pulled noodles.
Still, fresh-baked bread.
I usually prioritized nutrition over taste.
Impossible not to enjoy.
"Pretty good."
"Tested the new oven. Next time, mix in other stuff."
"Sounds good."
Munching Rebecca's gift, I resumed board review.
Truth be told, I'd noticed this issue was the hottest the moment I sat at the laptop.
Everyone was talking about it.
Kim Byung-cheol posted it.
This ironclad soldier, obsessed with Seoul, was planning its revival despite past failures.
Even with the Legion faction—a loose warlord alliance—and resources, he'd failed.
Not truly powerful, no luck either.
Lose warlord support, and he'd be average warlord fodder.
Monster eruption crushed his ambitions; civil war demoted him from major to minor.
Yet Kim Byung-cheol was more fired up, proposing Seoul revival.
His biggest confidence? That, of course.
Woo Min-hee and Kim Byung-cheol joined hands.
More precisely, Kim was her subcontractor.
But him posting openly on Viva! Apocalypse!—which Woo monitored—meant her will, or at least tolerance.
Strong influence from Incheon outskirts, now emerging from Paju seclusion.
I wanted her motives, but her personality meant no answers unless she volunteered.
While we fixate on immediate threats, the world moves.
Kim Byung-cheol's Seoul plan stirred massive reactions.
Of course, the boards filled with dead souls, not our friends.
...
...
Most users reacted positively.
Shows the esteem for certified over-lv10 Awakeners.
But negatives existed too.
...
...
Reading the flood, I thought of John_nenon and Valentine anew.
"......"
Their sacrifices enabled this flow.
Without Necropolis in Korea, without Viva! Apocalypse! as a proper hub, such "announcements" in this apocalypse would've been impossible.
Kim Byung-cheol and Woo Min-hee's intentions didn't matter to me now.
Let it flow; check results later.
"......"
Tap tap
I'll do what I can.
Click--
Upload complete.
As I refreshed to find my post in the dead soul flood—
One post caught my eye like fate.
It stemmed from a familiar yet rarely seen word.
Rare amid dead souls, new nickname piqued interest.
But the name held meaning.
FOOL.
Han Kang-min's widely known callsign.
But was it exactly his? No.
Truth: Jang Gi-yeong assigned "FOOL"—fool, clown—to Han Kang-min.
He didn't reject; grinned and requested article "a" prefixed.
A well-English friend (now gone) mocked why indefinite "a" not definite "the," but A_FOOL became legend.
"......"
Han Kang-min?
Mouse cursor hovered over the post.
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