Chapter 358
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 358
Chapter Title: 146. Junk
It's quite common for the ending you expect to fizzle out disappointingly.
An Seung-hwan and his friends acted just like adults from before the war.
"We're truly grateful for saving our lives."
They bowed politely right in front of me, but they dodged and skirted around the important parts.
"..."
I didn't press them.
I could have hounded them with questions, but that wouldn't be wise. It would only backfire.
"Those guys are really shameless."
A Defender team member voiced his resentment, but it was expected.
I had to be satisfied with seeing An Seung-hwan bow his head with a stiff, displeased expression.
"But couldn't we handle things just among ourselves without them? Honestly, with you as our leader, I feel like we could do fine without those guys."
One of Defender's team members asked me. He seemed like a hunter who hadn't experienced the Chinese battlefield.
I stopped walking and turned to face him and the other hunters clearly.
"No. Regular Awakeners are indispensable."
Exactly as I said.
Without regular Awakeners, we can't win wars against major monsters.
This time, we got lucky because the mid-sized one was an Awakener-specialized type. Normally, anything mid-sized or larger is beyond what our hunters can handle.
Most mid-sized ones are combat types.
And the "combat" here isn't the small-scale skirmishes or hunts we usually do.
It's the battlefield combat, with terrifying firepower and destruction.
Like the Annihilator type we faced before, they unleash merciless firepower over wide areas.
Without reflective barrier protection, you can't even approach before evaporating.
In that ruthless barrage, even I'd be just another ordinary victim.
"No need to rush. We've only succeeded in one operation so far."
The key is demonstrating possibility.
That we can kill monsters without regular Awakeners.
If we keep proving this, the regular Awakeners hiding under the Main banner will have no choice but to unlock their doors and join us on the front lines.
Moreover, the center of the incident had shifted away from us hunters.
Bang! Tatatatang!
Boom! Kwaboom!
As the shopping mall—the main base of the zealots—collapsed in explosions, soldiers invaded the zealots' territory.
It was more like a cleanup than a battle, but it would drag on for a while.
That didn't mean I had less to do.
I still had unpacking to finish.
There were things to discard.
The house Woo Min-hee provided was an old villa converted into official quarters.
It was a small complex of four five-story buildings, the most intact in the surrounding ruins, and because it had its own bunker, it was designated for officials.
"This place is quite the prime spot."
The quarters manager chatted as he guided me.
He said it was prime because of the half-collapsed apartment complex to the east.
I asked if blocking sunlight wasn't bad, but he waved it off.
"If shells come flying, that apartment block will shield us."
My quarters were on the fifth floor of a five-story building. In the roughly cleaned and organized wide space, the various items I'd brought were neatly boxed.
I inspected the quarters.
Roughly 25 pyeong by eye.
Typical Korean preferred layout: three rooms, two bathrooms. But cramming three rooms and two bathrooms into such a small space made everything feel cramped.
One bathroom was unused and converted to storage, but the other surprisingly had working plumbing.
Shwoooo—
Testing the shower, the water pressure was insane.
They must have done major renovations, like installing a new pump just for these quarters.
Woo Min-hee didn't live here, but many key figures in the new Seoul did.
Kim Byung-cheol, commanding the zealot cleanup right now, and even the regular Awakeners avoiding me were residents here.
Unlike my Building B, the Awakeners were clustered in Building D, a bit farther away.
Their building didn't have the ghost apartments blocking the view—or the shells—but hey, Awakeners could handle it.
Before the war, penthouses were royal suites, but here it was different.
First or second floors were treated as premium.
No elevators.
Anyway, there was a ton of luggage.
I hadn't brought much guns, ammo, or food, thinking it was light, but seeing it piled in the empty house made me worry when I'd ever sort it all.
The stuff I'd brought fell into three main categories.
First, clothing.
Varied cold-weather gear for the next cold snap.
Unlike bunker life, I'd be doing a lot of outdoor activity, so I packed even what I didn't strictly need.
Others handling transport—not me—was a big reason for overpacking.
Plus, winter gear is bulkier than regular clothes, making it look like more.
I didn't regret packing winter gear much.
Remember, cold was humanity's greatest enemy in our dawn era.
Second category: internet, of course.
Satellite gear. Specifically, two "Melon Mask's Star-Gazing Obelisks," two laptops, transceivers, batteries, etc.—all for smart internet living.
Internet is now as essential to this Park Gyu as another life, so no commentary needed.
But even the first two categories paled next to the third.
The third was junk.
According to tidying masters, if you haven't used something in a year, toss it.
If you never even thought of it and feel nothing seeing it after a year, definitely toss it. They stressed this, wagging a finger at the camera.
In school, I was a tidying master.
I had no real luggage.
Family heirlooms incinerated, no possessions.
Entering school meant embracing death, so I hated accumulating hassle.
But like anyone aging, I accumulated assets and storage, starting to hoard useless stuff in the bunker.
I rationalized it as everything being precious in scarcity, but unused items stayed unused even in apocalypse.
They sat in the garage corner. Prime example: outdoor event amp and speakers.
I want to go back and ask past me why I bought this crap.
Well, there was a reason at the time.
Personal survivalist me, yet imagining leading crowds, bought it on 12-month installments for control and commands.
Like morning exercises: me on stage calling commands, veteran assistant demonstrating, dozens of survivors following.
Probably influenced by my mentor Jang Gi-yeong's legendary morning exercise calls, rivaling national gymnastics.
Ah, one more use.
Near death, set massive speakers outside at max volume, broadcast last words.
"..."
Better trade for supplies.
Besides speakers, plenty of junk.
One: whale-shark 12-species plush set.
Exactly as named: plushies of 12 whales and sharks. Quality surprisingly good.
Made in Korea.
Why buy? Past me wouldn't know.
Did I even pay? Past me was impulsive, even revolving credit, but this defies logic.
The 550,000 won royal vase from the department store at least decorated.
(Brought that too.)
Won't sell well, but could trade for sugar or meds.
I didn't plan to bring junk initially.
Original plan: travel light. Woo Min-hee providing weapons, food, essentials.
Actually packed only first two categories; junk unpacked.
But helicopter pilot delayed, time free, suddenly thought of garage junk, hastily packed for chopper.
New Seoul full of people; better trade useless stuff for useful.
Roughly sorted, sweating to optimize Obelisk for best cosmic signal, adjusting endlessly.
Knock knock—
Someone at the door.
Manager?
Recalling pre-war container house delivery memories, opened to hot food indeed.
"Tonight's midnight snack. Special delivery from support."
Probably Woo Min-hee.
Flawed personality, but shows clear gratitude.
Rarely grateful, though.
If even our Woo Min-hee is grateful, things went better than imagined.
Anyway, new Seoul under rifts—not Sejong—must save every regular Awakener possible; it's fate.
Delivery: fried chicken bits and potatoes.
No seasoned batter expected in this situation, but tasted great after ages.
Come to think, my oil ran out long ago.
Did stock some, but don't love oily food, expected no ingredients, so minimal.
Bang Jae-hyuk's mom brought some—for their good days.
Better get my own.
[Edible Oil]
Saved to phone. For junk trade.
Currency meaningless; barter dominates.
Early-mid war, cigarettes as money. But short shelf life, consumable.
Post-cigarettes, ammo filled void—but ammo kills and depletes too.
"Barter?"
Next day, asked manager about barter spots.
Not surprising: flea market under The Hope landmark.
Lots of goods.
Back home, eyed junk piled in narrow living room.
Still meaningless, no attachment.
Whoooong—
Whoooong—
Woke early dawn.
Familiar sound: demon falling from sky, borrowed from Chinese battlefield folk.
They, enduring daily shells in extremity, used that phrase.
Woke on time.
Boom! Kwakwakwang!!!
Shells falling.
Wheeeeeen—
Siren after shells.
Whoooong—
Whoooong—
By fall sound, not DS Air's low-tier warlord.
Powerful warlord with proper artillery.
Dressed quick, checked situation.
Boom! Kwaboom!
Shells keep coming.
Won't stop soon.
Evacuate first.
Grabbed internet gear obviously.
Then winter clothes; rest abandoned.
Junk anyway.
Woooong—
Shells falling.
Close.
Thud!
Next building shockwave.
All-night shelling by pro-zealot warlord faction.
Hanam zealots wiped; retaliation shelling.
Government won't sit idle.
Counter somehow.
But soldiers' job, not hunters'.
"Senior, you okay? No injuries?"
Received Woo Min-hee's comms climbing debris-strewn quarters stairs.
Check for salvage.
"Fine. Why the worry?"
"Big expectations on you."
"Yeah?"
"So work harder from now. You lazy bum."
"Who's the lazy bum? New hunter...?"
Cut off before reply.
Woo Min-hee plans to make me her lazy bum.
I am, though.
Bitter smile heading to quarters, foot stopped.
People there.
Strangers.
Smile faded; disappointingly drew pistol, revealed slowly.
Kids.
Ragged, faces filthy.
Orphans or refugees' kids.
Poor anyway.
They touched my junk.
Royal vase, speakers smashed; 12 plush set intact.
Kids playing with them.
Very happily.
"Ah, uncle's house?"
One kid asked, eyes terror-mixed at my sudden appearance.
The smiles—rare now—vanishing from their faces, I said.
"...Take them."
Short words, turned away.
Soon kids hugged plushies, glanced warily, left quarters.
Out of sight, their laughter burst.
In that innocent chorus, I unwittingly exclaimed.
"Ah."
Now I remembered.
Bought for hoarding.
Season-limited famous work plushies.
For resale scalping.
"..."
Unintended, but apt resale.
Faint smile on my lips: receipt.