Chapter 40
Chapter 40
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 40
Chapter Title: Golf (2)
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My bunker was chosen after scouting countless locations across the country.
The main bunker sat on what was more hill than mountain—a gentle rise. The rear, flanked by a valley, dropped into near-cliff-like slopes, while the opposite side featured deceptively mild undulations. Small mounds disrupted the line of sight, creating a disorienting layout.
It wasn't ideal for defense, but perfect for deceiving the eye.
The hill offered good visibility as a bonus.
In short, I'd prioritized stealth and reconnaissance over fortification.
It was only natural that the people Jo Seongyong brought hadn't approached my area.
At a glance, everything was visible—and utterly uninteresting.
They focused their search around the nearby U.S. military base with its airstrip, then fanned out west and south.
A day passed.
They pitched tents and lit fires.
Food was scarce, but unlike Seoul, there was plenty of fuel around, so they seemed pleased.
But overnight, temperatures plunged to minus 18 degrees Celsius.
The next day, they searched the village side.
A group of middle-aged women wandered near my territory, but they found nothing.
They poked around the dummy bunker's entrance, but it was sealed with dirt and rocks.
Digging it out would require a shovel at least, but the cold, knife-like wind sweeping over the hill from my side chased them away.
"Ugh, is this a graveyard? Why's the vibe so creepy? And that wind—it's brutal!"
That was one housewife's impression, caught through my listening device.
Another day passed.
This time, Jo Seongyong's group veered way off course.
They bypassed my area entirely and pushed into vast fields, paddies, and wild hills to the east.
Coincidentally, Jo Seongyong's truck returned to the golf course that day.
Grumbling and complaints erupted from the group.
Their voices didn't carry this far, but I could guess what they were saying.
They were begging to end this pointless mission.
The speaker on Jo Seongyong's truck blared loudly.
"Please stay calm, citizens. Buses are on the way. Just hold on a little longer. Warm homes and food await you!"
The truck carrying Jo Seongyong left the scene, followed by the lightweight armored vehicle that had idled in the golf course center, roaring away.
All that remained were the roughly hundred ordinary people he'd brought.
Up to that point, I hadn't grasped Jo Seongyong's intentions.
Why release nearly a hundred people?
Why go to such lengths for little old me?
Paranoia was part of it, sure, but there had to be more.
Four days passed.
No buses came. Not even a radio call.
Jo Seongyong's group had vanished into thin air.
The people, clinging to hope in their flimsy tents by meager fires, slowly and surely learned their fate.
They'd been abandoned.
Jo Seongyong had brought them for kicks and dumped them in the wasteland.
Frozen to the ground, they stared at each other's faces, lost.
Their first reaction was rage.
"Yaaaah! Jo Seongyooong!!!!!!!"
A furious roar echoed across the golf course.
Armed men gathered, glaring north.
I couldn't make out their words, but some seemed dead set on heading north to deal with Jo Seongyong.
While the men vented, women huddled by dying campfires, chatting or listening with arms linked to the men.
By afternoon, the group split in two.
One side wanted to stay and wait for Jo Seongyong.
Heated shouts flew both ways.
As they argued fiercely, I logged into the community.
Something had always bugged me.
Pioneers, pioneering teams, Pioneering Corps.
They'd seemed interchangeable at first, but there were hierarchies and agendas.
To confirm, I posted on the board.
As an unpopular low-tier user, comments trickled in slowly, so I busied myself elsewhere.
Beep---
The battery tester signaled full charge.
After endless hassle, I'd finally charged the Javelin battery.
I'd test if it worked properly at the sniper's hideout.
Just charging wasn't enough; mounted on the Javelin, it needed to hold voltage without draining.
I stashed the charged battery in my pack and checked the laptop.
A few comments had appeared.
"...Not SUNBI."
The reporter gave the straight facts.
Whether he'd seen my post or not, he uploaded about the Pioneering Corps right after.
My vague suspicions were confirmed.
The Pioneering Corps wasn't some bold group reclaiming wastelands.
They culled city dwellers and dumped them outside.
Colonel Choi who'd searched my area, the pioneers Defender and I handled, Jo Seongyong this time—all fit the pattern.
Discard useless humans on useless land to devour each other.
Jo Seongyong probably didn't start so bold.
As the saying goes, needle thieves become cow thieves. He began small, now casually flinging hordes into the wild.
The abandoned lingered out there, still debating.
Go north, or stay for the buses?
The man insisting on staying was loudest, most aggressive in every move.
Overpowered by his fervor, they couldn't agree and retreated to tents.
Another day passed.
Frostbite deaths, apparently.
People hauled frozen corpses like logs over the ridge.
One death convinced many.
The "leave" faction won; most joined them.
Around ten stayed, dwindling until, as the rest headed north, only one remained.
The man whose bellows had shaken the golf course yesterday.
Fifties? Gaunt but broad-faced, every motion brimmed with excess energy.
He screamed curses at the departing, then warmed by his tent fire.
Waiting for Jo Seongyong even now?
Impressive faith.
A new neighbor, but I avoided contact.
Couldn't rule out a Jo Seongyong trap.
If so, it was opportunity.
What reaction to a generator at this distance?
Colonel Choi's group was too close; last cold snap, daytime smoke gave plausible deniability.
Noise worried me most.
From there myself, barely audible—but sharper ears exist.
I waited for foul weather.
Temps warmed, but still subzero.
The man endured stubbornly in his lone tent.
How much food left?
Not much, judging by him boiling mystery sprouted grass with dog-food-tasting nutrition bars in a scavenged pot.
That evening, thunderheads massed north.
Midnight brought sleet-laced rain.
Foul weather arrived.
Fired up the generator.
His reaction?
None.
My bunker shook with Skeleton's Heart's vigorous pulse; he didn't stir.
I stepped out to check.
Whoosh---
Thickening rain muffled the generator clearly.
But not just that.
Bang! Rat-tat! Bang!
Distant gunfire from north.
He heard it.
Gunfire from the north his comrades had fled to.
Storm passed; clear morning dawned.
Temps rose noticeably.
Mercury hit 10°C above.
Birds chirped as he slowly emerged from his tent.
He scanned around—north especially—long, then sang.
Not pop, but art-song style.
Off-key, but seemed his favorite type.
After belting one out refreshingly, he snapped a stick like a boy, climbed the ridge, surveyed the golf course.
Soon, he placed a stone, assumed golf stance.
Fingered distance from eye, smooth swing smacked it.
Flashy form, but it flew mere meters.
He snapped another branch himself, yelling "Argh!"
Vanished over ridge, gone awhile.
Reemerged after an hour, clubs and ball in hand, golf cap sourced from who-knows-where.
What now?
Golf course whimsy?
He stopped, bent, plucked grass.
Why?
Scoped it.
"Huh?"
A gasp escaped.
Hidden hole beneath weeds.
I hadn't known.
Not just that.
Like his personal bedroom, he uncovered holes, restored pre-war state.
Unknown golfer began his round.
Crack!
Crisp swing lofted the ball skyward.
No golf expert, but even I saw he was no amateur.
Yet the weed-choked course was unworthy.
Balls snagged in dry grass, ricocheted off saplings, sank in military-trash pits.
Each time, he yelled—but joy etched firm on his face endured.
Seeing that unadulterated glee, I concluded:
He's no Jo Seongyong plant.
He just stayed.
Why?
For buses? No. He didn't believe that.
Only glanced north when people left and shots rang out.
A bold hypothesis meshed with his joy, gaining traction in my mind.
Maybe buses didn't matter to him?
Claimed waiting to force staying—folks would've dragged him otherwise.
Now he had a 1.8 billion membership luxury country club all to himself.
Luxury even chaebols couldn't claim.
After trial-and-error, final ball sank in last hole.
His long-yet-short round ended.
"Azah!"
Fighting shout reached me.
Relieved smile, he looked around.
No one.
No caddie, gallery, or annoying members.
His smile faded.
Not a pretty sight.
He agreed, apparently.
Before smile vanished fully, he drew pistol from coat, still half-smiling, pulled trigger.
Bang!
Last golfer fell.
Golf course sank into deep silence again.
Innocent sparrows gathered like gallery, then fled.
Nothing in the world is utterly useless, they say.
Even human trash like Jo Seongyong proves useful sometimes.
Chouchou.
Heard bad rumors.
After I left, he tried taking a girl's body, clashed with Dies Irae.
Without intervention, he'd have burned with the rest.
Even as a low-popularity user, I'm community.
Chouchou's now ostracized.
His post could've blown up views-wise—no comments.
"..."
They say I'm internet-illiterate.
Feels true.
But instinct hit this time.
First comment on ignored chouchou.
I stalled deliberately.
As expected, private message first.
He tried whispering privately; I replied publicly.
Showed what I wanted publicly.
Now users knew Jo Seongyong's name, methods.
And his shit-smell fetish.
One raged, of course.
Used to boil at online abuse; now, three months make the temple dog recite poetry—just funny.
So?
Such leisure.
This enlightenment sparked unexpected response.
"?"
Just the start.
Thunderous applause.
Amid first cheers, one message stood out.
"Huh?"