Chapter 91
Chapter 91
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 91
Chapter Title: 49. Madman
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Before the war, some reporter once requested an interview with Jang Gi-yeong, who was the principal at the time.
Jang Gi-yeong gladly agreed to the interview— the reporter was from a major media outlet— but it didn't seem to produce anything particularly insightful.
The man at the pinnacle of power back then only answered questions he felt like addressing, dodging or responding to anything sensitive or unwelcome with irrelevant tangents or utter nonsense.
Still, one exchange stuck with me.
It was a question about why Hunters had such remarkably low rates of PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder.
The question must have hit right in his sweet spot, because he boisterously explained the secret behind it.
"Our academy doesn't accept weak students. No matter how talented or exceptional someone is, a feeble mind will eventually cause a major incident."
He went on for a full hour and a half about his own mental resilience measurement model and all sorts of bizarre ideas on how to gauge and toughen a person's psyche.
Hmm.
I see it differently.
The low PTSD rate among our Hunters who went to China wasn't because our mental strength had been measured and drilled as Jang Gi-yeong claimed. It was simply because most of them died.
Even the sane and clever ones dropped like flies; the mentally unstable would go down even easier.
Jang Gi-yeong tried to prove his theory during the war by early-discharging anyone showing anxiety symptoms and stripping them of their Hunter qualifications, but even that was pointless.
With the rise of the Awakened, Jang Gi-yeong's era crumbled overnight.
And just like that, "mental cases" from the war flooded back into society.
They had a high chance of causing social issues, but society collapsed before they could.
Defender's classmate was one such unexploded bomb.
"He was a good guy. Fun, talkative. But starting from the fanatics' Lunar New Year offensive, he clammed up, and by the end, he just... changed."
Defender's wound didn't look that bad on the surface.
His mind was sharp, and the bleeding had mostly stopped.
But the bullet was lodged in his thigh, right near the artery.
That's a problem.
I'd injected antibiotics to minimize infection risk, but that bullet could nick the artery at any moment.
He needed a skilled, war-experienced surgeon.
"...The guy's gone weird."
Right now, we were riding in a 12-seater minibus.
No idea where he scavenged it, fixed it up, and got it running, but that was Defender's hobby, apparently.
"Personally, I can't stand the guy."
Defender's sister gripped the wheel.
"Every time I see him, he's spiraling deeper into madness. He used to be a decent person."
No choice.
If Justice Min ambushed us while Defender stepped away, it wouldn't end well for him, his sister, or me.
At least the vehicle had armor plating in spots—not foolproof against anti-tank weapons, but something.
That wasn't my only worry, though.
It was the classmate himself.
"An Awakened, right? What level?"
"Trash Awakened."
Trash Awakened.
The derogatory term for those under level 5, unfit for major monster fights.
But even a trash Awakened was plenty dangerous, as the morning's battle proved.
The guy who'd shot Defender seemed to have two abilities: perception and detection.
Perception let him sense a target's existence from extreme distances once recognized.
Like an advanced detection ability, but spanning dozens of kilometers—combine them, and you get an inescapable tracker in theory.
Strictly my opinion, but I suspected precognition too.
Not battle-ready, but his unnatural movements now and then raised flags.
Lucky for us he was young and green; a seasoned killer would've offed Defender, his sister, and me without a trace.
"What ability?"
"X-ray vision."
Defender winced, rubbing above his thigh as if it hurt.
"He says if he focuses, he can see veins and all."
"Handy for surgery."
"He actually went into medicine after discharge. Built-in better-than-CT eyes."
Defender suddenly stripped off his shirt, revealing chiseled muscles.
"Check this out."
He turned, showing his back.
Scar tissue everywhere.
"What?"
"Suicide drone shrapnel marks."
Dozens of them.
Some dangerously close to the spine.
Traces of how he could've been crippled or killed before the war.
"He pulled every piece out right there on-site."
"Impressive."
"Didn't even know he was Awakened then. It just happened unconsciously."
"Unwitting Awakening."
"Probably."
Our great prophet IAmGJesus, my classmate Kang Han-min, Na Hye-in—they had flashy awakenings. But most just suddenly unlock their powers without fanfare.
That's unwitting awakening, the common kind.
That's why I keep testing myself with litmus paper.
Park Gyu here might've unwittingly become Awakened material without knowing.
"Roughly 17th or 18th cohort, right?"
"Yeah. 18th."
Defender sighed.
Five cohorts behind me.
Same old-school curriculum, yet our lives diverged wildly over a mere five cohorts.
We got chances at glory and cash.
His cursed cohort? Lives ruined mid-training.
But crisis breeds opportunity: Awakened potentials from that cohort rocketed up on better terms than others.
Trash Awakened under level 5 now hold National Crisis Committee posts.
Kim Daram said plenty from the 18th cohort too.
"Cursed cohort? Half-right. Old-school like us crashed hard, but Awakened potentials got boosts beyond their skills. One girl five years younger than me on the same committee? Barely mid-20s."
Probably crashed now.
Still, hard to grasp why someone guaranteed that golden ticket stayed in Incheon.
"Low-level Awakened got decent treatment back then."
"Couldn't."
"Why?"
Defender looked down, muttering low.
"His head went wrong."
His classmate lived in an abandoned junkyard on Incheon's outskirts.
Defender's sister parked at the entrance.
"Listen up."
Defender eyed me, pained but dead serious.
"Whatever that bastard says, just nod along."
"...What the hell's he gonna say?"
"You'll see."
She honked twice and drove in.
Towers of scrapped cars everywhere, bizarrely cubed metal hulks, unidentifiable grimy masses, massive beast skeletons.
My bunker felt cozy by comparison.
And it wasn't just looks.
"Arf! Arf! Arf!"
Fierce dog barks echoed.
Too loud—even for a guard dog, ears rang.
Mutation?
I readied my gun, scanning coldly as we entered.
A residence loomed: stacked containers like a fortress.
Not a couple—dozens, castle-high.
Finding the lord didn't take long.
A man in crisp suit—totally clashing with the filthy, grotesque yard—stood atop a container, rifle aimed our way coldly.
Below, by another container, a chained, sealed mutation hound strained, eyes bloodshot, barking furiously.
"Jong-cheol!"
Defender's sister yelled out the window.
The man called Jong-cheol grinned brightly.
His name was Heo Jong-cheol.
Same 18th cohort as Defender: deep-set eyes, prominent nose, hairy like a Westerner.
Especially the beard—19th-century intellectual style, covering his cheeks thickly. Not just genes, judging by the minoxidil piles outside the containers.
"Let me see. Jeong-ho."
Defender's name slipped out: Jeong-ho.
Jeong-ho and Da-jeong.
Siblings sharing the "Jeong" syllable.
"Didn't nick the artery. Sit over there. I'll treat you right away."
He led Defender inside; I scoped the place.
Fortress outside, shoddy within.
Seemed like dozens of containers for a castle, but only three in use: residence, food/warehouse, clinic.
Expansion plans like my bunker—holes punched to link others.
"Ngh!"
Defender's groan from the curtained clinic.
His sister clutched her shirt hem, staring anxiously.
"He'll be fine, right?"
I offered some reassurance; she looked up with a smile.
But it faded quick; worry clouded her face again.
She went quiet, so I glanced around.
Lots of books.
Shelves packed with classics: Goethe, Aristotle, Rousseau, Schopenhauer.
Yet Heo Jong-cheol was reading—upside-down on his desk—a comic book.
Surgery wrapped quick: 10 minutes.
Heo Jong-cheol emerged.
"Da-jeong. Look at this."
He dangled a blood-soaked bullet from a stainless tray with forceps, right in her face.
"The seed of death embedded in your kin."
"How's Oppa?"
No thanks from her.
The sweet girl with us turned icy and stiff around others—surprising.
"Inside."
She entered the clinic.
I glanced at Heo Jong-cheol's face.
Should be pissed, but he sat at his plank "study" desk, casually hiding the comic and picking up Thus Spoke Zarathustra with a solemn, savoring expression.
"..."
Didn't seem crazy.
Hiding comics to fake deep reading even felt human.
So why did the siblings despise him so?
A bit off-putting, sure, but not enough to shun a guy with elite surgical skills.
Hell, that talent's top recruitment material.
"..."
If.
I ever built a group.
"Academy grad, huh?"
Heo Jong-cheol eyed me.
I nodded.
"Old-school Hunter? Figure you hold some grudge against this country."
"I'd be lying if I said no."
Heo Jong-cheol smiled meaningfully, closing the book.
"As a Hunter, you know why National Crisis Committee folks headed to Jeju, right?"
"Roughly."
"You know, but it's the low population. Yeah—fewer people means weaker rifts, easier to defend with minimal forces. That's why they moved."
Old news.
Heard it, said it, thought it hundreds of times.
Yawn-worthy.
"What about us who couldn't go to Jeju?"
Another stale question.
"We all die."
Cold fact, no exaggeration.
All of us.
No exceptions.
Just timing differences.
But something'd been bugging me.
From some point, countless vortices swirled in my junior Heo Jong-cheol's eyes.
They'd turned into the eyes of a madman.
"But hey. What if this happens?"
I stayed silent.
Wise not to engage a madman's thoughts.
But once hooked, madmen spew it all.
"What if all the humans gathered in Incheon vanished?"
"..."
"Wouldn't it become better than Jeju?"
Then Defender emerged, sister supporting him.
He shook his head at me talking to Heo Jong-cheol.
Ignore him.
Sister gave the same look.
But the convo'd started.
"How do you kill all those people in Incheon?"
I asked.
The madman's thoughts.
"Nuke."
"Where's the nuke from?"
"Chinese troops down south, right?"
The madman beamed.
"..."
Well, they say there's a fine line between prophet and madman.