A Dog's Resolve
Simon was furious. He clenched his fists, wanting nothing more than to throw a punch right then and there. The young man standing before him was insulting, mocking, and looking down on the path Simon had walked. He was laughing at, trampling over, and tearing down every decision Simon had agonized over and carried out.
Yet, there was nothing Simon could do. The man before him looked young and unassuming, but he was far from clumsy. He seemed like an easy target, but Simon couldn't defeat him with words or fists. To be precise, he had been utterly, one-sidedly thrashed. Underestimating him just because of his youth had been a mistake—a mistake he never should have made. In truth, Simon knew he wouldn't have beaten him even if he hadn't let his guard down. But he had to make some excuse. Otherwise, he would feel too pathetic. He would feel utterly powerless.
. . .
Simon had never dreamed of becoming a rebel. He had never wanted to be one. In fact, deep down, he had felt a profound aversion to them. Simon had been a model student, a medical school attendee, and the pride of his village. Everyone praised his kind nature and outstanding grades. He was on track to become a doctor. His future had been bright. Simon hadn't minded the expectations of those around him, either. He had worked tirelessly to live up to them. But then, his younger sibling was dragged away by rebels. In an instant, his family was shattered. His parents were robbed and beaten while searching for his sibling.
A moment of choice arrived in Simon's life. Abandon his family and live comfortably as a doctor, or throw everything away to protect them. Simon chose his family. He dropped out of medical school and set off to find his sibling. As he struggled through the search, there were those who stood by his side—comrades who helped him along the way. They called themselves Damaya, which meant "compassion" or "sympathy" in Tagalog. Damaya had no grand ideology or noble cause. It was purely about survival.
In the southern Philippines, where rebel factions ran rampant, one could not survive without being armed. You couldn't protect what was yours without picking up a gun. Damaya was a desperate struggle to stay alive—nothing more, nothing less. Amidst the frantic struggle to protect his people, Simon had somehow ended up as the new leader of Damaya. But he knew they couldn't go on like this. The meager funds scraped together by the villagers weren't even enough to defend what they had. Even buying ammunition had become a heavy burden. While other rebel groups grew stronger by the day, Damaya was steadily weakening.
If Simon's death could end this suffering, he would gladly die. But if he died, Damaya would fall. And if Damaya fell, the countless people they protected would undoubtedly suffer. He had to stand strong, no matter what. That was why he had swallowed his pride and sought out the arms dealer. Since they had no money, he had hoped to somehow squeeze out a deal. Hearing that the dealer was young, Simon had thought he could intimidate or pressure him into giving them some weapons. He had considered begging, but that would only make them look weak, inviting the dealer to demand even more. They wouldn't be able to stand on equal footing. This was a lesson born of long experience: in this place, if you showed weakness, you would be devoured. You had to project strength at all costs.
Yet, the man before him hadn't flinched. Instead, he had looked down on Simon, mocking and humiliating him. He countered every single word Simon said, invalidating the very life Simon had lived. And still, Simon could do nothing. That was why he was angry. But the man hadn't cast him aside. Even while insulting Simon and calling him foolish, he didn't turn him away. Instead, he was showing him a way forward.
"Is this the place?"
The location Simon brought me to was Damaya's headquarters. I hadn't thought Bohol's living conditions were great, but this place was truly disastrous. Was this what rural Korea looked like back in the eighties? The entire area was filthy and neglected, completely lacking any maintenance. I turned my head. I hadn't come here for a home visit to see how well the rebels were living. I had followed Simon here for one reason and one reason only: to assess the capabilities of Damaya's members. I needed to see what kind of skills these rebels actually possessed.
Some might ask why I needed to check their skills, but this was a critical issue for me. Let's say I got lucky and successfully triggered a war between Abu Sayyaf and the Bangsamoro Liberation Front (BLF). What then? When those two factions tore each other apart, we would need to sweep in and clean up. But what if we tried to raid their empty bases, only for our forces to fail because their skills were garbage? If they were already short on numbers and lacked skill on top of that, all our hard work would go to waste. The New People's Army (NPA), who had been sitting quietly on the sidelines, might just swoop in and steal the prize. I had to verify if these guys had what it took. It was an absolute prerequisite. If they had neither numbers nor ability, I had absolutely no intention of sponsoring Damaya. I wasn't a charity. Of course, I wasn't doing this to make a profit, either. But at the very least, I needed some sense of satisfaction, didn't I? The satisfaction of pouring money into something. People who pour money into hobbies do so because they get a corresponding level of enjoyment out of it. If I proceeded like this, I would just be throwing money away only to taste a bitter, crushing defeat. If I took one look and decided it wasn't going to work, now was my only chance. If I was going to wash my hands of this, it had to be now.
"Everyone, fall in!"
A bell clanged, and at Simon's shout, people began trickling out of the dilapidated, ruinous structures. They emerged from the crumbling barracks, half-dressed, dragging their slippers, chatting with one another, cigarettes dangling from their lips, and rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders. There was no sense of urgency or desperation about them. Their faces were filled only with the annoyance of having to deal with a bothersome chore.
I hadn't expected them to move like disciplined soldiers. I hadn't anticipated any tactical coordination. But I had at least expected some drive. I thought they would possess some pride as rebels fighting to protect their peace. But no. It was my mistake, a complete misunderstanding. If you handed rifles to a bunch of local bums and yelled, "Get out here!" this is exactly what it would look like. They clearly had no idea how to carry a rifle or why they should pay attention to their attire. And Simon didn't seem any different. At a glance, they were a total mess. No, "mess" was an understatement. Taking over other rebel factions with these guys? Absolutely impossible. It would be faster to round up a pack of Jindo dogs and train them instead.
I looked at Simon. He was looking back at me with a proud expression. Does this bastard really not see the problem? I quickly dragged Simon into the office.
"I thought you guys were good? I thought you held some sway in Zamboanga? With those people?"
"They might look like that, but they're incredibly strong in actual combat."
Crazy bastard. They must have just gotten lucky, or maybe they only fought nearby and made good use of the familiar terrain. Their movements were not those of a force that could ever win a real battle. I had to make a decision. If I was going to give up, I needed to do it quickly. I wasn't going to feed them false hope. I didn't mind giving them those two hundred rifles as a parting gift, but on second thought, it might be better not to. Those guns wouldn't be weapons to protect Damaya; they would be the very things that drove them to their deaths.
There was only one reason Damaya had survived this long with such a disastrous force: they had likely poured everything into defensive warfare due to their poor weaponry. Instead of attacking other rebel groups, they had probably focused solely on defending their home turf from attackers. They must have won by setting traps and launching ambushes using the unique terrain, and they had mistaken those victories for actual military strength. If Damaya took the weapons I provided and went out to fight other rebels—if they left this place to wage an offensive war—they would be one hundred percent annihilated. That was the extent of Damaya's strength as I saw it. Of course, that was assuming I gave them the weapons. If I didn't, they would hesitate before fighting. They would ask themselves, Can we really win with this firepower? and try to avoid conflict as much as possible. Why? Because they lacked weapons.
But what if I gave them plenty of weapons and ammunition? Having guns would make them fearless. They wouldn't back down from a fight. In fact, they would go out looking for one, completely unaware that they were marching to their graves. I couldn't bring myself to give them weapons that would only get them killed. So, I spoke to Simon honestly.
"Simon. I think I have to take back what I said about buying your group. I'm saying this for your sake, not mine."
"Thank you for the food!"
"Yeah, eat up."
I didn't like how sloppy the Damaya kids were, and I had decided not to buy them out, but I wasn't cold-hearted enough to just ignore people who looked that pitiful. I figured I should at least feed them a decent meal. I called Dennis, who was managing the armory in Zamboanga, and told him to prepare enough food for five hundred people and bring it over. Damaya's actual head count was under two hundred, but knowing how rigid Dennis could be, I was worried he would bring exactly two hundred portions if I gave him the real number. So, I said five hundred to be safe. I told him to pack whatever he could find—meat, fruit, drinks, snacks, anything. If they could eat it today, great; if not, they could save it for later.
I had never experienced it myself, but you know how sometimes your dad's friends drop by, buy you a meal, and leave? It was like that. They could just think of today as a day when Simon's friend dropped by and treated them to lunch. Dennis arrived with a truck piled high with food. We lit fires and began grilling. We grilled chicken, we grilled fish. We grilled whatever could be grilled and boiled whatever could be boiled. Soon, the rich aroma of food filled the entire Damaya headquarters.
The villagers, who had been hesitant at first, began joining in once they saw us eating. They could have just taken the food and dug in, but they went out of their way to come over and thank me before eating. They really are good kids. Now I'm starting to feel guilty. For the first time in a long while, smiles returned to their faces. Up close, they looked a bit different. When I had looked down on them from a distance, they seemed like a total mess. But sharing a meal and looking them in the eye made me feel for them again. They, too, were living difficult, high-strung lives. A weary, exhausting existence.
That was right. They weren't an army. Even if they were called rebels, they still had to farm and work. They weren't salaried soldiers. Yet, they were doing their best to protect their community. I had overlooked that and focused too much on sheer capability. Perhaps, from their perspective, this was the absolute best they could do. Every single day was likely a relentless cycle of exhaustion.
But did that mean I should change my mind, buy Damaya, and train them up? Absolutely not. Bullets on the battlefield don't discriminate. They don't say, Oh, you're a part-timer? Pass. You're tired from working overtime yesterday? Pass. You just joined the rebels and you're still inexperienced? I'll give you a pass. So, while I wanted to applaud their efforts to protect their community despite their exhaustion, preparing for war with them was utterly absurd. Just because a bunch of middle-aged guys in a local weekend soccer club kick a ball around enthusiastically—even if they practice morning and night around their day jobs—you can't take that team to the pro leagues. The professional world is a place where even those who do nothing but eat, sleep, and play soccer can barely set foot on the pitch.
If you lose a soccer match, you just record a loss and move on. But if you lose a war, you lose your life. I had already played this game once before. I knew all too well how brutal it was. I could praise them for kicking the ball hard, but they weren't pros. I could acknowledge their efforts to defend their region, but I couldn't plot grand schemes with them. That was the right call—for my sake, and for the sake of everyone in Damaya.
And so, I spent what might be my last day with Damaya. While everyone else was happily eating meat and drinking, a young, boyish face sat in a corner, staring blankly into the distance without touching his food.
"Who's that kid?"
"Ah, him? He's a new recruit. His story is similar to mine. He lost his parents to the rebels. His anger hasn't cooled down yet, so he probably finds gatherings like this uncomfortable. It's best to just leave him be," Simon replied.
Despite his words, I grabbed a plate of meat and a bottle of beer and walked over to the boy.
"You should eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
His voice was blunt. I wasn't the type to ask twice, either. It wasn't like I was stopping him from eating; if he refused when offered, that was his choice. Maybe he was on a diet. It was a shame, since this was a great keto meal. As I turned to walk away, he spoke up.
"Mister. Are you good at fighting?"
"Huh? Me?"
"Yes. You, mister."
"Why do you ask?"
"If you are, teach me. There's no one here who can teach me that kind of stuff."
"Why? You have Simon here..."
"Simon is the worst fighter here. Though he is good at patching up sick people."
"...What is it you want to know?"
"How to kill people."
He was asking something that was both difficult and simple. A person could die from a gunshot, a knife wound, or a snapped neck. They could die from a bomb, strangulation, or getting hit by a car. There were countless ways to kill a person, but I should probably tell him the easiest one.
"Use a gun. You can just shoot them."
"I would, but I can't hit anything."
"That's because you're a bad shot."
"No, it's not. It's because the gun is weird."
"No, it's definitely a 'you' problem. I'm sure of it."
"Then do you want to make a bet?"
"What kind of bet?"
"We use my weird gun to shoot those empty bottles set up over there. If you hit at least three out of five, you win. Otherwise, I win."
"And the stakes?"
"If I win, you teach us how to shoot. If you win, well, nothing happens."
"Those stakes seem a bit lopsided, don't you think?"
"Huh?"
"I don't get anything if I win. If you win, you gain a skill, but if I win, I get absolutely nothing."
"But I don't have anything to give you."
"Sure you do. You've got a perfectly healthy body."
"What?"
"Besides, do you really want to learn marksmanship from someone who can't even hit a target? Of course not. So, if I hit all five, you will train under me without a single word of complaint. No whining, no grumbling, no talking back. No venting, no sighing, no lamenting, no protesting, no making excuses. And absolutely no quitting. Deal?"
The boy felt a strange sensation. The terms seemed fair, yet he couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was being swindled. Still, driven by the desire to learn how to shoot, he blurted out,
"Deal."
A moment later, five empty bottles were lined up, and I took my position. The bet quickly became the main event of the gathering. Everyone in Damaya had gathered around to watch.
"What's your name?"
"Allen."
"Allen. Watch closely."
Bang! With a sharp shatter, the first bottle broke.
Bang! Shatter.
Bang! Shatter.
Bang! Shatter.
Bang! Shatter.
Five shots, five shattered bottles. A perfect score. I lowered the gun with a triumphant grin. Now, I had the legal right to work this little bastard to the bone.
"Fall in, you little punk. Hehehe."
Of course, I didn't tell him that I had swapped his gun with one from my Inventory before shooting. The barrel of Allen's gun was actually slightly bent. How was anyone supposed to shoot straight with that? It was impossible. Surely, anyone would excuse a little trick like that under the circumstances, right?
But it seemed Allen wasn't the only one who wanted to learn. People began lining up right next to him.
"What are you guys doing?"
"We want to learn too!"
Oh-ho. I did love people who took the initiative. I had a soft spot for those with strong willpower. It looked like I would have to show them a Seoul National University-style study method. Time for some repetitive training so their bodies would memorize the movements instantly.