Hope (2)
The creation of Hope is complete.
Yeah, honestly, I know it too. That its appearance is pretty far from anything resembling hope.
The gallery was buzzing with everyone chiming in. But it's fine. At least two were on my side.
First up, Elf Hater sis. She'd raised an eyebrow at the bloody name at first, but once I explained the naming reason, she nodded right away.
And second, well…
"So, what do you think?"
Hope herself. Or rather, the main blade.
To me, it looks more like Despair or Ruin than Hope—but,
Vmmm vmmm vmmm.
"She says she likes it~"
The blade seems thrilled with her own name, humming a pleased sword-song.
…That's good, right?
Honestly, the massive blood-red eyes embedded along the blade twitching around is a bit scary. But since those tooth-like things at the tip aren't stabbing back at me in reverse, I'll call it satisfied for now.
Yeah, what can you do if she doesn't like it? Fate's fate—gotta roll with it.
Anyway, naming drama over!
"Alright, sword-forging content's done, so that's the stream wrapped up."
Hanging with the gallery like old times is fun and all, but can't drag it out forever. I've got a backlog of stuff to handle.
"Byeee~"
I wave at the chat and end the live.
First thing after killing the stream? Crash for a nap, letting my body flop out.
No choice. Trying to build a forge and lava erupts, casually forging a sword and out pops a demon blade(?), chain of sudden events piling up exhaustion.
Slept like a rock, and when I wake, my whole body's refreshed—like all the deep fatigue got swept clean.
Vmmm—
"Sleep well, you too?"
I give a casual wave to Hope, who's been waiting patiently by my side while I snoozed.
Stuff like this makes me think I nailed the naming.
Before completion, she screamed "blood-crazed demon sword," but even with those crimson blood-eyes studding every segment, she exudes a noble poise at rest—no hint of ferocity.
Come to think of it, I haven't made a sheath yet, but she doesn't seem to care, just hanging on the wall in the corner.
I stare at her for a bit, then stretch.
"Alright, let's see."
Like I said, two back-to-back sudden events got me thinking: I need one thing right now.
What? Mid-mission checkpoint.
Someone might say, Huh? Checkpoint? You barely did jack—wtf checkpoint?
But as pro survivalist Jung Kkeokma, who's lasted five years in this apocalypse, I declare: In the end times, checkpoints aren't optional—they're essential.
"Normal daily life might not need 'em. Sitting still's fine; the world's currents won't sweep you away if you're parked.
But apocalypse? Every day's a upheaval."
The raging blizzards sweep away tons—terrain, sure, but also your inner and outer bearings. Blink and you forget where you even were.
So for orientation alone, checkpoints are mandatory. Know what you have, what you've gained, what you still need—then your next step heads true.
"With that in mind, time to show you my shelter."
I strap the new family member Hope to my side and stand.
First stop: shelter entrance. Standing where the snow-piled outside view shows through, I say,
"See that? In this era, this setup's penthouse-level."
My base is a refitted abandoned mine. Sounds rough, but deep underground keeps indoor temps steady at 0°C despite the outer freeze. No firewood needed to live decently.
And that's not all.
"Location's prime too."
Real estate's all about location, and mine's top-tier. Far from downtown means no mutant raids, and the granite layer above means no heavy metal worries from the groundwater spring.
In this world, no water issues? Priceless.
Vmm!
Hope hums, scanning the outside scenery. Clearly itching for a trip out.
"Don't worry. You'll get out plenty later—till you're sick of it."
I pat the blade to soothe her, then head downward.
Old mine means ant-nest tunnels branching everywhere. Most too vast for solo use, left empty—but one recent makeover stands out.
Like this one—
"Warehouse 1. Was empty before, but recent looting stocked it up."
Warehouse 1: Guns and ammo storage galore.
Source? Dead raiders turned "nice looters."
"You weren't around, but last time I scrapped with those guys and the yaksha horde? Cleaned 'em out."
Raiders lug their whole net worth like golden goblins, so firearms dominate the haul. Next to food, guns are gold in this world—even for me, post-gallery and martial arts. Can't ignore 'em, so stacked neatly here.
Next room: Warehouse 2. Just one item, but it's the star.
"Check this? Diesel generator—gas hog, but feed it and it earns its keep."
25kW industrial diesel beast ripped from the raiders' secret hideout.
"Hell to haul out."
Not like 3-5kW camping gas gens. This powers a five-story building's emergency—engine alone over 400kg. Strip fuel lines, wiring, canopy? Still near 700kg.
Alignment off by 0.5mm? Vibration snaps bearings—so I had to lift the whole damn thing. Bonus: learned my freak strength ceiling.
"Issue is, even after all that, can't use it yet."
Fuel guzzler at 5-7L/hour? Minor—raiders gave plenty of diesel.
The gen itself's the problem.
"Run it here, overheats fast."
Building basements vent easy with intake/exhaust ducts. Mine shafts? Splitting cold intake and hot exhaust ducts is a nightmare. Heat traps, boom—overheat.
Outside? Subzero freezes coolant. Useless for now. Eye candy hanging from the ceiling like a miserly dried pollack—regrettable, but owning this monster feels like holding an M7 in a bear market. Secure vibes.
Stock market's god, huh?
"Finally, Warehouse 3—daily supplies."
Original main storage. Wrenches, nails, nuts, dry firewood—survivalist kit from my nomad days. Fixer-uppers and barricade fodder stocked heavy.
Apocalypse rule: You never know what you'll need.
"Somehow got bumped to lowest priority now."
No immediate use, so gathering dust—but bound to need it someday. Stockpiling when free, and damn, looking back? Hoarder's paradise.
What can I say.
"I've been surviving pretty damn hard, huh."
Tracing my survivalist path, nose tingles a bit.
But not done yet.
"Still more spots to show."
Checkpoint ain't over. With Hope on my back, I head deeper down.