The Seal Collectors
Pomade was a man who wore glasses and an outfit that had no business existing in an apocalyptic world.
A neat pompadour. A perfectly tailored suit. And polished leather shoes gleaming on top of it all.
Gang bosses did occasionally strut around in this kind of getup.
Usually the ones who no longer needed to dirty their own hands.
A way of announcing with their whole body, I'm somebody you don't want to mess with.
That was why the bosses of factions stationed permanently in a shelter tended to dress flashily. Sapiens was so fashion-conscious he could have passed for a celebrity, and Sanghae didn't exactly go around in combat gear either.
Dr. Woo was the same. Ever since taking over the pharmacy, he'd stuck to clean, presentable clothes.
If anything was odd, it was Won-goo, who insisted on wearing nothing but his jumpsuit.
Even these big shots, though, suited up properly in combat gear whenever actual fighting was required. Suits stained at the slightest contact, and shoes were no better — step outside for five minutes and they were filthy. And beyond that, a suit was ill-suited to combat in just about every way imaginable.
And yet Pomade insisted on his suit. Always.
Even when it meant blood on the fabric. Like right now.
"You should've just taken the deal from the start. All this hassle."
Pomade grabbed the ankle of a man who was trying to crawl away. The man was already drenched in blood, and his comrades nearby had long since turned into corpses.
With a wet, strangled gasp, Pomade dragged him back over. His crew closed in and pinned the blood-soaked man down tight.
Pomade shrugged off his gray jacket, unclasped his gold watch, and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows.
Tattoos lay exposed to the light.
Dense enough that not an inch of bare skin showed — though that in itself was no surprise.
Pomade already had tattoos covering his face and neck without exception, and the crew around him was the same. Full-body tattoos, every last one of them. Among them were men inked from scalp to lips, some even inside the eyeballs themselves.
With so many colors crammed into the work, they looked less like human beings and more like some other species entirely.
"Let's get to work."
At Pomade's word, Dark Eye swiftly produced his razor. They called him Dark Eye because the whites of his eyes were dyed completely black.
Shk.
A classic straight razor.
Useless in a fight, but nothing on earth peeled skin better.
Dark Eye made short work of the fallen man's clothes, then immediately began flaying the small seal etched into his forearm.
The man screamed.
"None of that. Our Dark's the best in the business. Just bear with it a little."
Pomade smiled thinly — then, sensing something, raised his left hand to guard his own neck.
Thud!
A dull impact rang out, but nothing stood before his eyes.
Pomade counterattacked anyway. His arm had absorbed a vicious shock, yet it emerged without a scratch.
"Knew something was here."
Thwack!
A kick from a pointed dress shoe — and something caught at the tip of it.
A hidden comrade of the man revealed himself. Blond. Carrying the strong air of a white mixed-blood.
Clutching his stomach, he glared furiously at Pomade.
"Loyal, aren't we? If you've got an ability like that, you should be running, genius."
Sure enough, the moment the mixed-blood realized his ambush had failed, he was already trying to flee. It wasn't that he had no loyalty to his friends. But taking on a monster who'd blocked a three-section staff barehanded would have been idiocy.
"Once you show your face, it's over, kid."
The mixed-blood vanished — then reappeared almost at once, because another man had appeared behind him with a chokehold locked around his throat.
A man covered not only in tattoos but in piercings across his whole face.
Thump.
Within seconds, the mixed-blood went limp and collapsed.
Pomade watched with interest — then suddenly winced and dropped his left arm limp at his side.
"Agh... that was quite a hit, apparently."
"It broke, Hyeong?"
The long-haired tattooed thug asked. A man with straight hair falling to his shoulders.
"No idea."
"Looks like a crack."
"Work's done."
Dark Eye tossed the freshly peeled seal over his shoulder as he spoke. Horned Glasses caught it and held it up against the notebook he carried — a notebook filled with data on all manner of seals.
In the meantime, the man covered head to toe in tattoos, nicknamed All-Tattoo, poured bottled water and washed Dark Eye's hands for him.
Dark Eye washed the razor first, though. Hands came second.
And then the last man appeared.
The largest of them all — a man who'd grown his nails out long like a beast of prey.
Claw.
"What kind of seal was it?"
Despite his bear-sized frame, Claw's voice was surprisingly high-pitched.
"None. A seal we haven't gotten before."
"Well, that's nice, ain't it?"
"Whether it's nice depends on what it does once we peel it. Hey! Piercing! Don't kill him! We might have questions for that bastard."
Piercing had been preparing to stomp on the unconscious mixed-blood's face. One firm stomp with a foothold like that, and his neck would snap clean through.
At Horned Glasses' words, Piercing halted his raised foot.
The rest swept up the corpses strewn around the area.
Seven in all.
Pomade.
Horned Glasses.
Long Hair.
Dark Eye.
Piercing.
All-Tattoo.
Claw.
They were the Seal Collector Gang — a crew that drifted from region to region, harvesting seals wherever they went.
They hadn't made much of a name here yet, this being their first appearance in the area, but in certain other regions their infamy ran so deep they were classified as top-tier dangerous gangs.
Once the seals were peeled free, the crew wrapped up the scene with practiced speed.
Their division of labor was impeccably honed.
And from very, very far away, a man watched the whole thing through streaming tears.
The youngest member of Team Yaholcha, a unit under the Ganjeolgot Coalition — and the Seal Collector Gang's first prey.
Look closely, and his features were mixed-blood too. A face strikingly similar to the mixed-blood man who'd been caught using his stealth technique.
The difference was that this one was far prettier.
From a distant vantage point, he scrutinized every detail of the Seal Collectors through his binoculars.
Sketching them as he went.
"I'm telling you, I work better alone."
Fresh said it around a mouthful of chicken leg.
"I know you like being alone."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is you like being alone, but that's hit its limit now. You feel it too, don't you? You're a jack-of-all-trades type."
"The proper term is hexagonal stats."
"Hexagonal my ass. You're hexagonal water, you punk — you leak everywhere."
"I've got mouths to feed. I'm content just keeping myself and mine alive."
"And if you die doing that? The kids you're taking care of die with you?"
"Director Gong will look out for them a bit."
"That's called being a freeloader, that is."
"So who am I supposed to team up with, right now? Can't we just cooperate when we need to, like we do?"
"Even that's getting hard to pull off solo, I'm telling you. You went through it recently and still haven't learned?"
"I'd love to keep skilled people like you around too. You think that's easy? Anyone with real skill costs a fortune."
"So grab someone promising and raise them yourself. Did our crew pull their weight from day one? Our youngest, Hyeji and Cheolsu were carrying two, three coins apiece until just recently. You know what that means? They were worker-level in shelter terms. The kind who eat one meal a day and grind past twenty hours of labor just to scrape by."
"You want me to babysit some greenhorn?"
"Even a small crew's better than nothing. The days when even a Named could survive alone are over."
"Whew, honestly... coming from anyone else I'd brush it off, but from Director Gong it's hard to just ignore."
"Don't ignore it. Think it over properly."
"Who would I even take in?"
"Doesn't have to be a total beginner. If someone's desperate and their reputation and character look decent, you can take them in and mold them."
"Desperate people?"
"There was a war recently, wasn't there."
"...The stragglers?"
"Picking from among them wouldn't be a bad call."
"Hmm... fair enough. Beats messing around at the Fishing Ground with Sapiens, anyway."
Won-goo nodded, tipping back his beer, then confirmed the main point once more.
"You can bring them in, right?"
"If they're confirmed to have entered Black Shelter. I can pull plenty out of Bed."
"It's confirmed. What do you take me for?"
Won-goo had no real certainty, though. But he knew that in situations like this, you had to project confidence.
Bed wasn't his home turf — it was merely a shelter. The survivors there weren't the kind he could coerce into following him out.
"You know the drill, right? Keep it tight, control the leaks when you spread word. If this gets out, all hell breaks loose."
"Yeah, yeah, I got it."
Just as Won-goo and Fresh sat facing each other, washing chicken down with beer, a new face entered the shop.
"Director. You have a visitor."
The man standing beside Danshin had slicked-back white hair. Scattered with gray and lined with wrinkles, he looked to be at least sixty.
"And who might you be?"
Won-goo asked, staring hard. He didn't recognize the man either.
"Apparently I'm unrecognizable, face to face."
The man pulled a mask from his belt — one painted with a sprawling gang emblem.
Only then did Won-goo and Fresh place him.
"...Persimmon Clan?"
"Ganjeolgot. It's Ganjeolgot."
"What kind of name is that?"
"Supposedly the Coalition leader hails from there."
"Without your lieutenants?"
"I needed to come quickly."
"We had an understanding, didn't we? Each side eats and lives well in its own territory."
"We did."
The Ganjeolgot Coalition didn't operate in this region.
They were based entirely on the far side of Black Shelter, and a non-aggression accord had been struck with the local factions: nobody crosses over.
With each side's territory clearly drawn, there had been no clashes to date.
"This sounds urgent, so I'll hear you out — but let your people in first. No way a man like you travels alone."
At that, the head of the Ganjeolgot Coalition — Ganjeol — clapped his hands.
Crew members poured into the shop.
"Well, look at that. Some solo trip. So what's your business?"
"One of our coalition teams was hit. Roadkill."
"Roadkill happens outside your own turf. Can't be helped, can it? You're supposed to watch out for yourselves."
"Watching out is right. Staying in your own zone is right too."
"Don't tell me... you're not suspecting us, are you? It's been ages since we set foot over there. We don't even touch the smash-and-grab trade."
"I know."
"Then why come here?"
Won-goo tossed Ganjeol a canned beer from the icebox as he spoke. Ganjeol caught it and simply held it.
"I came for information. With a presence like this one, I figured if anyone would know something, it'd be the syndicate crowd."
"Skip the 'syndicate' talk. Call me Director Gong."
"Very well."
"You're saying you've identified who pulled the roadkill?"
"I am. Got lucky, I suppose. I hear they were covered in tattoos, head to toe. Seven of them. Collecting seals, by the look of it."
"Full-body tattoos? There's not a soul in this area who wouldn't know them."
"That's exactly why I came. It's so unusual, I thought I'd try."
"..."
"..."
Won-goo's gaze met Ganjeol's. A few seconds passed before Won-goo spoke first.
"I'll be straight with you. I've never laid eyes on those bastards. But I did hear something recently."
"Would you share it?"
"Word was that some newcomers joined up at Black Shelter. Seal collectors, supposedly."
"Is that certain?"
"Whether it's certain is for you to find out. Did I ever agree to hold your intelligence for you?"
Ganjeol's eyebrows twitched. His expression hardened for a moment, but he quickly gathered himself, dragged a chair over with his own hands, and sat down.
"Fair enough. The fault is largely mine, barging in unannounced."
"I suppose it is."
"I'd assumed they operated in this region."
"Looks like that, you can't exactly keep quiet. Go check, and if I'm right—"
"Then the next time you have a request of us, we'll oblige it as far as we can. Will that do?"
"That's not bad."
"And one more thing—"
"Don't even say 'one more thing.' If bastards operating around here pulled a stunt like that? I'll catch them myself, peel their hides off clean, and hand them over."
A slight nod. Ganjeol answered with nothing more, rose, and walked toward the door. On his way out, he added one more thing at the entrance.
"I intend to remain in Sabbath for twenty-four hours. Within that time—"
"Nothing will change. Not my thoughts, my opinions, my principles, or my circumstances. Neither I nor my people have anything to do with it, not one bit."
"So it would seem. Even so, if any further information turns up, I'd appreciate it being shared."
"Fine by me."
Ganjeol nodded once more and stepped outside.
"That old man's one of the hundred-man caliber types, right?"
Fresh asked.
"He is."
"Heavy presence, damn. The Ganjeolgot Coalition's a big outfit, isn't it... and he gets this worked up over a single roadkill? Is that place really that tight-knit?"
"Tight-knit, my ass."
"...?"
Won-goo brought his beer back to his lips.
"It's not tight-knit?"
"There's no such thing as a 'coalition' beyond the pretty label. Not enemies, but not exactly family either. Isn't that what a coalition is? Hell, if you squint hard enough, you and I could be called a coalition too."
"Me and you, Director Gong?"
"Fresh. You planning to stab me in the back?"
"No."
"Then would you go along with a backstabbing?"
"Also no."
"Then would you take on a job that requires a backstabbing?"
"Nah."
"Exactly. How's that any different from a coalition? The Ganjeolgot Coalition just made it official — peek behind the curtain and everyone's playing their own game. Each team running its own household, looking out for number one."
"And yet he steps up like that? Roadkill just means he ran into bandits on the road — that happens a hundred times a day."
"Well, there's a reason for it."
"Weird..."
"It is weird. The Ganjeol I know..."
"What? All talk?"
"No. His skill's the real deal. But he's not quite what he shows on the surface. The man's remarkably cold-blooded. Not the type to move like this over one subordinate team getting roadkilled. There's something behind this. Danshin — no, wait. Ttugi!"
At his call, Lee Hyun-sung, who'd been playing chess with Jo Mu-sa in the corner, shot to his feet.
"Yes, Hyeong-nim!"
"Go out to the car and wake up Nochin-ne."
"Understood, Hyeong-nim!"
"Why the wizard?"
"Nochin-ne's got a straw stuck in that side of the map."