88. National Tax Service (2)
Lee Hyun-ah couldn't help but tremble in fear at the mere mention of the National Tax Service, a terror that even gripped Jeong Dong-gun, the key figure in liberating Pohang.
What on earth had the National Tax Service been up to since the founding of the Balhut Cult to make a military leader and brave soldier like Jeong Dong-gun quake? To understand him, one needed to know which government agencies run by the Balhut Cult its citizens and members favored most.
"Which government organization run by the Balhut Cult do you like the most?"
"Why the sudden question?"
"It's a class-based opinion poll. You're a businessman yourself, so you're a fine subject for it."
"Not 'yourself'—I'm a proper businessman representing the Cult. So... the government organization the Cult likes most."
To get at that, let's look from the perspectives of Kim Tae-hyeon, a businessman who'd made a fortune through the Balhut Cult, and Kang Jae-wan, a journalist.
Kim Tae-hyeon pondered Kang Jae-wan's question for the poll but answered without hesitation.
"That'd be the expedition force led by Jeong Dong-gun, right? They're my main client, so of course I'd like them. But honestly, the force under Jeong Dong-gun is hailed as heroes."
Bluntly put, it was Kim Tae-hyeon's personal bias as his primary trading partner, but considering public opinion, it made perfect sense—the military under Jeong Dong-gun was currently the most popular organization.
"They liberated villages and towns around Gyeongju. And they even freed Pohang—the liberation army narrative is real."
In peaceful times, it was hard to grasp the military's purpose, but now in the apocalypse, the army faithfully played its role as humanity's guardian, protecting daily life.
Under Dragon God Bahamut's command, the military defended Gyeongju while liberating countless villages and towns, ultimately claiming the epic liberation army saga by freeing Pohang. Who could hate an army with a narrative of shielding humanity from zombies?
Of course, if you were on the run from them, you'd hate them plenty—but as a representative of ordinary citizens and businessmen, Kim Tae-hyeon saw this powerful liberation army that had succeeded in taking Pohang as the one force keeping them alive and safe in the apocalypse.
"Sure, Dragon God Bahamut finished it off, but before that, the ones liberating Pohang weren't Bahamut—they were Jeong Dong-gun and his soldiers."
Kang Jae-wan agreed with the "liberation army" label, bluntly stating that Pohang's actual liberation came from Jeong Dong-gun and his troops, not Bahamut.
Of course, even Kang Jae-wan added,
"Ah, of course Dragon God Bahamut didn't sit idle. His power was just too overwhelming to deploy recklessly."
"I know. I saw that overwhelming spectacle myself."
Bahamut hadn't been inactive, but from an ordinary human's view, it didn't feel tangible. Instead, people empathized more with the army that steadily built its liberation saga, unleashing its potential at the climax.
Pohang's liberation ended with Dragon God Bahamut's advent, but the expedition force led by Jeong Dong-gun had been the one pushing forward before that. Thanks to their major efforts, the Cult could connect with survivors inside Pohang, achieving a safe integration—or so Gyeongju's ordinary citizens perceived it.
"What's next on the list?"
"Hmm."
So, what organization next resonated deeply with ordinary citizens?
"It has to be the administrative branch under Lee Su-ah, right?"
"Yeah, Su-ah's swift administrative orders are on another level from the sluggish pre-apocalypse bureaucracy."
Realistically, the administrative branch led by Lee Su-ah, highly visible to citizens, topped the list. Unlike the notoriously slow pre-apocalypse civil servant processing, her branch handled apocalypse-spawned complaints in a flash, swiftly addressing even the side effects.
Lee Su-ah and her bureaucrats tackled the flood of complaints and crises within the Cult, bulldozing obstacles with rapid administration, becoming a reliable pillar for the faithful.
Kim Tae-hyeon had benefited hugely from those quick orders—one key reason he'd made bank—so he had no reason to dislike them.
"Me too. Thanks to her, I can make a living."
Kang Jae-wan had also received her aid, finding ways to survive as a journalist, legally protected even when exposing dark underbellies creeping up in the Cult. He felt favorably toward her administrative support.
"Next up."
"Yeah, it's tricky."
Naming the next favorite was tough; from here, opinions likely split.
Kim Tae-hyeon and Kang Jae-wan exchanged subtle glances, pondered, then ventured,
"Even with divided opinions, maybe Hwang Seung-man's judiciary is the least bad?"
"I got sued over some hassle thanks to the laws he put together?"
In the middle came Hwang Seung-man's judiciary. Kang Jae-wan, who exposed contradictions and dark realities in the Cult, admitted it wasn't bad, but businessman Kim Tae-hyeon sighed over the annoyances it'd dragged him into.
Judiciary wasn't simple; even now, they built apocalypse-tailored laws with new legal foundations. But before full codification, the provisional laws crafted by Hwang Seung-man and his judges—despite their efforts—had glaring gaps and loopholes.
Thanks to those exploiting the flaws, Kim Tae-hyeon had faced baseless hassles and lawsuits despite doing nothing wrong.
"As a businessman, it's an honor," he grumbled.
"I did nothing wrong!? And the problems are real!"
Mistrust in the judiciary existed everywhere, with complaints about apocalypse-mismatched laws. The decisive reason ordinary Cult citizens had mixed feelings?
"The reason we hate the judiciary is they still haven't executed Jo Sun-do's sentence."
"Intellectually, I get it. Emotionally? No."
That was it: Jo Sun-do's sentence remained unexecuted. Despite Dragon God Bahamut's solemn verdict, accepting his appeal bred outright distrust among Cult residents.
Especially North Gyeongju survivors of his tyranny were deeply disappointed, protesting daily at the old Gyeongju District Court site, demanding his execution.
North Gyeongju's distrust grew with the prolonged appeal, petitions flooding in questioning why they ignored Bahamut's judgment.
"Come on, we don't like Jo Sun-do either."
"Even with Great Bahamut's verdict, they want to end it without legal loose ends."
"He's apocalypse-death-row material. But skipping the appeal creates exploitable precedents!"
From the judiciary's view, they didn't doubt Bahamut's ruling. The Gyeongju court fully recognized Jo Sun-do deserved death even by apocalypse standards, but accepted the appeal to preempt bad precedents.
They wanted a clean execution, yet North Gyeongju's deep-seated hatred toward the lingering tyrant now vilified the courts.
"Please give us a chance to explain this ruling!"
"Get lost."
The judiciary felt truly wronged. Law was inherently arcane and opaque to laypeople. Pre-apocalypse, most citizens misunderstood sensible rulings, outraged at not grasping them.
The courts had their own grievances—detailed legal reasoning few bothered to understand. Knowing this, they'd recently simplified explanations for protesters, striving to uproot deep judicial distrust...
"Next is whatever. Now we're into the hated ones."
"National Assembly? Or legislature?"
Next came organizations most citizens outright disliked or ignored: the legislature, where politicians gathered—what was once called the National Assembly.
Park Cheol-gon and Hwang Geun-chul led it now, but under them lurked nameless politicians as assembly members.
"Hard to call it a National Assembly. It's more like a council."
"Mm. They barely have a presence."
Even as a legislature, their lawmaking power was monopolized by the Dragon Priestess or split with executive and judiciary branches. They weren't numerous enough for a full assembly anyway.
Yet they served as advisors to Bahamut and the Dragon Priestess, wielded policy vetoes, and could draft ideas—meeting bare council requirements.
Still, their vague role made them hard to praise or condemn. Citizens felt, "Nice if they're there, fine if not." Purely middling.
"But they rub me the wrong way somehow."
"Politicians' calls for compromise don't sit well."
Currently, politicians brokered social compromises and persuaded citizens of them. They announced Cult policies publicly while drumming support for their own ideas—but results sucked.
"If Bahamut steps in, problem solved!"
"Idiot! Bahamut won't handle trivia!"
"Well, his proxy, the Dragon Priestess, will sort it!"
Most Balhut Cultists preferred Dragon God Bahamut intervening directly over podium-thumping politicians. Pre-apocalypse political disgust fueled massive distrust, factionalism, and left-right strife—making them crave apolitical leadership.
Existing politics bred that distrust.
"To do real politics, the nation needs to scale up anyway."
"Given Bahamut's achievements, don't aim for popularity wins. Prime Minister's the realistic ceiling."
"Better start campaigning on serving Bahamut comfortably from now on."
Politicians sensed the public's shift. They needed apocalypse-suited strategies and social consensus—easy for pros, leveraging Bahamut's overwhelming support.
The issue?
"Vote for me, and I'll declare independence from dictator Bahamut!"
"Slay Dragon God Bahamut—make Gyeongju Dragon Slayers!"
"Drag that scum out!"
Disillusionment birthed swarms of political newbies. Not bad for generational turnover, but their platforms...
"No one ignores the Balhut Cult's founding ideals that blatantly!"
"Any sane aspiring politician would've joined our party by now."
"Oh no!"
No sane force emerges cleanly in apocalypse; genius Lua Nox types appeared, blaspheming even gods to grab eyes.
Yes, genius Lua Noxes mocking the Cult's founding ethos and Dragon God himself. Claims like independence from Bahamut or slaying him got instantly axed by mainstream Cult politicians, never seeing daylight.
A nation's founding ideals defined its identity; lightly ditching them equated to deserving extinction—obvious to residents.
"You lot preempted the good slogans! Leaves us nothing!"
"Yeah, latecomers get kicked! Old farts pulling up ladders! Political suppression—extraparliamentary oppression!"
Even genius Lua Noxes had excuses: veterans had already rolled out apocalypse policies first. Proving their chops, they'd preempted absolute monarchy under Bahamut or constitutional under Dragon Priestess.
Lua Noxes cried monopoly and ladder-pulling, claiming no room left—but,
"Then join our party! We want turnover too!"
"No! Only I can do it! If anyone can, it's me—Country!"
Veterans' answer? Join and refresh the ranks.
And next...
"Ah."
"Don't even think it."
The organization every Balhut Cultist loathed remained: the ultimate boss, strongest and worst, to the faithful.
"I didn't evade taxes. I didn't evade taxes. I DIDN'T EVADE TAXES AAAAAH!"
The National Tax Service. Everyone's idol... no, everyone's nightmare.