The Grand Epic of Victory (3)
How on earth did a report that stuck strictly to the facts get summarized as “he’s sweeping everything”?
Executive Director Yoon Mi-yeon asked back as if she hadn’t quite grasped Manager Kim Min-su’s words.
“Uh, um, so he’s not hurt anywhere, right?”
“Yes. We’re monitoring him in real time from the control room, and he hasn’t taken a single hit.”
“Then is there anything the company should prepare in advance?”
Because the shoot involved such physically punishing work, Yoon Mi-yeon was asking whether there was anything they could do to help. Kim Min-su scratched the back of his head.
“Hmm, prepare in advance? Well… maybe just prepare yourself to be surprised?”
“What…?”
She had only meant to ask whether they ought to book a lodging near Wando Port in case it proved difficult for him to return to Seoul right away. But prepare to be surprised? What kind of nonsense was that? On the other end of the line, Yoon Mi-yeon kept tilting her head in bafflement.
Meanwhile, while the allied players were busy pairing off among themselves, Yeon-woo was racing across the island at nearly full sprint, heading north.
He had already claimed the mission box in the east. Now he was moving to secure the one that should be waiting in the north. From the outset the northern woods grew so densely that there was only one clearing where a drone could possibly drop anything; he had a fair idea where the box would be.
Hmm. A suppressor, though…
As he ran, Yeon-woo glanced at the suppressor he had screwed onto the muzzle. He had privately hoped for a “Player Location Confirmation Ticket”—one carefully hidden player could become a real headache—but the eastern box had yielded only this. In real operations he had used suppressors countless times, yet the thing inside the box was nothing like the KAC or SureFire models he had favored in his previous life. To his eye it looked like a toy, and he regarded the object hanging from the barrel with open skepticism. He had no idea what effect it would even have on a survival-game rifle.
Compared to a real firearm the report is already weak and the power is already low. Slap a suppressor on and the round might not even leave the barrel properly.
He could not predict how it would affect range. Once he had the northern box he would have to fire a few test shots just to get a feel for it.
Yeon-woo already knew the terrain perfectly. Even in the sunless thicket where the trees stood shoulder to shoulder, he moved as freely as if he were walking through his own house. After a long stretch he spotted it: near the cliff at the island’s northernmost tip, in a small meadow thick with nameless wildflowers, the mission box sat waiting. He closed the distance in a flash, snatched the box, and slipped back into the trees. After a quick scan of the surroundings he melted into the undergrowth and opened it.
Hit Count Reset Ticket
If you wish to use this item, press the emergency call button on your smartwatch and look at the ticket through your headcam for five seconds or longer.
Hmm. Of everything I could have gotten, this is currently the most useless.
He had already eliminated five players single-handedly without taking a single hit; he had no idea when or how he would ever need a reset. At least it did not appear to require immediate use.
Well, once the fighting starts I might catch a stray round…
Yeon-woo stuffed the ticket into his bag without ceremony. The reset ticket Bae Shin-woo so desperately wanted, the suppressor Yang Ho-seong coveted—both were cold leftovers to him. Having claimed two mission boxes, Yeon-woo did not rest for even a second. He set off again at once, circling the island counterclockwise at high speed toward the western sector where Bae Shin-woo and Yang Ho-seong were searching.
In the control room a staffer watching the players’ GPS tracks frowned.
“Why is that one so fast…?”
Among the dots on the map, one alone was moving at nearly twice the speed of the others; it jumped out immediately.
“Ah. Number Seven.”
The moment he confirmed it was Player 7, his head nodded of its own accord. Not “actor Ryu Yeon-woo”—Player 7. Inside the control room that was watching the survival game, the presence of that monstrous combat machine called Player 7 already outweighed the halo of an A-plus celebrity.
Hmm? If he keeps following this route…
The staffer spoke up.
“PD-nim. Number Seven is about to run into two people.”
Yoon Chang-joon, who had been watching another fight, reacted at once. Number Seven mattered more than any other player.
“Yeah? Who are the two?”
“Twenty-four and Thirty. Yang Ho-seong and Bae Shin-woo’s team.”
From the gallery seats behind them the managers of those contestants let out groans.
“Damn it, he’s only got one life left.”
“Ho-seong, run…!”
Kim Jo-hoon, the KBC comedian who had come in place of Yang Ho-seong’s manager, shook his head at the monitors. After watching Ryu Yeon-woo’s play so far, even a two-to-one numerical advantage gave him no confidence. This morning they had formed an alliance; he had a strong, queasy feeling that his colleague Yang Ho-seong was about to be sacrificed to “devil’s editing.”
I’ve been eating broadcast rice for years—you can tell just by looking.
Whether it was the gap between watching from the control room and actually being in the survival game, he still could not understand why Yang Ho-seong had made a choice that was guaranteed to draw hate. Yet the thought that his friend was about to collide with Ryu Yeon-woo made him wonder whether the alliance had been the right call after all. He suddenly regretted that the five had split into three teams earlier. That was how monstrous Ryu Yeon-woo—no, Player 7—looked the longer you watched him.
Yeon-woo pulled the rope from his bag and wound it around his forearm, even though he still had no idea whether it would prove useful. The entrenching tool in the bag was nowhere near sharp enough to cut rope, so he simply looped the end around his arm and left the rest still attached and stuffed back into the pack.
If anyone whose presence I missed sees the rope and hesitates for even a second wondering whether I’m one of theirs, that alone is enough.
He had no way of knowing whether the player he had eliminated with the bag-throw fake right at the start of the day had revealed his number to the others back at the lodging the night before. Or rather—if someone had neither scored nor been hit, they would not even know their own number. Yeon-woo himself had only learned he was Number 7 after the opening kill, when he checked the kill log. The five who were roaming together would have been watching the kill log too; they would already have figured out that the teammate who had colluded with them the previous night was almost certainly the Number 4 eliminated the instant the match began. But if they saw the rope for even a moment and thought, Maybe the one Number 7 took out wasn’t one of ours? or Wait, was Number 7 actually on our side?—that alone would be success. That brief opening would be enough to seize a superior position.
Hmm?
Sure enough, as he advanced he spotted the two of them with rope wound around their forearms. They were coming around the corner of a small cement building—probably an old storage shed left by the island’s former residents—heading his way. The instant they saw him they froze. The distance was still a little long for a reliable shot; the guns were so underpowered he could not be certain of a clean hit.
Why only two? Did the five scatter because of the mission boxes? Or did they never all agree to team up in the first place?
After confirming no one else was following, Yeon-woo briefly considered sliding sideways into cover. They’ve already spotted me. If I take cover now, circle around, and set up a proper ambush, it’ll take too long—they’ll move too. If they run, it’ll be a headache.
After a short deliberation he made his choice. Yeon-woo slung the rifle over his shoulder and raised both hands high, waving them in a big, unmistakable arc. Then, with exaggerated gestures visible even from a distance, he pointed at the rope bound around his own forearm. The other side seemed to understand the signal; they lowered their muzzles toward the ground, scanned left and right, and began walking toward him.
If they get too close they’ll realize who I am.
The right distance. Close enough to shoot, far enough that they still could not identify him. Seeing that he had completely taken his hands off the gun and slung it, they relaxed and came nearer still. Even so they never fully released their weapons. Both kept checking left and right; it looked less like suspicion of Yeon-woo and more like wariness that some other player might suddenly appear.
The control room watching the scene erupted.
The only cameras that could see Yeon-woo were the headcam and bodycam on his own helmet and chest, so the production staff had no idea he had wound rope around his arm. Then, through the headcams of Players 24 and 30 who had just run into him, they saw it: rope wrapped around his forearm.
“Huh? What’s with the rope on his arm? Number Seven slept in a completely different lodging—how?”
“He must have deduced it from the player he took out this morning. Kid’s sharp.”
“He goes to Korea University, you know.”
“Ah, right.”
Meanwhile Yoon Chang-joon PD, staring at the control-room monitors, was having trouble keeping his head on straight; every single shot was legendary.
Do we need to request extra episodes? There’s too much usable footage…
They had originally been allocated six episodes for roughly a month and a half of airtime; he had even considered cutting it to four if the material looked thin. Now he was wondering whether even eight episodes would be enough to hold it all.
On the monitors the three players were drawing steadily closer. Unlike Bae Shin-woo, who approached carefully with his muzzle lowered, comedian Yang Ho-seong strode toward Yeon-woo at a brisk pace.
“Did you find a mission box?”
The approaching figure answered by drawing a big circle overhead with one hand, then pointed to the suppressor fixed on the end of the rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Oh!”
At the news that a mission box had been found, Yang Ho-seong turned toward Bae Shin-woo, who was moving with him, and opened his mouth to say something—only to see Bae Shin-woo suddenly swing his gun up and aim it straight at him.
Why…? Is Bae Shin-woo betraying me?
Yang Ho-seong hurriedly tried to raise his own weapon, but a rough hand from behind seized his right arm and made it impossible to bring the muzzle up. He twisted his head for a sidelong glance. The man he had thought was still more than three meters away had somehow materialized right behind him like a ghost and was now wrapping an arm around him.
What kind of strength—!
The body locked in that single arm could not move an inch. Using the man in front of him as an immovable shield, Yeon-woo’s free hand flashed to the pistol at his waist and drew it.
Bang—.
Tat-tat-tang—.
Yeon-woo opened fire on Bae Shin-woo; Bae Shin-woo returned fire instantly.
“Ghk!”
“Khuh.”
At such close range the plastic rounds left a solid sting where they struck. Red lights flared on protective gear on both sides at once. Of course, the owners of those red lights were Bae Shin-woo and Yang Ho-seong.
A human shield is a strategy with a long and distinguished tradition.
Only then did Yeon-woo release the arm that had been locked so tightly around Yang Ho-seong. Human shield. In the English-speaking world they called it more bluntly a meat shield or a bullet sponge. With real bullets a human body would be punched clean through, so the tactic would be useless—but this was a survival game, and it worked just fine.
The eliminated Bae Shin-woo and Yang Ho-seong stared blankly at the mysterious player standing in front of them.
“…Who the hell are you?”
Ziiing—.
Player 30 has eliminated Player 24. (Hit 3 times)
Player 7 has eliminated Player 30. (Hit 1 time)
Only then did they realize that the man in front of them was the Player 7 they had known only through the kill log.
Meanwhile the elimination messages reached every survivor scattered across the island.
What? Number 30 is Bae Shin-woo. And Number 24 is Yang Ho-seong?
Bae Shin-woo had scored a kill on the first day; Yang Ho-seong had lucked into one while the pack was hunting. Both numbers were known to the remaining players.
Why did Bae Shin-woo kill Yang Ho-seong? And why is Number 7 mixed up in it?
Their heads filled with pure confusion. Seeing the message that Bae Shin-woo—who only yesterday had been grilling meat and laughing with them—had eliminated Yang Ho-seong made the player walking beside them, Jang Ju-won, suddenly feel like a stranger. The thought struck them that people were the most frightening thing of all. And they could no longer trust that the person at their back would not shoot them.