Calamities Are Everywhere
The Maelmang Gallery I'd been lurking on was heating up lately. Honestly, once destruction kicked off, the internet would vanish, and the board would die with it. I'd already gleaned most of the useful knowledge anyway. Still, I kept a casual eye on it, just in case some fresh intel dropped. Not that I could post much—banned and all.
Anyway, watching the post refresh rate spike, I could tell for sure.
"People are finally starting to prep for the end."
Of course, that reaction was still a tiny minority overall. Most folks dismissed "doom theories" and kept living their normal lives. The evidence was too flimsy to bet your life on. The world ending like some game? Zombies in the streets? Guns turning to dust? "Hey, I know a doctor—want me to book you an appointment?"
Even the hoarders stocking up on food were mostly just swept up in the hype because everyone else was doing it. And frankly... half-assed stockpiling would just attract zombies and raiders, making survival harder.
Someone like me, fortifying a full-on bunker? Probably fewer than a thousand in the whole country.
'But that's just human nature.'
Building a proper bunker or hideout meant betting your entire life savings. Apartments alone cost hundreds of millions—billions even—in this country. How many people even own a speck of land? Buying property, hiring contractors for a bunker? Unless you're stark raving mad, it's not happening.
So they shake their heads, deny it, and move on.
'Humans always focus on what they want to hear, not what they need to.'
The only "proof" of doom was that unerasable mystery site and the Last Day game. It was conspiracy-level stuff at best. A miracle anyone believed it this much. Credit to the internet, I guess. Though that complacency would doom them too.
"Hmm, nicely done."
I mixed the fish fried rice I'd whipped up, thinking those thoughts. With the end approaching, I'd started picking up cooking skills.
"Fish dishes are getting old, though."
Since I began fishing, the catch piled up. My mentor, the Fishing Grandpa, wouldn't tolerate wasting fish—he never ate them himself but insisted on it. I kinda agreed. If you're gonna kill a life, at least eat it out of respect.
Thanks to him, my routine was grilling fish while watching survival cooking YouTube vids.
"Hmm~ Shall I try some cicada larvae recipe today?"
Living solo in this cramped bunker, I felt my self-talk ramping up. A bit lonely, I scrolled down YouTube—then spotted a video I couldn't ignore.
'...Who the hell is this clown?'
Daring to claim he was the last player? Curiosity piqued, I clicked play.
I didn't mind internet trolls. It was all just thirst for attention. Insiders with friends might not get it, but for shut-ins like us, this was reality. Especially for YouTubers—it was their rice bowl. In this cutthroat world, you gotta flex to get eyes.
...But this crossed the line.
Boss zombie? It was a ghoul. Sword? Axe. My epic record was being stolen bite by bite.
-BAM!
"Stealing my life's achievement?!"
My only brag-worthy feat was first-clearing a dead game's boss! Did he have to take that too... to feel better?
"..."
...Okay, rage over. I eyed the video coldly.
Couldn't fathom this guy's angle.
'Just a YouTuber cashing in on the hype?'
Dumping this now? Short-term views, sure. But if doom really hit? He'd painted a target. Government, chaebols, raiders—anyone. Post-apoc, torturing info-holders would be routine. Why else stay hidden, us vets?
But this idiot... face fully exposed. Insane?
'Or he doesn't believe it, just farming clout.'
Topic guaranteed buzz. No prior serious Last Day breakdowns on YouTube or forums. Live viewers were solid, chats praising his "info drop."
But the content? Laughable.
'Third rounder at best?'
Last Day's prologue was brutal—clearing it put you in the elite. But to me? Amateur hour. Memory faded maybe, but riddled with errors. "Hole up in supermarkets"? Death sentence. Zombies and monsters swarm food sources, get stronger from it.
'Knew trash like this would show up.'
Humans are opportunists. Quick grabs lead to success—till the rotten rope snaps. Not my circus.
'Actually, perfect for me.'
Politically incorrect, but I was Last Day semi-famous. First ghoul kill, loyal to the end. No one topped my tower. They were probably hunting me quietly. I slept axe-in-arms, ready for sunglassed FBI night visits.
He might siphon some heat.
'All records gone? Blessing in disguise. Can't find me.'
No plans to be anyone's pawn. Post-doom, solo good life—like always.
...Still, letting this faker slide bugged me. Pondering payback—
Suddenly, one chat lit up.
"Huh?"
Curse word ban? Or panic over exposure? Stream cut abruptly. Timing too perfect—I tilted my head.
"Whoa, spooky. World's full of weirdos."
Looked like the chatter pulled some strings. Nah, probably not.
Anyway, stream over—satisfied me. Faker never resurfaced. Eaten by a passing monster? Nah. Maybe nabbed by intel agents.
'See? Don't run your mouth.'
His spiel wasn't all worthless, though. Sparked a turning point.
-So when doom nears, a countdown appears in the sky? Easy to verify.
The true prologue of Last Day. Panicked masses craved visible proof.