The Birth of Pure Evil
How many times had the hill changed hands? Twenty? Thirty? At some point, I'd even forgotten to count. How many more people had to die before this war would end? What I'd thought would be a quick war dragged on and turned against us with the sudden intervention of those vanguard bastards. We managed to reclaim about half the territory thanks to reinforcements arriving once more.
Was this right? Anyone who harbored such doubts was dead. Why were we even fighting this war? Those who thought that were dead too. All that remained were men clutching guns, stripped of purpose or will. We'd lost our humanity, drifted far from morality—hell, maybe we weren't even in this world anymore.
Or maybe it's just hell.
I stare at the rifle I'd picked up before I even learned to read. My parents died, then my little sister, and all that's left is this one gun.
"Sister, what's my name?"
I've said it so often that now the gun looks like her. I crave a mound of white rice piled high, soaked in rich beef broth. When the hell is this revolution supposed to happen?
Chi-ji-ji-jik!
Off in the distance, voices pour out over the radio. The tin-can man pretending to look stern is the one listening. With all the wise and clever ones dead, all we have left is a scarecrow parroting "Great Leader Comrade."
Give him 100, and he demands exactly 100 to be satisfied—that dull, stupid commander sits at the top of our chain. And yet we seize hills because we outnumber those puppet army bastards' bullets.
Different way to put it: we're just numbers.
My unfocused eyes land on my helmet. Wondering if it'll even stop a bullet feels like a waste, but I place it carefully on my head anyway.
"Everyone, listen up! Liberation of the homeland is near! Move faster!"
What homeland? Does it even exist? I want to ask, but it's too late. We've come too far to question it.
Hwaaaah!
The nameless student soldier's emotions drain from his body in an instant.
It's completely different from me.
I had disgust, inferiority, blind obsession with talent. The soldier has only emptiness and longing for his sister. He'd lost his humanity, forgotten any real purpose. All that remained was animal instinct for survival—indistinguishable from a beast.
As I understood the soldier's heart,
"Normally we'd do a screen test, but time's tight, and you were so good at the script read-through."
So we're jumping straight into filming—is that okay? I nodded at director Kang Sanghun's words.
"Yeah, it's fine."
"No surprise with that thorough research behind it—you're ready to go."
"...?"
What was that about? Seeing my puzzled look, Director Kang continued in that knowing tone.
"And the clean script marks mean you've got separate research notes, right? I know actors like you."
He stroked his Guan Yu beard proudly and patted my shoulder.
"Keep it up, and you'll be a great actor someday."
"Ah... thank you, that's kind of you to say!"
"Alright, get ready."
It felt like good luck anyway, so I smiled brightly. The director headed back to his spot, looking pleased. Being the youngest on set probably helped with all the consideration I was getting.
A quick glance.
Back to the script.
The soldier's screen time is about five minutes.
Considering the film's runtime, that's significant airtime. For a nameless character, it's a hefty role—meaning he needs real presence.
In that case.
I'll have to show them.
"Cue."
With the director's short sign, tension ripples through the set. To capture the battlefield's brutality, even swallowing feels too loud.
"...So they've set up camp this close, huh."
Kim Suhwa, playing ROK Army scout leader Han Taekon preparing to retake Ikaro Hill, gazes at the distant ridge.
Swoosh.
Through his binoculars scanning the front lines, North Korean troops come into view. Their numbers look thin, but the terrain disadvantage makes a direct assault tough.
"Pull out the prepared stuff."
At Kim Suhwa's order, soldiers behind him rummage out People's Army uniforms. On these endlessly contested hills, supplies weren't exclusive to one side.
"Fire on my signal."
"It's too dangerous."
"If it's dangerous, we won't do it?"
No one can argue. Too many situations demanded risking life. Maybe that's why life felt so cheap now—no trembling despite knowing the danger.
"I'm off."
Quickly changed into the uniform, Kim Suhwa heads toward the enemy lines. Each step heavy. Detection means instant death. Imagining bullets riddling his body, he sprints up the trench.
Then, his eyes meet a boy's.
What the... kid.
Empty eyes. A hollow gaze staring down. Gloomy face visible even under the pressed helmet. Pity that such a boy was dragged to war? No—facing the horrific murder machine war had birthed.
Just a moment's eye contact, but Kim Suhwa felt deep terror. So he bolted. Looking longer might break him; he ran to escape the boy's sight.
"No! What happened to the report!? Is, is the radio busted?"
"What're ya sayin'?"
"Ran so far, why so... huff... huff..."
He masks his awkward North Korean dialect with heavy panting.
"Why were ya runnin'?"
While Kim Suhwa stalls, his unit creeps closer. Bit by bit, into rifle range. More time bought means advantage.
Just a bit more, just a bit more.
And then.
"Do they really eat rice and beef soup in South Korea?"
From behind: "Please answer."
The boy he'd just seen speaks slowly.
"My dream's to try it once."
"Wh-what?"
"Ask me or the folks comin' up behind."
Clatter clatter.
Kim Suhwa's eyes widen in shock. Busted? Since when? But why stay quiet if he knows?
If he knew it was infiltration, knew the stalling—why not cut to the chase? Why ask something weird?
"What the hell are ya talkin' about?"
"This kid's a South Korean."
The boy's calm, shocking words stun everyone. Playful tone like a child. But the content isn't—tension builds.
"So answer, do they eat that in the South?"
"Y-you bastard! Why won't ya talk straight! Call yer superior!"
In the crisis, Kim Suhwa glances at the boy. Amid the tension, the boy watches him with pure curiosity.
Then it hits.
He really just wants to know that?
Rice and beef soup—that's his real point. Doesn't care what happens around him. The boy hasn't even gripped his gun. He's even backing away slowly.
He knows the tables are turning, isolating himself. No one else knows; the excited ones don't realize.
"You bastard! Real South Korean?! Grab him now!"
Euphoria of capturing a POW for intel. Ambition to rise on merit. They spill from the bunker, one by one.
Click click!
Guns load fast, fingers on triggers without hesitation—
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Support unit now in range unleashes a bullet storm on the People's Army.
The tide turns in seconds. Everyone dives in panic.
Kim Suhwa sees the boy retreating slowly.
"You okay?"
"Fine?! Captain, you've got guts!"
As allies approach with cheers, Kim Suhwa's gaze stays on the boy's back.
Too far for rifle shot with cover. Only then does the boy turn, meets eyes, mouths silently: Do they really have rice and beef soup down there?
Staring at the lip movements,
Kim Suhwa senses it. They'll meet again—in the worst way. He'll regret not killing him here forever.
The camera pulls from the field to the boy. Helmeted student soldier, clutching scavenged supplies: warm clothes, booze, a few cans—from dead enemies.
"Good to eat full today."
Pure evil is born.
Ooh...
Director Kang shivers watching. Yes—the 120% I'd hoped for, pulsing right there.
Unbelievable intensity.
But it was poison too. A nameless role devouring the film. An unstoppable addiction beginning.