The Revolutionary
There is nothing natural in this world.
But there are things the world treats as if they were natural all the same.
Defending the nation.
In other words, the duty of national defense. That word—duty—is one of those things everyone takes for granted.
These days the whole world is desperate to enlist, but before the apocalypse the military was a place no one wanted to go near.
Unless you actually dreamed of becoming a career soldier, the accepted wisdom was simple: if you could avoid the army, you avoided it.
How else would that piece-of-shit saying—“If you can’t avoid it, enjoy it!”—ever have been born?
Of course, compared to life in the Central Plains the military had actually been comfortable. Still, dislike is dislike.
The army is hard while you’re in it, and it stays a problem after you get out. They drag you off by force in the golden years of your twenties, grind you down, and when you finally come back?
All that greets you is mockery.
Even after the world ends, forcing obligations onto people and never once thanking them for it—apparently nothing has changed.
There must have been a recent rift operation. A Hound military vehicle rolled in carrying a dozen or so young men with lifeless eyes.
They were wounded all over, faces locked in terror.
“Alright, get down. No time. Move it, move it!”
One soldier, face twisted in irritation, herded them out. The men climbed down with sighs of relief, grateful just to be back inside the shelter.
“…That’s why you should’ve listened. Quietly grab the goods and get out, tsk.”
Even the soldier’s tongue-clicking drew no reaction from them.
He dropped them off and vanished.
A few boxes sat behind the men.
People had no interest in the men themselves, but the boxes they had brought drew every eye.
“What? What’s this? Why only this much today? Come on, I told you to bring back some medicine!”
“Oh my? Where’s the shampoo? Ugh, my hair’s completely ruined…”
“Why are the supplies getting smaller every time?”
They kept up a running critique of the quantity and quality of whatever was in the boxes.
One young man finally couldn’t take it.
“…Is that really something you say to people who just barely made it back alive?”
The crowd, suddenly short of words, cleared their throats, snatched the goods, and left. Not a single person said “You worked hard,” “Good job,” “Thank you,” or “How bad is the wound?”
“That injury looks serious.”
The man with a towel roughly wrapped around his arm reacted to my voice.
“Huh? Who are you? New here?”
“Yes. Let me take a look. Leave it like that and it’ll get infected.”
“…Well, there’s no proper medicine anyway…”
Fumbling, Mao Mei pulled a bundle of herbs from inside her clothes.
“…How did you get hurt?”
“Ah, cut myself on rebar while hauling stuff.”
“Hmm. Then there’s a risk of tetanus. First, at least this…”
She produced something that looked like a medicinal herb.
“This is Houttuynia. Hmm, wait a second.”
From another bag she took out a small mortar and pestle.
Thump. Thump.
She began pounding it so it would stick easily to the wound.
“Alright~ Hold out your arm.”
“Ah—yes, yes. Th-thank you.”
Somehow his gratitude seemed aimed at something else entirely.
I was starting to think Mao Mei’s face needed a bit more covering.
“I’ll give you some. Decoct it every day and disinfect the wound. If it starts swelling and the pain gets worse, you might have to cut it off. You won’t manage alone, so come find me.”
“…Th-thank you. Um, your name…?”
“…Mao Mei.”
The young man repeated the name several times under his breath.
The man who had just returned from the recent rift work was named Lee Cheong-jun.
Barely twenty—young enough that you could still call him a kid.
Same age.
That relationship carries a strangely powerful force of its own.
Even if you’ve never met, even if you live in completely different worlds, just being the same age is enough to become friends. That’s what same-age means.
“Ah—ahhhhh! Uwaaaa!”
“Shut up! S-stop being such a baby! It’s almost healed already. Why do you keep coming back!”
He kept showing up every day for treatment of a wound he could easily have handled alone.
After a few days of that, they had dropped the formal speech.
Mao Mei had never had a guy her own age around before, so she treated him easily, like a friend. Of course that bastard Lee Cheong-jun hadn’t come just to make friends.
“…Um, uh, F-Father? Please take this.”
“Oh? What’s this?”
I found myself unconsciously slipping into father-in-law mode.
“I got it during the last rift work. I-I don’t know if it’ll suit your taste…”
What he held out was a can of tuna.
How could it not suit my taste? It was chili tuna, no less.
“Something this precious? Hahaha. I’m fine—share it with Mao.”
“…Th-thank you. F-Father.”
“Yes, yes. I’m going to see the shelter leader, so you two relax. Oh, and one more thing.”
I paused. He looked up, wondering what was coming. I leaned in and whispered right against his ear.
“Try anything stupid and I’ll kill you. Just eat quietly and leave. Got it?”
He nodded so fast his head nearly came off.
“Hahahaha. Xiao Mao, Dad’s stepping out for a bit. Rest up.”
She looked puzzled by my behavior, but nodded anyway.
Outside, people heading to the farm were gathering in twos and threes. Unlike the rift work, the farm was a place people actually fought for the chance to go.
If you didn’t go there, there was almost no other way to get food.
I had come at Kim Hui-seong’s request, but so far nothing unusual had happened.
If anything, security here was better than most shelters. Mun I-san kept the place running without relying on violence.
His reputation was solid; people trusted him and followed him.
Maybe that popularity was exactly what Kim Hui-seong was wary of.
“Hey, if you go on rift work you can even get pre-apocalypse food and everything, right? Why all the complaining?”
A woman who looked to be in her thirties was talking with an expression of pure incomprehension.
Curious, I drifted into their circle.
“…Well, honestly, only the young ones go out for the work, right?”
“Oh my? Then Uncle Park should go. Why pick on me?”
“No, we go too. Honestly, shouldn’t the women pitch in a little? Not going at all is a problem.”
The middle-aged man’s words made the woman bristle.
“Ha? How is a woman supposed to go somewhere that dangerous? Right? The shelter leader already approved it.”
“…Are we going to fight? It’s just hauling cargo. Why can’t you go?”
“Geez, listening to you, people would think you guys go all the time. Most of the young ones are already out there anyway.”
“Man, talking to you is useless.”
What peaceful conversation was this?
I couldn’t make sense of it at all.
Normally the Hounds demanded about ten people for rift work, and for restoration operations they only selected combat personnel.
They drafted anyone who could at least handle a gun—and as a silver lining, any Korean man could shoot just fine if you grabbed him off the street.
In Eclipse the Gwang-sik and Gwang-du brothers handled the drafting for both jobs, and for restoration ops I usually went alone.
No point taking anyone else; the places were dangerous enough that I came back alone anyway.
At least supply runs in the rift zones were relatively safe, so even the elderly and women could handle the work.
In peacetime, consideration for the socially weak is necessary.
But this is the apocalypse.
Whether that kind of consideration is still the right call is another question entirely.
Either way, on the surface Mun I-san was running a shelter that looked peaceful and livable.
On the surface, the 3rd Shelter was more peaceful than Eclipse.
They didn’t rule the residents through violence, and every decision was made by gathering the people and voting.
Whether that was necessarily the right way, I couldn’t say.
“How is it? Not quite Eclipse, but a pretty decent place, don’t you think?”
Well?
Honestly, I don’t run Eclipse. Uncle Kim handles the administration; the Gwang-sik and Gwang-du crew take care of security and work drafts.
I’m just a symbolic presence there.
The kind of presence that can casually stop a zombie horde or a magical beast if one comes knocking.
Like those leaders in the old martial arts novels who reign without ruling—that was me.
“I suppose.”
“We simply want to live like human beings again, the way we used to. A world where the weak are automatically taken from just because they are weak—that cannot stand. Life must not be reduced solely to survival.”
His face was completely absorbed. Not a trace of impure desire or greed showed on it.
Only the pure wish to manage this place well as a truly excellent leader.
But he himself probably didn’t realize it. That very desire is the most dangerous one of all.
“It wasn’t always like this. Like everywhere else, thugs used to run the place with violence.”
“That’s usually how it goes.”
“I heard about Eclipse. They say it was the same there.”
I was the one who changed a place ruled only by violence and oppression.
Honestly, I hadn’t had any grand plan.
I just didn’t like the gang that kept harassing Uncle Kim of the Eclipse pub—the man who had treated me well—so I taught them a lesson. That became the spark, and eventually I snapped their boss’s neck.
Mun I-san seemed to have watched the whole thing unfold.
“So we made up our minds too. After seeing the people of Eclipse living like human beings.”
“I don’t particularly do anything. I just kill a few zombies.”
“You can think of it that way if you like, but I and the young people here took courage from it. That’s how we started.”
“Started what?”
“Well… what should we call it? Revolution? Liberation? Even if the words aren’t that grand… we decided to remove the thug boss who dominated this place.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if revisiting that time.
“…It was a somewhat ugly method, but we succeeded. And unlike them, I and the members of our youth group decided to lead by example. That’s why we’ve been living well until now.”
I was puzzled. Did he really believe that? The whole thing could collapse at any moment and no one would be surprised.
“Do you truly think you’re living well?”
“Isn’t that obvious? Of course I know the young people go out on hard rift work. It’s dangerous. But someone has to do it.”
“Fine. How you run this place isn’t my business. Just one question.”
This was the moment I needed to hear his real thoughts. It was the reason I had come.
“Why, as a shelter under Hound management, are you contacting the government forces? What exactly did they promise you?”
Mun I-san wore a faintly bitter smile.
“…So you already knew. But… we simply want to live. The government side promised better treatment than we have now, and a life worthy of human beings.”
“…If this country had ever been capable of that, warlords like the Hounds would never have risen in the first place.”
“Raven—no, Mr. Seo-woo. Talks are already underway with several other shelter leaders. Please join us.”
I cut him off.
I stood up from my seat.
“Listen carefully, Shelter Leader Mun I-san. Do you even understand what you’re saying right now?”
“I understand. Living like human beings.”
“Whatever the government forces promise, they will only deliver it after the Hounds are gone. Do you not grasp what that means?”
He paused, then answered slowly.
“…Without a force to check them, we will no longer have any value. Is that what you’re saying?”
“On top of that, a civil war could break out across this entire region. You would be wise not to climb onto their chessboard.”
But he rose with a look of absolute resolve and shouted.
“No—if it were only us, that would be true. If you join us, everything changes. Yes—you lead us. We need a leader with a proper mind like yours. I will help you. Once several shelters form a real force, we can escape the domination of those damn Awakeners!! The starting point is right here—the 3rd Shelter! No—Paradise!!”
That pure madness and conviction made disgust rise in my throat.
How many ordinary people have men like him sacrificed throughout history?
Save the country.
Save the world.
Realize justice.
In the end, words like country, world, and justice only matter while you’re still breathing. Once you’re dead, what use are they?
Doing it for future generations?
Some people think that way. At least I cannot agree.
Any value, any conviction—if it requires someone else’s sacrifice, I call it bullshit.
“…Crazy bastard. This guy?”
Sugar-coated conviction is worse than poison.