Rebel Camp in the Canyon Depths
The two-wheeler strapped to the truck bed rattled with every bump. Its front wheel was gone—lost when it had been racing along the upper canyon rim, only for the driver to vanish skyward in a flash, leaving the bike to flip and tumble on its own.
Jin-cheol heard the clatter too, even with soot smeared across his face, sprawled sloppily in the passenger seat, head lolled back against the rest, eyes shut. Yeah, whatever. Just slap the wheel back on. It'll ride again.
"Looks like we're here," came Dol Jumeok's gruff voice from the driver's seat.
Jin-cheol cracked his eyes and peered ahead. Miguel's rebels were easing off the throttle, descending into the canyon's depths.
After Jin-cheol's hijacking stunt wrapped up with the Halitus plummeting from the sky, the group and the rebels had agreed to push on to their hideout. Downing the recon ship was a hell of a win, but it hadn't made Siapho's pursuing army vanish.
They delved deeper into the gorge. With no tails in sight, the canyon's dusky landscape came into view: shattered rocks spilling like sand, dry grass and black soil, hills and crags layered like stairsteps exposing ancient strata, a river snaking far below in endless twists toward the horizon.
A colossal geological sculpture, carved by thousands—maybe tens of thousands—of years. Not the Grand Canyon. Was there another like this in North America? Who knows. Twenty-second-century humanity cooked up endless energy from who-the-fuck-knows-where, so maybe they engineered this canyon too. Hell, East Asia's terrain got totally reworked. Humanity grabbed the sun's power, flipped the planet inside out to reach distant stars... then wiped themselves out. Where the hell did all those Mars-colonizing bastards go? ...No way they're actually on Mars? With a fusion plant, it ain't impossible.
Jin-cheol snapped out of his Martian colony daydream as rebel vehicles slipped under the canyon's deep shadows. Sure enough, fresh Lavitos emerged from the gloom. Miguel hopped down from the lead truck, waving wildly at them.
"Welcome to our secret camp! It's fully mobile, no less!"
Instead of shouting back, Jin-cheol leaned out the window and gawked at the massive airship lurking in the shadows. Not as gargantuan as Zasoyeonbang or Uratan battlecarriers—those flying fortresses made this look like a light destroyer at best. Still, it crammed the canyon floor. Generals just rode oversized behemoths; this thing was no slouch. At least Baika merchant ship-sized.
Beneath the hovering behemoth sprawled the rebel camp. Spotting Miguel, they erupted in cheers, swarming forward with roars. Miguel pumped a fist high.
"That's right! Your Kapitan's back!"
"Woooaaah—!"
The Lavito cheers echoed off the canyon walls. The rebels gazed at Miguel with awe and reverence—their leader, their teacher, returned. To the twenty-first-century soldier, it evoked a poster from not long ago: 'For the Father of the Nation!' The imagery and targets differed slightly, but in the old soldier's eyes, the two overlapped faintly.
Once the Pig Doctor Miguel returned, the rebel camp buzzed into action. They struck the ground tents under the airship and prepped for liftoff.
Miguel sat on a crate, an old coat draped over his shoulders, watching the frenzy. Spotting Jin-cheol's group approach, he grinned wide.
"Hahaha! Slayer of the Halitus! Master of bare-handed martial arts! Invincible warrior from the West! Jin-cheol!"
"What bullshit is that?"
Jin-cheol brushed off the over-the-top flattery with a flat retort. Miguel beamed even wider, as if the indifference delighted him, and pressed on.
"I'm truly grateful to you. Without you, I wouldn't have escaped today. My comrades would've suffered heavy losses too. You're our collective savior."
"Yeah? Then fix my bike."
"Of course! Right away!"
He immediately hollered for a nearby Lavito to fetch a mechanic. Then, from under his draped coat, he pulled a cigar thicker than his finger, lit it with a match, and exhaled a plume of smoke as he eyed Jin-cheol.
"Fixing your two-wheeler is the least we can do. But that's not the bounty I promised for my life, right? Come on, let me clear up your questions. We've got time before the Comintern lifts off."
"...That's the ship's name? Comintern?"
"Yes. A name from forgotten antiquity. Borne by a giant who taught the order of the cosmos, the principles of solidarity, and fought for justice."
"..."
No matter how much time passes, that's how it ends up? International turning into some mythical giant? These fuckers just slap names around willy-nilly.
Jin-cheol shook his head to clear the dizziness. That wasn't his burning question anyway. Miguel watched him with keen interest.
"The White Butcher. Snow. You know her?"
"...I do. Our revolution's mightiest warrior, comrade, and friend. You're looking for her?"
"Yeah. For starters."
Miguel's eyes darkened. He puffed silently on his cigar for a moment before speaking softly.
"Why?"
"It's her family business. Hard to spill without her say-so."
"Did you come to kill her too?"
"...What?"
Miguel's gaze didn't waver—steel-hard, piercing, as if dissecting every secret Jin-cheol hid.
"Plenty of Essai assassins have hunted her over the years. But Snow's never vowed revenge on her clan. She just smiles faintly, calls it the fate of her bloodline. Heart-wrenching as it must be, knowing her family wants her dead, she faces us with that quiet grace. Isn't it time to let her go?"
"..."
What the hell? Essai assassins after her? But Ishanka said she hadn't found a trace in three years. Scoured beyond Siol for her runaway daughter, no solid leads.
Yet here was her comrade claiming Essai killers had stalked her life relentlessly.
"Snow's aided us immensely these past two years. Despite our different races, she understood our pain, our sorrow—the drive for revolution. She claims her own reasons and gains, says no reward needed. That's why we'd lay down our lives for her. She's already done as much for us."
"Th-there's a misunderstanding..."
"We're already in your debt for our lives—embarrassing as it is—but if you fight her, we'll all back her. Even here, today. Every revolutionary in this camp would battle you for her."
Jin-cheol scratched his jaw, then dropped his hand and spoke clearly.
"Misunderstanding. I'm not here to kill her. Her mother asked me to find her."
"Her mother changes nothing. Didn't the whole clan agree to eliminate Snow?"
"No. Ishanka knew nothing about assassins. Spent three years dashing everywhere for her missing daughter."
Doubt flickered in Miguel's eyes.
"...I may not know details, but Snow's mother holds high status in the clan. She was unaware they wanted her daughter dead?"
"That's how it looks."
The teary woman sending apologetic messages didn't strike him as plotting her daughter's murder. Sure, the "sorry" could mean "sorry for trying to kill you," but from what Jin-cheol saw, no. He'd glimpsed the deep regret in Ishanka's heart—not malice, but a parent's remorse for not doing right by her child, tangled and profound.
It was absurd enough to flip backward somersaults. A mother brimming with regrets she couldn't voice, a clan plotting her death behind her back, and a daughter aware both wanted her gone.
Good thing he'd met Miguel first. Dropping Ishanka's name blindly to Snow might've sparked a brawl by now.
As he mulled it over, Miguel asked again.
"So, what'll you do once you find her?"
"Hell if I know. Planned to say 'Mom's waiting at home, go back.' But now? Returning spells disaster for both."
Ishanka was Antela house heir. Her ignorance meant the house head hid it. Snow returning defied him too. Had he known of Ishanka's request to Jin-cheol?
"...Even if he knew, figured you'd die en route."
Zasoyeonbang's carrier sank the moment it hit eastern continent soil. With so many Lavito troops and mercs, only Jin-cheol's group survived—natural to assume Snow perished unsought.
"Sounds like you've got headaches too. Lucky. If Snow were here, blades would've flown first."
Miguel echoed Jin-cheol's thoughts. Seeing his furrowed brow, he smiled again, convinced he wasn't an assassin.
"What now? Meet Snow?"
"Yeah... gotta see her. Least she should know Mom's on her side. Where is she?"
"On mission east. Near Solka-in."
Lamien, silent behind Jin-cheol till now, reacted. She'd looked confused listening in, but "Solka-in" shot her forward a step.
"Solka-in—what's the situation? The people there?"
Miguel's gaze slid from Jin-cheol to her, smile fading. His eyes reflected her flight jacket over Zasoyeonbang uniform.
"...Be precise, soldier. Wondering if citizens still await their general? Or resist Uratan invaders?"
The chill in his stare dwarfed his look at Jin-cheol. Lamien flinched back like stabbed, but steeled herself and stepped forward again.
"Don't care about that shit. Only Epani there matters."
"...Who's Epani?"
"The one I love."
Miguel's eyes widened. He studied her in surprise, then nodded.
"Hmm. More details. Better her old home than name."
"Northern Street."
"Northern Street? The flower district?"
"Yes! That's it! Epani ran a flower shop there!"
Lamien brightened, sensing a lead. But her face fell as Miguel gazed sadly, silent—a blow stronger than words.
"...Northern Street was obliterated in the great air raid. Capital defenders fought AA hard, but without carriers or battlewings? Limits. Your uniform says it—you're a battlewing pilot. You know carrier and wing squadrons best."
"..."
Lamien's eyes glazed. Her gaze dropped; tears welled in those huge pupils. Her love's death—while she wallowed in distant war's muck.
What was it all for? A war keeping you from your beloved—what meaning?
Time passed, yet war never changed. Fighters on front lines, waiters behind—both cursed. Survivors drowned in oceans of blue sorrow. Left: rusted medals, rotting corpses turning green.
This timid rabbit folk was no different.
"...Solka-in... I should've stayed. Then... at least we could've died together..."
Her knees buckled under grief's weight. Body swaying, she crumpled.
A hand caught her shoulder. Startled, Lamien looked up—Jin-cheol steadying her.
"..."
His eyes held a storm: sorrow, agony, pity, fury at unnamed foes, helplessness against lingering shadows, guilt, fear. All swirled in those dark depths.
Lamien glimpsed herself there. Yet beyond chaos, a tiny light flickered—small amid the tempest, but radiant.
Jin-cheol whispered.
"You asked back then. If I had a god to believe in. What'd I say?"
Staring into those eyes, Lamien felt that light seep into her own, her heart.
"...Something like... I believe in something. Just not a god."
"Street bombed doesn't mean death sentence. Your love might still be alive."
"...Epani... alive?"
"Don't know yet. But she will be. Got you missing her this much."
Light returned to Lamien's despairing eyes. Scattered resolve hardened; buried love rose, shrugging off grief's veil. It braced her weakening knees, let her stand.
She straightened on her own power, tears streaming, and met Jin-cheol's gaze.
"...This what you believe in?"
Jin-cheol answered with a faint smile.