Ruins of Solka-in
Under a clear, sunny sky dotted with faint wisps of cirrus clouds, the grim reality of the city grew starkly apparent the closer they got. Buildings with entire walls collapsed, roads cratered by bombings, shattered tanks, and the husks of small airships reduced to wreckage. And atop those ruins, the people.
Those who had tied tarps to the remnants of half-standing buildings and propped up beams as pillars to makeshift shelters were practically living in grand mansions by comparison. Because most of the other Lavitos were simply huddled against the walls of fully crumbled structures, draped in a single blanket, staring blankly into space with hollow eyes.
No intact homes were in sight. Nearly every building in Solka-in had lost either its roof or a wall, blurring the lines between inside and out. People wandered freely into any structure, picking up whatever caught their eye without a second thought.
As the rumbling two-wheeler slowly rolled down Solka-in's main avenue, countless Lavitos filled Jin-cheol's view. The residents of Solka-in fell into one of three categories. The first were the fighters—locked in scraps in shadowy alley corners or inside less-devastated buildings. One side trying to seize, the other to defend.
The second were the ones leaving. Bundles and bags packed high, they queued up and shuffled in the opposite direction from Jin-cheol. Wherever they were headed, it was clear they were fleeing this hellish city.
The last group was the most wretched. Just like the scene he'd glimpsed moments ago, they crouched in corners amid buildings, craters, and debris—hugging themselves tightly, unmoving. Some clutched cold, lifeless bodies; others cradled their own wounded limbs, staring vacantly.
And all those countless Lavitos turned to look at Jin-cheol. It was only natural, with his two-wheeler cutting right down the middle of the wrecked boulevard. Gazes laced with curiosity at an alien race, hostility, disgust, rage, fear, envy—or just empty, soulless stares.
Whether fleeing Solka-in or staying behind, none of the looks aimed at Jin-cheol were friendly. But his massive frame—towering three or four heads taller than any Lavito—seemed to deter anyone from starting trouble.
That's when the truck rumbling behind them came to a halt. Glancing back, Jin-cheol saw Lamien, her face frozen like a wax doll, climbing down from the passenger seat. She approached and whispered to him.
"...It's too horrific."
"You recognize the way?"
She didn't answer, instead turning her head to gaze at a Lavito huddled beside the entrance steps of a collapsed building. A small bundle hung across her chest, and inside it, Jin-cheol caught a glimpse of a baby Lavito. The infant barely stirred—too starved even to cry, limp and listless. But the mother Lavito lay sprawled nearby, limbs splayed, eyes glazed and vacant. Beneath her, a black pool of blood had dried into a crusty stain.
Lamien stared at them in a daze, then suddenly rushed over. Jin-cheol killed the two-wheeler's engine, stood, and followed slowly behind her.
"..."
Lamien approached the baby and mother but hesitated once there, unsure what to do. Jin-cheol drew up behind her and said quietly,
"I told you before. If you've decided to get involved, you have to accept the responsibility that comes with it."
"...We already have Maro. I can't take care of a newborn too. I... I have to find Epani."
Lamien's outstretched hand trembled faintly before she pulled it back and straightened up. She gazed down at the infant with a rigid expression, its breaths coming in thin, raspy wheezes. Jin-cheol, standing behind her, watched them all with his weathered, impassive face—the baby, the mother, the corpse.
"..."
But in the next moment, Lamien reached out again. Her movements frantic, she untied the bundle from the stiffening body, fumbling to cradle the infant. Astonishingly, the limp baby began to twitch faintly at her touch. A weak, cry-like whimper escaped it.
Hearing that, Lamien's face lit up as she turned to Jin-cheol. His own stony expression softened into a small smile as he met her eyes.
"Think Dol Jumeok knows how to make baby food?"
"Who knows. Even if that guy whipped up a bowl of instant mush, I wouldn't be surprised. Just think about how he handles Maro."
"Fair point."
Lamien hurried to the truck, upper body rigid to keep the baby steady while her legs pumped wildly—an odd, comical sight. Faintly, Dol Jumeok's voice drifted from the driver's seat.
"I'm a bodyguard, not a nanny!"
"Come on, help out a little. I'll throw in hazard pay."
"...Aw, hell! Just set the kid down properly! You'll snap its neck hugging it like that!"
"Looks like it's weak from hunger. Got anything for a baby to eat?"
"...Goddamn it! This wasn't in the contract when we signed on!"
Rustling and clattering followed as Dol Jumeok rummaged through the truck's supplies—rations swiped from the revolutionaries, cooking gear scavenged earlier.
Jin-cheol shoved his hands in his pockets and stared idly at the sky. Urban warfare on this scale was hell. For the soldiers fighting through it, and for the civilians who'd called it home.
Cities couldn't survive without external supplies. Intense combat naturally cut those lifelines, leaving residents to starve and thirst. Fleeing to the outskirts was a deadly gamble—families dodging bombs and mines across the front lines.
People died, hospitals collapsed, order vanished, and desperation twisted survivors into extremes. Not because they wanted to, but because they were backed to the edge of oblivion. In later reflections—or excuses—those who endured called it unavoidable. Jin-cheol had seen plenty who spat at them as spoiled whiners, having survived to war's bitter end himself.
People who smugly noted that, hey, at least no nuke wiped the whole city off the map. Jin-cheol understood them. Or rather, forced himself to. Otherwise, he might not have endured himself.
"Jin-cheol! Let's go! I figured out where to head—straight that way!"
Jin-cheol, gazing at sky and clouds, turned at Lamien's shout. Inside the truck, Maro held the baby while something was fed to it; Dol Jumeok sorted the ransacked gear.
Jin-cheol glanced back at the Lavito corpse by the crumbled steps. The scene etched into his eyes.
"..."
After a moment of dark, piercing scrutiny, he turned away. Engines roared to life on the two-wheeler and truck, and they moved on.
The wrecked road stretched ahead: toppled buildings, ruins, huddled vagrants, burdened fugitives, beggars. But no one approached first, thanks to Jin-cheol and Dol Jumeok's imposing figures.
Navigating the wasteland of a street—ruins or city?—they suddenly emerged into an open expanse. Every surrounding building had collapsed into barren flatness.
Jin-cheol leaned sideways to check the truck, which had halted amid the desolation. He pulled alongside slowly. Lamien stared at the vista with a chest-bursting expression, eyes red-rimmed and tearful.
"This is... where the north streets start..."
"Yeah? Then let's keep going."
"...Okay."
Jin-cheol led the way again. Debris and buckled pavement jolted both vehicles harshly forward.
Weaving through barren rubble piles for a bit, Jin-cheol rounded a larger mound and abruptly stopped. The truck braked behind him; Lamien leaped out in sudden anxiety and dashed to his side.
"...!"
Her anxious face shifted to shock. Tents, vehicles, and throngs of people crowded the area in chaotic bustle.
Jin-cheol tapped Lamien's shoulder and advanced. She snapped out of her daze and hurried back to the truck.
It was a stronghold set up by revolutionaries and their supporters. The leveled buildings had created a perfect flat expanse for a large camp.
Dozens of revolutionaries struggled to manage the injured, the starving, even criminals. Wary at first as Jin-cheol's group approached, they opened up once a crate of preserved rations was plunked down from the truck's rear.
Talk about naive rabbits.
"Urata's occupation forces grabbed everything worthwhile and pulled out clean. They brag about coming back, but I doubt it. Their general can't even control Urata proper—how're they retaking this place?"
A red-banded revolutionary officer said this while taking a can of food. Dol Jumeok and Maro stayed by the truck; Jin-cheol and Lamien handled the talk. It was an answer to where Urata's army had gone.
About to press further, Jin-cheol caught Lamien's pleading glance and changed tack.
"Looking for someone."
"Who? No Esai in our outpost, at least."
Okay. Snow's not here, then.
Jin-cheol continued,
"Nah. One Lavito."
"...You know how hard it is to find one person in this mess?"
"Nowhere else to ask."
The revolutionary scratched his head, eyed the can in his hand, then Jin-cheol and Lamien, sighed, and nodded.
"Who're you looking for? Where from?"
"Epani! Epani Enjekson, who ran Beautiful Flower!"
The revolutionary gave the suddenly butting-in Lamien an odd look but turned and said,
"Hm... Beautiful Flower, huh. Flower shop owner. Follow me, then. Plenty of survivors from the flower district. Someone there might know."
The soldier led Jin-cheol and Lamien toward the makeshift infirmary. Before he could even introduce them, Lamien cried out and bolted ahead.
"Mrs. Wutkey!"
"Who—wait, Lamien? Is that you, Lamien?"
A Lavito woman leaning against a sickbed, staring blankly into nothing, lit up at the sight of Lamien. She threw her arms around the approaching woman, tears flowing.
"You're alive! Alive!"
"You too, ma'am...! So glad you're okay...!"
Mrs. Wutkey ran a big flower shop in the north flower district. Her store had been bombed flat, but she'd survived with her life—small mercies, she smiled.
After a long, tearful embrace, Lamien pulled herself together and looked up.
"Mrs. Wutkey! Epani! What about Epani?"
"Epani? Well..."
She glanced sidelong at the revolutionary beside Jin-cheol.
"...Epani made it out of the city."
"What? So she's alive? Right?"
"Of course. Didn't get a scratch in the bombings. Lucky girl."
"She's really... really alive! Really...! Thank god... thank god...!"
Overwhelmed by the news, Lamien collapsed onto the bed, burying her face and mumbling her relief. Then her ears perked up.
"...But why'd she leave the city?"
"Well... I can't move with this leg injury, but for someone healthy like her to stay..."
The middle-aged Mrs. Wutkey glanced at the revolutionary again. He sighed and picked up,
"Healthy young folks rank low for rations unless they're with the revolutionaries. Meds and food are limited—if we spread it to every citizen in Solka-in, it'd last a day if we're lucky. Better for the able-bodied to head out; it's their best shot at survival."
"...Where to?"
He averted his eyes from Lamien's dazed stare.
"Probably east. Heard people set up camps in the forest there to forage. Some of our soldiers might be helping out."
"Your soldiers?"
He turned to Jin-cheol's question.
"Yeah. Guys from Kapitan's direct HQ, from what I hear. Rumor has it the 'White Butcher' is with 'em. You know her? Same Esai as you."
"Not the same Esai."
Jin-cheol brushed it off vaguely and wrapped up. They'd raced to Solka-in, only to find neither Lamien's nor his target here. Still, confirming Epani alive and pinning Snow's location counted as wins.
"Jin-cheol...!"
At Lamien's call, Jin-cheol nodded. Eyes sparkling, she stood, handed Mrs. Wutkey a can of preserved food, and received a smile in return, eyes crinkled warmly.
"Thank you..."
"No, ma'am. Knowing Epani's alive... that's huge for me. Oh, uh, ma'am... your child...?"
The woman's smile faded. Her whole face clouded. She dropped her gaze to the bed without a word.
Lamien's expression turned ashen. She stammered awkwardly by the bed. Then Mrs. Wutkey gently pushed her away.
"I'm fine... Just go, please..."
"...I'm sorry, ma'am. Truly."
Lamien left the infirmary with a stiff, wooden face. She said nothing until reaching the truck, just staring complexly at the baby in Maro's arms on the back seat.
Meanwhile, the revolutionary who'd guided Jin-cheol on his two-wheeler spoke up.
"Leaving already?"
"Yeah. Problem?"
"Your name, please. We're issuing certificates to donors."
"Certificates?"
At Jin-cheol's quizzical look, the soldier shrugged.
"Promise to repay multiples of what you gave, someday. Who knows? Solka-in rebuilds, and these could be worth a fortune."
Jin-cheol shook his head and revved the engine.
"Don't need certificates. Wasn't donated for that."
"Still, name for the records? Gotta log who gave what."
After a pause, Jin-cheol smirked.
"Write down Hijacker, then."
The two-wheeler's engine growled to life and pulled forward. The truck followed.
The soldier stepped back, watching them go.
"Hijacker? What kinda name is that...?"
*
Solka-in's eastern edge. Where grasslands and plains gave way to forest, hills, and mountain foothills, they spotted signs of people late that afternoon.
Jin-cheol halted the two-wheeler and eyed the felled trees. Three or four stumps ahead, fresh cuts—no more than days old.
He pulled beside the truck.
"Looks like we're on track. Sun's setting, but let's scout a bit more. Dinner at that camp they mentioned."
"..."
But Lamien looked dazed. Jin-cheol glanced at Dol Jumeok, who just shrugged blankly—beats me.
This asshole...
Then Lamien spoke.
"...To a mother who's lost her child, is a newborn orphan just a replacement? Or a new life to heal the deep wound?"
Jin-cheol checked the back seat. Dol Jumeok's improvised mush seemed to work; the baby slept soundly, Maro rocking it gently to keep it that way.
"That's for her to decide."
"...Yeah. Not my place to say."
Lamien gave a wry smile at Jin-cheol. Her meaning was clear: maybe hand this baby to the bereaved mother? He returned a similar bittersweet look.
These dilemmas were always too tough. Then and now.
That's when a low, rumbling dr-r-r-r echoed from deep in the forest.
Jin-cheol's head snapped up. His face hardened. Familiar sound, slightly off.
Machine gun. A heavy one, spitting hundreds or thousands of rounds per minute.
Lamien and Dol Jumeok sobered at his expression. Jin-cheol started to gun the two-wheeler, then stopped and dismounted.
Better to run on foot through dense woods.
He called to the truck.
"If the gunfire gets closer or shit feels off, don't think twice—just bolt."
"Y-you...?"
"Gotta check why anyone's blasting away in here."
Lamien faltered, but Dol Jumeok barked back quick.
"Got it! We'll wait here! Bail if needed—you just come back safe!"
"..."
Dol Jumeok's booming, gruff voice grated annoyingly. Jin-cheol considered dragging him out but saved it for later amusement, turning to sprint into the forest.
Dusk's glow cast straight shadows under straight trunks. Those shadows stretched, veiling gaps between trees. The woods were thick—towering canopy above, crawling undergrowth below.
Jin-cheol's body sliced through like wind, weaving trees and shadows. Months of adaptation to his changed physique let him fly through the tangle. Faster even than racing Atukai's tribe.
Forest blurred ahead, streaming past behind. Another dr-r-r-ruck of gunfire. He veered sharply toward it. Leaves and grass exploded underfoot.
Bounding over a hillock after a sprint, a scene unfolded in a small forest clearing.
Ragged blood-soaked clumps littered the ground. In the center, a tear-streaked Lavito shielded two or three children behind her. Facing them: a pitch-black iron giant—for a Lavito, anyway—leveling a massive machine gun.
Jin-cheol's eyes swept the gore. No weapons among the chunks.
The black armor evoked a medieval knight revived by modern tech: two heads taller than a typical Lavito, clanking plates, seamless joints, huge ammo drum on its back feeding the gun. Built to intimidate any foe.
The crying Lavito spotted Jin-cheol amid her standoff. Her eyes widened at his sudden closeness—whoosh.
The black armor caught the gaze, then a thunderous voice, whipping around with gun raised.
"Hey, you fucking—!"
But before the barrel could spit fire, Jin-cheol's flying kick slammed its chest. A gong-like clang rang out as the plating crumpled with a crunch, hurling the giant backward.