The Infamous Hijacker
“Ha, Hijacker···!”
The Lavito who had tossed the question at Jin-cheol's half-joking reply paled instantly. Not just him—the ironclad soldiers around him wore the same expression. Bewilderment and fear. Jin-cheol, who had been smirking, felt a twinge of confusion. What the hell? Do these guys know me?
“You're··· the one who pronounced Donchaba's doom, snatched the Pig Doctor from Siafo's clutches, and wiped out the 2nd Special Forces Ironclad Brigade at Solka-in··· that Hijacker···?”
“···?”
Absurdity dawned on Jin-cheol's face too. What the Lavito was saying was technically true, but how the hell did those incidents connect to the name 'Hijacker'? How do they even know about that? And most baffling of all···
“How the fuck do you know about Donchaba's end?”
“···That day, Donchaba's bridge was linked to the main ship's radio. So, amid the chaos of battle, the name of the criminal who swept through the Zasoyeonbang battleship's bridge···”
“Ah.”
Now that he thought about it, Jin-cheol had introduced himself as Hijacker back then too. The very first time the name had popped up. Of course, he hadn't put much thought into it—just blurted it out because hijacking the airship cockpit made him think of an aerial hijacker. But seriously, that's how it stuck?
Jin-cheol laughed in disbelief, and the Lavitos took it as him admitting his identity. They yelped in terror and backed away step by step. The reaction of men facing a ruthless international criminal.
Watching them with a look of utter exasperation, Jin-cheol realized this could work in his favor. He swiftly drew his eojang sword. The silver blade sprang forth with a clear metallic ring.
“Scared? Then get the hell out of my way. I just need the bridge and the general.”
“···”
The ironclad Lavitos exchanged glances at his words, then slunk back toward what looked like the exit, away from Jin-cheol. He grinned. Lucky they're such cowards.
That's when the first Lavito who had spoken snapped out of it and bellowed.
“Bullshit! We're the Uratan special forces ironclads! You think we'll cower and flee from some punk criminal? All hands! Battle stations! Anyone who runs or holds back gets executed on the spot by my hand! You fight for General Rahman's grace and honor—!”
Jin-cheol snatched the machine gun from the ironclad soldier beside him. The guy froze in terror, not even resisting as his weapon was taken. Jin-cheol hoisted the gun one-handed, aimed at the loudmouth Lavito, and unleashed a burst.
The thunderous crack rang out, and the officer's face exploded in a spray as he crumpled backward.
“···”
Jin-cheol scanned the now-silent armory and said curtly,
“Next complaint?”
The ironclads scattered back from him and the exit. Nodding at the sight, Jin-cheol gripped the heavy machine gun in his left hand and the silver eojang sword in his right, striding forward boldly. Even with his back turned, none in the armory made a move to attack.
Stepping out led to a long corridor. Thud-thud—the impacts reverberated through the entire hull. The revolutionaries' ship cannons, including the Komitern's, were pounding the battleship.
“Feels like every damn time I board a Lavito battleship, shit hits the fan.”
Muttering as he scanned for stairs leading up, that's when Lavito soldiers spotted him from down the hall and shouted.
“Hey! Who goes there! What the hell are you—!”
Jin-cheol hosed the ceiling above their heads with the machine gun. The rattling burst punched holes in the ceiling and walls. The Lavitos dropped their rifles, clutched their heads, and hit the deck.
Neutralizing them, Jin-cheol bolted down the opposite corridor. As his receding figure vanished, one prone Lavito crawled to a nearby intercom and grabbed the receiver.
“Shit, intruder! Armed intruder, looks Esai!”
A belt of ammo trailed behind Jin-cheol like a long tail, clinking. Feeling like Rambo with the belt and heavy gun, he tore through the ship—more like Rambo 3 than the first flick.
Sprinting on, he spotted stairs. A stairwell for up and down. He plunged in, bounding up three or four steps at a time, clearing four or five decks in seconds. No more stairs—he kicked the door at the top. The handle shattered with a crash, and the door flew open.
Revealing a cluster of black ironclads.
[You! Intruder!]
Spotting the black armor, Jin-cheol whipped around and plastered himself against the wall. Bullets tore through where he'd stood, riddling it like Swiss cheese.
What the fuck. Why are there so many of these bastards?
Assuming he'd fled downstairs, the ironclads ceased fire and charged with metallic clanks. The moment the shooting stopped, Jin-cheol charged back out without hesitation, spraying the machine gun ahead.
[Gah!]
[Shoot, shoot him!]
The barrage hammered the ironclads in the corridor. Some blindly squeezed triggers, but poor aim meant most whizzed past or grazed him. They barely had time to fire anyway—Jin-cheol was among them in a single breath.
The eojang sword flashed down on the black armor. Thick plates split like paper. Three ironclads dropped instantly.
The one behind, seeing that, panicked and raised his machine gun despite live comrades. As the muzzle flashed, Jin-cheol hurled the eojang sword.
[Gurk!]
The silver blade pierced the helmet. Jin-cheol clenched his empty right fist and backhanded the last ironclad's helmet. A resounding clang—it crumpled like hammered tin and slammed into the bulkhead. The body went limp.
“···”
Five ironclads who had emptied clips at him lay finished. Confirming no more threats, Jin-cheol yanked his sword free and charged on.
Thus, he stormed the battleship: threatening over heads with gunfire on spotting Lavitos, brushing past the timid, but unleashing merciless blade and fists on the stubborn.
Naturally, the Uratans had clocked his intrusion, as the ironclads showed, and tried blocking him. He hit their stubborn line at the battle wing hangar.
Kicking open the locked door, Jin-cheol entered—and slammed to a halt. His momentum skidded him forward a bit.
[That's far enough, Hijacker!]
“···Shit.”
Before him: a Roman legion-style phalanx, shields forming a wall with machine guns mounted behind. Reflexively, he reached to deploy his right arm's shield—but only sparks flew from the busted gauntlet. He dove behind stacked crates in the corner.
Earsplitting gunfire filled the hangar. Shrapnel from exploding crates rained over his prone form. They unloaded like they meant to empty every magazine. Thousands of rounds wasted before silence fell.
Peeking through wreckage, Jin-cheol grimaced. The shooters had rotated back; fresh ironclads filled their spots. No gap for him to rush.
Damn. He sighed, slumping. No shield, and this was the play. Normally, yeah—no one charges electric-saw machine guns.
Of course, his superhuman body could tank it and rush. He'd take hits, but survive—like last time, just scars on his chest. Old super soldiers had charged rifle fire head-on. Back then, it hadn't seemed so horrifying.
But pain and impact didn't vanish. He'd nearly died from a few before; no thanks to that nightmare plan. How fucked in the head were those old bastards to charge bullet storms?
Pondering smashing the deck for another route, Jin-cheol's ears perked. Beyond the din outside, radio chatter from behind the ironclads.
[···Idiots! Don't you know what's priority? Send backup now! Hijacker's here! What bullshit—another intruder? What the hell's our AA doing letting them in nonstop···]
Then—boom—the opposite hatch blew open. The phalanx glanced back; eyes met between the intruder who smashed through and the ironclad commander.
She wore an owl mask.
“···”
[···!]
The commander's face drained of color at the cold owl visage. He barked,
[S-Slaughterer!? Special forces! Turn! Reposition the phalanx now—!]
Next instant, the owl leaped like into a dark night sky. Spherical grenades scattered underfoot of the phalanx. They panicked but were too packed to react fast.
Jin-cheol buried his face and plugged his ears. Blinding flash and blasts. Screams erupted amid chaos. Blind fire added gunfire, shrieks, and ricochets.
Jin-cheol peeked and chuckled. “Total clusterfuck.”
And into the mess bounded a real dog. Aiman dashed out, long spear-sword at ready behind the owl mask.
Snow plummeting from above like a meteor; Aiman sliding across the deck. Spear and blade shredded the phalanx.
Jin-cheol rose and charged, swinging the near-empty machine gun to flatten two, then fists and feet flying.
He'd realized en route: no need to slice armor. His strength exceeded even his own sense.
Punch to a helmet—dent, crumple, down. Kick to chest plate—crumple, airborne. No gushing blood like sword cuts, but shock bypassed armor, dropping them all the same.
Jin-cheol preferred this.
“Full of vim and vigor, eh!” Aiman shouted, brushing past.
Jin-cheol's gaze snapped to him—and locked. Amid screams, shouts, machine-gun bursts, Snow's fresh flashes, tumbling ironclads, rending metal··· Aiman danced his blade.
Jin-cheol hadn't felt it much post-forest, but post-hibernation, his senses sharpened relentlessly. Distant sounds, sights, skin tingles—composite hyper-awareness.
Now fixed on Aiman's moves. The little Kampoeni swordsman's steps, leaps, thrusts, withdrawals, spins, rebounds. Unbelievably slow to Jin-cheol, yet harvesting lives each instant.
Unbelievable grace from such a small frame. Snow's motions beside him awed too—honed martial prowess. But not as crystalline as Aiman's.
Only after neutralizing the hangar did Jin-cheol get it. Aiman eyed him with a sly smile.
“So, up close—impressions?”
“···You showed off on purpose?”
He flicked his blade clean and shrugged. “Not exactly. Your eyes and reflexes are sharp, but I moved extra loose, like for a novice.”
“···”
Seeing no reply, Aiman grinned. “Felt it on reunion: you're stubborn. Won't beg for lessons outright. Good trait—swordsmen need unbreakable will. You've your own path and tale. So I dropped teaching you. But···”
He glanced aside. “···If someone spies and learns solo··· that's not me teaching, right···”
“Hahaha.”
Jin-cheol laughed dryly. This pup swordsman really took to him. Otherwise, no forgetting their first clash of blades for such friendliness.
So Jin-cheol nodded. “Yeah. I'll steal what I can, then.”
“···Really? Warming to it?”
“Yeah. Quite a bit.”
“Good.”
Aiman's smile bloomed boyish on his usually grave, cool Kampoeni face.
Then Snow dragged a battered ironclad before them by the owl mask. Helmet gone, ears drooped, the Lavito wheezed but murmured at Jin-cheol and Aiman.
“Mongrel stray and bald ape. Fine pair···”
Jin-cheol clocked him as the radio commander from the mutter. Before retort, Snow booted his face. Teeth and blood splattered.
Prone ironclads flinched at the sight.
“Ack! Don't kill him yet!”
A bright voice. Jin-cheol's eyes flicked to the hatch Aiman and Snow entered from. Haeta hurried in, robes swirling.
To her beaming at him, Jin-cheol said, “Told you to head up first.”
“Hehe. You infiltrating first made it easier for us.”
She grabbed the bloodied commander's face, inspecting. “Path to the bridge. Spill.”
“···Funny. Think I'll talk?”
Bleeding defiance, but Haeta shrugged indifferently, palm to his face.
Next, the commander convulsed, choking. “Guh! What're you—urk!”
Her circlet—chakra—flashed. Silver fluid trickled from his eyes, nose, mouth into her palm.
Consciousness fled; he slumped.
“···”
Haeta clenched her soaked hand, eyes shut. Moments later, grave-faced, she opened them.
“As suspected. Silver blood. Injected, not innate.”
“Injected silver blood? That's ancient tech.”
“Fits our hunch. The House isn't just erasing tech—they're using it.”
“Bad news.”
Why the sidebar? Haeta and Aiman conferred grimly; Jin-cheol and Snow were lost. But he guessed: Muksaang House talk. They'd implanted silver blood in these ironclads.
Jin-cheol cut in. “Knights later. We got a job.”
“Right.”
Snow turned and led wordlessly, as if awaiting that. Jin-cheol and Aiman followed, Haeta last.
Snow navigated the Lavito battleship flawlessly, bounding stairs and halls. No blockers aided her stride—and hull vibrations intensified.
“Revolutionaries dominated when we boarded! Air superiority sans the battleship! They're focused on bombardment, ignoring us!”
Spot-on: Lavitos they passed fled yelping rather than fight.
Soon, a massive round hatch.
“This it?”
Like Donchaba's bridge door. But locked tight, unlike before.
Snow jammed her spear into the ring latch. Too big for spear alone.
“Hold up.”
Haeta advanced. Chakra glowed; eyes sharpened keen. She pointed to a corridor wall panel.
“Rip that open.”
Jin-cheol punched through. Clang—grabbed, tore free. Pipes and vacuum tubes blinked within.
“Bare hands? You okay?”
“Fine. Open the damn door.”
Haeta eyed him worriedly but reached in, chakra aglow, rearranging tubes. Locking a pipe—hiss—gears ground; hatch unlocked.
Shouts from within: “Who dares! No one's in or out till battle's done—forgot the order?!”
Jin-cheol strode in sans reply. Zasoyeonbang battleship vibes: steam-punk dials, clocks, levers amid pipes.
Officers frantic at controls; ornate throne center, bellowing general.
“You··· you bastards···”
Mutual stares. Haggard Rahman blanched worse at the intruders.
“How'd you bypass the lock···”
“That matter?”
Jin-cheol advanced. Officers surged up, drawing pistols—but Snow and Aiman leaped, sowing chaos. Gunfire and screams amid.
Jin-cheol marched stone-faced to Rahman. The general gaped at his whirling officers and looming Jin-cheol.
Finally, nose-to-nose: “Y-You··· you're··· Hijacker···”
“Yeah. Me. And this battleship's mine now.”