Hell Scroll (8)
"Houndmaster here. Headquarters, respond."
"Houndmaster here. Any headquarters survivors, respond."
Vroooom— The Humvee carrying the operators raced down the wrecked road.
Static— The radio spat only jammer noise. No response.
Houndmaster tapped the radio a few times before tossing it aside. He grabbed a new one and tried again, but the result was the same.
"Houndmaster here. We're en route to rescue you now. Respond."
"Mutant horde blocking the road ahead. Push through?"
"We'll wreck the vehicle plowing them. Go around."
They were in a goddamn hurry, and these idiots had to pick the worst moment to butt in?
Houndmaster climbed through the hatch in the roof and gripped the machine gun.
Rat-tat-tat-tat! The .50 cal poured fire forward, shredding the mutants in seconds with their guttural "Groooar?!"
Literally shredded. The Humvee rolled over the pile of minced flesh in the middle of the road. After the bump—like hitting a speed bump—Houndmaster calmly dropped back into his seat and grabbed the radio.
"Houndmaster here. Any survivors, respond."
"Boss. Look ahead."
"Hey! Why'd you stop? Keep rolling over them!"
"No road left."
"...!"
The Humvee screeched to a halt. Houndmaster peered forward, his pupils dilating massively.
A sinkhole-like crater gaped in the road, endless flames rising from below. Beyond the inferno, the airport grounds smoldered from devastating bombardment. It wasn't just leveled—it was obliterated. No trace of buildings or runways remained. Underground or on the surface, no corner could harbor survivors.
No survivors. Even if there were, breaching those flames for rescue was impossible.
Houndmaster squeezed his eyes shut and ordered a retreat.
"Houndmaster here. Headquarters is annihilated. Abort rescue ops. As of now, I'm resuming overall command."
COMMAND ASSUMED
Rescue operations terminated. Houndmaster now in full control.
Huuuugh!
Bombardment? Fucking bombardment?
His head throbbed. They'd just secured the airport, thinking resupply from the air was viable, only for the Chinese army to wipe it all out in one go.
No grounds for protest this time. If China bombed to suppress their own riots, it was their mess alone. Overseas media backlash? China hadn't cared since the Cultural Revolution.
"Support team's wiped out. Back to just us."
They'd taken the airport thanks to the submarine reinforcements, but soon both vanished in a puff.
Now, fewer than thirty operators from the original Policy Research Office dispatch remained.
What the hell could they do? They'd tried storming the lab multiple times, realized it was eggs against a rock, and hunkered down waiting for the "key."
They'd endured consoled by the thought it'd get easier once the key arrived. But the key showed up with some monster freak.
'Dodging bullets now, too. What next?'
The crazies had dumped blue drug in the tap water for a mass gacha pull—and finally drew an SSR.
Dodging muzzles on reflex, sniping near-kilometer shots without scopes? No way in hell they'd rush that thing. They tried luring it into a trap, but its nose was too damn good—it never bit.
What the fuck were they supposed to do? Charge and get annihilated? Wait and it wouldn't come? Dead end.
"At least the bombing took out the key's stronghold."
"Means the Chinese military ditched Han Sa-jang. Resume tracking, but no reckless moves. No more reinforcements. Every life counts now."
Huuuugh!
Would it work? The stronghold's gone—maybe they could press now?
Houndmaster recalled the Asian man's eyes through his scope and shook his head.
Insane eyesight and reflexes. He'd survived only because of distance; up close, instant death.
Ugh— Thinking about those eyes too long was bad for his mental health.
"Ah, what the hell is that!"
"Sh-shit! Fuck!"
Thud! Something crashed onto the road, and the Humvee braked hard.
Something fell from the sky.
The sky? Ah?
Trauma flared; operators groaned and leaped out, diving prone.
Idiots—did that look like a bomb?
Only Houndmaster calmly approached the drop.
'Supply crate?'
Up close, a polymer cube box. Bomb? Nah, why package a bomb so fancy?
Ignoring the prone operators' "Uh—dangerous—" warnings, he pried it open.
Clatter— Ammo and grenades spilled out.
"Well, damn. Late Christmas present?"
Nah—wrong address, probably. Where was it meant for? Korean markings on the ammo box caught his eye.
Korea? Why were they here?
As he tilted his head—
Crackle— A faint noise amplified through his headset.
"Three o'clock!"
Machine gun roared at the right-side brush the instant he barked.
Amid the gunfire, a shout: "Fuck! Stop shooting!"
Houndmaster raised his arm; fire ceased. Lasers dotted the brush. Fluent English emerged from beyond.
"That crate's ours, so leave it there."
"Drop your weapons and come out. Now!"
"Hear me out. We could cooperate."
"Cooperate my ass. Hands up, come out. Name and affiliation."
"Sigh. Park Seung-jun, GeumMyeong Security executive."
A disheveled middle-aged Asian stepped out, hands raised. Park I-sa, radio in one hand, feigning casual ease.
As an operator approached with zip ties, Park shook his head and keyed the radio.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
"Drop the radio! Now!"
"Kids. You hearing this?"
"Good work. Let me hear one of their voices."
"That's enough."
One of his men? Houndmaster's brow furrowed deeply.
That voice belonged to a guard at base. Did that mean base got raided?
Park dropped the radio with a relieved look and approached Houndmaster. His right hand trembled, but his eyes smiled.
"Looks like you nabbed our boss, and we took your HQ. Why not settle nicely? No need for allies to shoot each other."
"...Hah."
A quick scan of their gear, and he'd already pegged them as Americans. Normally, he'd never compromise even if it meant sacrificing his base crew—but GeumMyeong Group changed things. They'd built ties buying up U.S. gear cheap from Iraq and Afghanistan dumps.
No bad blood. Why go hostile?
Houndmaster chuckled wryly and clasped Park's outstretched hand.
"Can't disclose affiliation. Hired by SIG for firearms testing. Call me Houndmaster."
"Guess this is grassroots diplomacy sprouting, huh?"
Suddenly allied with Koreans. Good or bad? Houndmaster couldn't tell.
They'd sniffed out his backing. No lone PMC would backstab otherwise.
'Sly coyote-looking bastard.'
Cooperate fully, or smash them all for total cleanup. One or the other.
Park's face gave nothing away. What the hell was this guy thinking...?
"Whoa. Check out these mangled cross-sections."
Republic of Korea, Incheon Port.
Yu Sil-jang's bloodied hands dissected the corpses one by one.
The lined-up bodies were all Oriental Shipping employees. Over a hundred staff slaughtered silently overnight with blades—no shots fired—and discovered dead come morning.
Cleaning these punks with knives, no guns? Oriental HQ sent dozens of swordsmen? No.
'That bastard? Gotta be.'
She jammed her finger into stab wounds, twisting. Her lips curled creeeak—
Stab deep, then wrench. Regular knife work didn't stress the blade like that.
Messy cross-sections, consistent gouges—single perpetrator.
One she knew well.
"Heh heh heh heh. Ahh. Could've said hi if you were here. Just the job and ghost? Cold."
Had to be him. Only one in Chinese Oriental with this skill.
Yu Sil-jang traced the long scar on her arm, reliving that day's heat.
Messy back then too. Needed artificial skin grafts to stitch...
Ah! Come see me if you're in Korea! Am I the only one craving a rematch?
A twinge of hurt.
"Manager. Call from the president."
"Mm. Speakerphone, then scram. Hands are tied up."
"Yes."
"Yes. Oriental assassin work. But it's him? The one who wrecked my arm? Guess he's on Korea ops full-time now."
"Ahh, what's that mean?"
Kim Sa-jang caught the odd thrill in Yu Sil-jang's voice and lowered his tone. This psycho bitch started shit whenever excited. Last time with a skilled Chinese guy, she'd disobeyed orders, chased him, and dragged back half-dead. Dizzying memory. She'd improved, but her hype still unnerved him.
"Ah, I've been good lately. Held back tons on Hong Kong. You're hurting my feelings."
"Can't—hands full. What photos? Describe."
"Just some building?"
"Hmmm... Obvious who they targeted."
Airport bombing? Expected. But dropping bombs on a random shop? Intriguing. Plus prior skirmishes.
Hong Kong's remaining black agents were stretched thin against mutants—below a threshold, they avoided infighting.
One reason for multi-faction brawls: the "key."
Why everyone swarmed Hong Kong.
"And the Chinese military wants him gone?"
Chinese army suddenly hitting Oriental? Unlikely. Just last evening, CCP brass and execs were boozing amiably. No sudden spat.
This bombing screamed Oriental HQ-Chinese gov collusion.
"Why?"
Oriental HQ's stance flipped overnight. From entrusting Han with Hong Kong lab access badges to this smackdown?
Did Han betray in Hong Kong? Objectively likely, but Yu Sil-jang went hmph—
Han Si-yeon wasn't a rabid loyalist, but no guts to betray HQ and face reprisal either.
If not betrayal, then what?
"Something in the lab that shouldn't escape? Like that?"
She startled herself. Huh? Pretty plausible.