Chapter 55. Wounds
"Argh! The blade's completely fucked!"
"Of course it is... You sliced right through a boat..."
Yuri burst into tears as she examined the blade. Swords were consumables by nature, but she'd never imagined her baby would meet its end like this. It was the famed Orb of Fame, a legendary sword that stayed sharp even after cleaving through humans bones and all, or grinding down a mutant's iron-hard skeleton—just a quick hone on the edge and it was good as new. It had seemed like it'd last forever, yet here it was, teeth shattered like some cheap toy.
She picked up a spare sword she'd brought along, but that set off another wail. This wasn't it. After wielding something with a grip that molded perfectly to her hand and weight distribution so ideal you couldn't tell if it was a sword or a feather, grabbing this junk felt like her hand was rotting off. Yuri's body had been ruined for anything less.
"You're making a huge fuss."
Cheol-woo clicked his tongue at his sister, who looked ready to hold a full funeral for the damn thing. He had a strong attachment to his own rifle, but not this level. Losing it would sting a bit, sure, but that'd be it. Was the difference between swords and guns down to mass-produced crap versus artisanal masterpieces? Thinking back, everyone at the company had gawked at Yu Sil-jang's sword—no denying it was top-tier. Damn, shoulda asked her where she got it back then. Massive regret. At the time, one sword looked just like the next to him.
"Sis, take off the hazmat suit. Time to replace the ballistic plates."
"Got it. Ow... it's cold..."
"Urk..."
"Hey! It's not that bad!"
Cheol-woo gagged as Yuri handed over the suit, steam rising from inside. A genetic-level revulsion stabbed straight into his frontal lobe. Yuri sniffed herself, then quietly vanished into the cabin shower.
It's totally trashed.
He ran his eyes over the suit and let out a groan of horror. The thing was wrecked from every angle. The ballistic plates—he'd thought he swapped them often enough—were packed solid with bullets, ceramics shattered into powder. Even the innermost steel liner was deformed beyond recognition from repeated impacts. Any normal person would've been a broken, whimpering mess by now.
Tsk—why didn't she say anything?
He bolted for the shower.
"Hey!?"
"Knew it."
The door flew open to Yuri shrieking and covering her naked body. Bruises blanketed her from the neck down—no unmarred skin in sight. Cheol-woo smacked his forehead with a sigh.
"Why hide it till your body's this messed up? You had to know."
"'Messed up'? Watch your mouth with your sister. Now get out! I'm showering!"
"You'd have kept it hidden if I hadn't barged in mid-shower."
"It's nothing. Just a few bruises—don't make a big deal."
"Really just bruises? You sure?"
"Y-yeah, sure."
Real convincing. As Cheol-woo stepped closer, she shrank back into the corner. He prodded her leg, purple with bruising—the bone felt solid. Of course; if it'd snapped, her limp would've given it away ages ago.
"See? Fine. Now get out... Ghk!?"
He pressed lightly below her chest, where she desperately shielded with her arm. A weird yelp escaped her.
Ribs are cracked, as expected. No matter how tough Yuri was, ribs surviving this beating didn't add up.
"Told you—why hide it, you idiot."
"Tch. Who else's gonna tank hits? We've had plenty close calls without me."
"Yeah, you made it easier, but I wouldn't have died without you. From now on, no pushing it—focus on recovery. That suit's toast till we fix it anyway."
"Fineee. I'll chill till the ribs heal. Happy?"
"Sure. But why'd you take off the choker? I said wear it 24/7."
"I'm showering!"
"It's waterproof."
"OUT!!!"
A towel flew; Cheol-woo slammed the shower door and escaped. What's her deal, so touchy?
He headed for the deck and bumped straight into Mi-young. She flinched, eyes down, trying to slip past. He nabbed her by the nape.
"H-hi."
"Put ointment on Sis's bruises. She can't reach everywhere alone."
"Y-yes, sir."
"Oh, and her ribs are cracked. You're the nurse—check which ones, how bad, recovery time. Report back. Keep her from dumb shit till she's healed."
"Y-yes..."
That's more doctor or PT territory, she swallowed the retort and nodded vigorously. Orders were orders. Still, this kid—polite as hell at first, now barking casual commands like she was underling trash. Did he see her as some boss-less lackey? They'd saved each other's lives, yet this treatment felt unfair. As resentment bubbled and she mustered courage to protest—
"About your pay."
"Pay?"
"Better to formalize the contract than drag it out. Cleaner split later, no messy math. Only got dollars now—how's 2,000 a month base? I'll try for room and board, no guarantees."
"...!"
Two thousand dollars? Mi-young's eyes bulged. Under Han Si-yeon, she'd scraped 1.5 million won—nearly double here. In China as a nurse, under 500k; in the Republic, wages were a myth. Amid world collapse, safest spot plus fat paycheck?
"Bonuses later."
"...!?"
Bonuses too? Weren't those big-corp perks? Mi-young nearly fainted. Paradise on earth.
"We'll add as we go; for now, contract on this—"
"I'll work hard, boss! I'll ace cooking, nursing, and all duties!"
"Uh, drop the title."
"Yes, Cheol-woo."
"Much better."
"Boss" made him feel like Han Si-yeon reincarnate—creepy. But Mi-young's loyalty maxed, fired up—good. No worries about poisoned meds killing him or Sis.
"Oh! Let me check your stomach wound. Disinfecting right? Gauze changed?"
"Disinfect? Uh..."
"You haven't!?"
Mi-young yanked up his shirt, bracing for rot. Surprisingly clean—not just okay, scar-faint and fully healed. Deep gunshot, reopened, yet mended in under two weeks?
"What are you?"
Human or lizard? Her jaw hung slack.
***
Hong Kong waters. Depth: 30 meters.
Divers plunged deeper into the dark sea. Checking dive computers, pushing on—then a massive submarine hull emerged from the gloom.
One by one, they slipped into torpedo tubes. Water drained with a whoosh; they ditched stifling masks.
"Welcome aboard. Houndmaster, right?"
"Yeah. That'll do."
He shook the sub captain's hand, glancing back. Team decimated. Pathetic compared to start, but hellish no-resupply op—good survival rate.
"What about the thirty we escorted to Hong Kong?"
"Huh?"
"We convoyed them. No linkup?"
"Classified."
"..."
Crew mood plummeted at his icy reply. All dead, then. Solemn, they dispersed to duties. Captain turned—Houndmaster gripped his shoulder.
"Urgent intel for HQ. Need comms."
"Impossible. All blacked out in ops."
"Somehow connect. Nation's survival at stake."
"...Three minutes max."
Houndmaster exhaled in relief. Every second counted. Rifts worldwide, all towns below mirroring Hong Kong. Whatever happened there was going global. He had to relay mutant countermeasures, parasite info—get HQ prepped fast. Delay meant America's end.
"Periscope depth."
"Periscope depth, aye."
"Link to sub command—"
"Captain! Sonar ping! 1,000 feet! Speed 50 knots! Size... unmeasurable!"
"...What?"
Unmeasurable—over 300 meters wide. Approaching at e-boat speed? Sweat beaded on the captain's brow. No torpedo that big. Even nuke subs topped smaller.
"Break radio silence. Share with escorts."
"Aye. Warning USS Reagan."
"300 feet! Unknown closing on Reagan!"
"Shit. Optics on."
Screen lit: majestic carrier amid dark waves. BOOM—waves surged, bow plunging like a giant yanked it under. Stern rose, then crack—hull split with thunderous roar.
"Huh?"
"What?"
Crew gaped at the live feed. No explosion—just dragged under and halved? Unheard-of. Comms erupted.
Fuck.
Houndmaster and team scrambled back into dive suits. No sitting ducks to die—they needed at least one survivor reporting home.