Chapter 10
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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Factions (2), Camp Roberts
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"Talent Advantage" is a system that aids in relearning any skill you've ever picked up, regardless of the playthrough. If you've learned it n times before, the experience required drops to 1/n. You might wonder if there's no benefit the first time—when n=1—but that's not the case. The "Unknown Penalty" gets lifted.
This setup aligns with the developers' intent. The early rounds force you to fully feel the terror of humanity's helplessness against overwhelming disasters. But as you progress, it encourages you to get hooked on the thrill of overcoming those trials as a superhuman. It's the same content, enjoyed from a completely different angle, making it an excellent design for pacing consumption.
Winter had survived a great many apocalypses. He couldn't always pick up the exact same skills each time, but he'd repeatedly mastered the essentials: most combat skills, some survival ones, specific languages, and the social core like "Insight," "Discernment," and "Deception."
Skill grades classify beginners up to level 3, experts up to 6, professionals from 7 to 10, and anything beyond as genius or superhuman territory. Each tier demands progressively more resources.
The boy hadn't wasted the experience he'd gained in San Miguel. His current skill levels were far beyond what his progress would suggest. Thanks to Talent Advantage, most of his combat skills had reached professional or genius levels. That's why Winter could handle unfavorable fights. He had no choice—he was broadcasting live right now, and death would be a major scandal.
Combat-related skills boosted a hidden stat called "Intimidation." The effect kicked in strong even against potential hostiles. Even factoring in the minor penalty, Winter was predator-tier at this point. Rumors, exaggerated in the worst way, only amplified his intimidation further.
It was paying off. True to his promise, he'd taken a spot at the ration distribution site, and the self-proclaimed volunteers kept shooting him nervous glances. Each serving station was run by a different group. Unaffiliated folks faced brutal discrimination.
He spotted a few of the people Jang Yeoncheol had introduced him to. They exchanged eye contact and nods of thanks. As long as Winter was watching, the distributions stayed fair.
"Excuse me."
"Y-Yes?"
"Shouldn't you be dividing it up equally?"
The woman's face went pale at Winter's point-out.
"W-Well, I'm with the Damul Prosperity Society..."
"So?"
"So... what?"
She shrank back, glancing sideways at the guy opposite her. He'd given extra to his own group's people. The man, his pride on the line, puffed up tough. The crowd in line bristled with hostility. Crushed by Winter's intimidation but buoyed by their numbers, they somehow held firm. The unaffiliated refugees didn't know what to do.
As he stood his ground, a man approached with a grin. His friendly face clashed with his heavily muscled build—like a beast from the neck down. No way he maintained that frame on standard rations alone. His swagger screamed enforcer.
His voice was eerily soft. The kind of guy who weaponized subtle fear.
"You're every bit as gutsy as they say, kid. Mind if this uncle has a quick word? Huh?"
"Not right now. I'll hear you out later."
His clipped, firm tone shut it down. The man's face hardened. He glanced around—formally posted U.S. soldiers were now staring holes into them. The man shrugged with a placid smile.
"Come on, this won't end well for either of us. Our elders want a word with you anyway. Just spare a minute?"
He was trying force, but the boy didn't budge. The man looked flustered. Bolstered by skill corrections, Winter drew a hard line.
"I'll make time after distributions. Speaking of, you seem to know those folks over there—mind telling them to do it right? Unless you want me to get annoyed."
He didn't specify what "annoyed" entailed. Better to let them imagine.
The man studied the boy expressionlessly, then sighed and patted his shoulder.
"Fine. But you owe me that time later. Promise this uncle?"
"Got it."
The man went to the line and said something. Complaints erupted from the waiting crowd, frozen in place. But his scowl silenced them instantly. One guy who finished his tray glared at the boy—then flinched at eye contact and hurried off, eyes down.
Similar scenes played out elsewhere. Only big outfits like the Korean Patriots Association or the Saemaul Alliance faction picked fights with the boy. The rest toed the line.
Everyone he'd helped scarfed down their trays right there. Even in the chilly wind, they didn't head inside—afraid it'd get snatched en route. The groups' dispatched reps watched sourly, but with U.S. troops around, they couldn't start trouble.
Two soldiers chuckled nearby. They'd probably been snickering at the refugees' antics without intervening.
Once distributions wrapped, the middle-aged man returned.
"Time to keep your promise. Our elder's waiting."
"Lead on."
"Whew, you're a cold one."
His words were honeyed, but his voice quavered faintly. The glint beyond his smile was off. He kept looking back on the way—repressed anger and fear leaking through. Deep hostility maxed out intimidation. It must've felt like walking with a man-eating tiger at his back.
The tent looked ordinary outside. All were military surplus or aid handouts anyway. But inside? Another world. Stitched end-to-end in a straight line, five stoves glowing red-hot at a glance. Lights blazed—lavish bulbs.
Staff seemed way under capacity, though. Maybe twenty cots, extra space filled with desks, chairs, even a sofa and TV. Antenna setup was a mystery. Not that it mattered—only news and disaster broadcasts anyway.
Now, they'd cleared a wide central spot. A middle-aged man led rows of guys, two deep on each side. All had a drink glass in front. They fixed on the boy in unison. Obvious intent. Empty seat in the center—his, probably. Ammo crate flipped as a table, topped with glasses, bottles, snacks. Skewers of oil-grilled meat piled high, from who-knows-where.
"The young blood's here. Everyone, applause."
That damn clapping again. As the boy thought it, the men and women on both sides whooped stiffly and clapped. They probably thought it disciplined—arms flung wide in awkward sweeps. Marine-style. Screamed drill-sergeant outfit.
A prim woman, rare in the refugee zone, led the boy to the center.
"Sit here."
She pressed closer than needed. Rookies might flinch, but with his rounds stacked, Winter just sat quietly and stared straight ahead.
"Bold. Very bold."
The head man chuckled, nodding vigorously.
"Introductions first. Name's Im Hwasu. I lead the Damul Prosperity Society. Folks call me Makjiri. What's your name, young blood?"
"Han Gyeowol."
"Hah—Winter, huh? Great name. Matches your vibe perfect! Eyes like a howling winter gale—whoosh! Right, guys? What do you think?"
They chorused, "Yes, Makjiri!" Thunderous up close. Voices cranked to intimidate. But Winter had no reason to fear—just surround-sound barking.
Seeing the boy's calm, Im Hwasu smirked down at his men, sighed pointlessly, and nodded.
"You're solid, kid. A real man should be. Back in the day, Park Chung-hee—yeah?—united the nation's strength, made us strong and prosperous. Good up to there. But our generation grew too soft, lost the spirit of Greater Joseon. You? Not like those weak, spineless youths. Yeah! At seventeen, in the old days, you'd lop off an enemy chief's head no sweat. Right, guys?"
There it was again. Seeking agreement to affirm his own status. He'd always read rooms well, and "Day after Apocalypse" hammered human dynamics home. The sides roared approval once more.
Im Hwasu, playing dignified leader, boomed a laugh and beckoned the lingering woman.
"Age don't matter for rising stars. Especially now. Young bloods' world. Real men enjoy booze and women. Eunju—pour the young blood a drink."
"Yes, Makjiri."
Eunju wore skin-tight clothes. She pressed against him. Graceful hands uncorked the bottle, poured amber liquor into an ice-filled glass. No stopping her. Her warm, soft body pressed on. Viewer messages were probably flooding, as expected. No need to check—undoubtedly screaming for sex.
Ice, booze—pure luxury amid refugee reality. If this was second-place Damul Prosperity Society's excess, what about top-dog Korean Patriots Association? Winter eyed his glass; Im Hwasu raised his own.
"First round. Can't talk man-to-man without one!"
"Sorry, I'll pass on the drink. State your business."
"Whoa, first time? Perfect. Your first sip's special. This here's Cîroc something..."
Words cut off. Winter raised his glass, extended it rightward long, tilted—and slowly dumped it. The leader's face froze. Chaos erupted around.
"You little shit!"
Some yanked kitchen knives hastily. Plenty deadly. Amid the storm, Winter alone was calm as an eye. Set the glass down, eyed Im Hwasu.
"State your business."
Im Hwasu scowled, gesturing calm.
"Stand down! What the hell are you doing? Disrespecting me, Im Hwasu?"
"S-Sorry, Makjiri!"
Storm quelled instantly. Back to dead quiet, like nothing happened. No tension, though. Im Hwasu gnawed a skewer, gulped it, drained his glass with a satisfied "Ahh." Nodded to himself habitually, hands on knees, and addressed the boy.
"No fear's good, but too much hurts survival. Fear's instinct. Sometimes fold the bravado. Advice from a senior—listen up."
"Understood. So, what's the business?"
"Hahaha!"
Im Hwasu glanced around needlessly, snatched another skewer. Winter watched impassively as he chewed the dripping thing noisily. Im Hwasu snapped his fingers pointlessly, scanned again. Pure posturing to feign leisure. Same with dragging out words.
After stalling, confirming no flinch, Im Hwasu scowled and got to it.
"Nothing big. Join us if you're like-minded. Winter here's got skills, guts, connections—heard you're tight with that picky Yank lieutenant Capston."
"No interest."
"Hear me out, Makjiri's offering. Good deal. Korean Patriots Association's biggest, stable. But a kid like you? Tough breaking into the core. Same blood, sure—but rice bowl wars treat outsiders same. Survival'd be rough. We're different. Someone like you? Big help. We'd treat you right. See Eunju here? Yours if you join. First wife material. Want more? Three, four—take 'em. Concubines are hero perks. Booze, smokes—unlimited! Men get what they earn, and you've earned it!"
He glanced aside; Eunju clung stickily to the younger Winter. Hot breath on his neck, she grabbed his hand, pressed it to her breast, kneaded with hers. Sweet scent wafted. Soft warmth slid under his fingers. Dull heat stirred below his waist.
Viewers with "Sensory Sync" on were probably cheering. Female ones frowning, maybe. Who knew. Some synced to Eunju herself. VR had plenty of women into this too.
Sorry to disappoint. He thought it, but wasn't really. Winter slowly, firmly pushed Eunju aside. She clung desperately; he shoved harder. She looked to the leader, terrified.
"Eunju not to your taste?"
Im Hwasu smacked his lips, smirked.
"How 'bout this?"
He beckoned back. A Japanese girl, they said. He'd known post-brawl, Sumiyoshi-kai crippled, Japanese refugees suffered—but first time feeling it beyond journals.
The dragged-in girl struggled wildly.
"Hold her down."
At Im Hwasu's order, women—not men—pinned her limbs. Three of them; one giggled, enjoying it.
"Side bitch throwing a fit."
One layer of cloth—like a ragged kimono hack-job. It slipped easy, half-nude. Her pleas in broken Japanese. Struggling body tangled with pinning ones in lewd tableau. They pried her legs apart.
Im Hwasu, watching fondly, tossed to the boy.
"I get it. At your age, fantasies run wild... conquest, yeah? Watch—feel it? Something stirring?"
"If I say no interest?"
"You'd be lying."
Grinning, Im Hwasu loomed demonic over the writhing girl. His circle? Devil worshippers.
Winter picked "Day after Apocalypse" over flashier options because it felt realest. The world he'd known was evil's playground. Bright VR worlds clashed too hard.
Heavy with real-world nostalgia already. Constant disconnect—"this ain't real"—ruined immersion, joy. Oil on water: isolated loneliness. Happy folks' world vs. a boy born in winter, living only winter—worlds apart.
At least "Day after Apocalypse" let him forget the ache if he dove in.
This is my world.
Deep breath. Winter spat it out.
"Elder, eat shit."
The room exploded like a bomb hit.