New World: Hello, World
Someone once said the world was a house of cards, fragile as hell.
"Argh! The end of the fucking world! Nostradamus, you seeing this shit?!"
As if the gaps between nation-sized cards were too damn wide, doors to other worlds suddenly ripped open. The disaster kicked off without warning—more abrupt than anyone could've imagined, no time to prep. The only twist? It wasn't 1999 or some Y2K bullshit. This was Gate Year One.
"Fuck, the apocalypse prophecies were real?! So 1999 wasn't the drop date—it was when construction started?!"
"Goddamn it, yeah. This planet's got some thick skin! Took you alien motherfuckers long enough!"
Shit always hits the fan after the first wave clears out—air pressure drops, all that jazz. Happens every time someone bails. Just roll with it.
"Huh? Oh shit! Work starts soon! I'm losing my mind!"
"Hey! Is work really your priority right now?! Get back, now!"
In big cities, where gates popped amid crowds, cops and military kept order easy enough with sheer numbers. But...
"...What the hell is this?"
Gates tore open haphazardly, laws of physics be damned—even in remote spots like empty fields in the sticks, where population was nil.
Whether buzzed on booze or drugs, clinging to some macho "scaredy-cat club" cred, or just plain curiosity—Homo sapiens had always been the type to risk it all for a peek. Folks waltzed right in out of sheer wonder, no big deal. Hell, some even saw it as their ticket to flipping their lives around!
In an era where online fame turned into real-time cash and glory, a "glowing blue door" going viral was inevitable. Even superpowers with 4K satellite feeds couldn't predict this crap.
"Son of a bitch, with this population density, how the hell are we supposed to cover everywhere?!"
"...Closest spot's still 100 miles by car... What now, sheriff?"
"Damn it, abandon it! Prioritize dense population zones! Pray the civilians' personal arsenals hold up!"
Big nations, bloated with land relative to power, couldn't curb every lone wolf stunt. Hell, vast territories meant lax rules on private land invasions!
"Get the fuck off my property—!! This has been my family's ranch since my great-grandpa—!!"
Bang! Bang!
"Aaaah, Grandpa Sam! Please! It's me, Hamington! There's a blue door by your barn!"
"I don't buy the government's conspiracy bullshit or their sugar-coated lies! Get out, Hammie!"
Sure, some folks cooperated with the feds or needed 'em to protect their turf. But America being America, plenty still clung to "hands off private or state rights."
"Barricade it now! What? Landowner's bitching? National emergency—tell 'em to shut it!"
"You... I'll make your military career hell! Ever heard of complaints, asshole?!"
One top-ten global powerhouse lucked out with compact size-to-power ratio, but...
"Why's this your land? Don't you know eminent domain in emergencies? Scram, or it's seized!"
"Urgh...!! Normally, one word from me and these punks shrivel up—!!"
Even peninsula grunts who groveled at "guns are too noisy!" complaints in peacetime could now bark, "Clear out before we shell your house to rubble!" Desperate times.
"Ah, fuck. Why'd this shit hit during my service..."
A dejected young man stared at the sky, suddenly craving a smoke he'd sworn off forever.
"Don't touch me! Don't you fucking touch me! A soldier groping a civilian?! You wanna strip?!"
Twenty-one-year-old Kim Chomo, foam practically flying from his mouth as he blocked a raging landowner pointing fingers.
"...I'm a conscript, okay?! If you strip me, I'll be thrilled! Let me wear civvies for once—!!"
"What kind of psycho are you?! Let go—!!"
He endured spit flying in his face, holding the human-barricade line like a champ.
It was summer.
Soon enough—whether from exhaustion or the nonstop yapping—the nutjob landowner collapsed. Real barricades went up: yellow-and-black tape, razor wire, spikes.
"Everyone! Just follow training! This is your chance to see why we drilled your asses..."
The brass droned on—dude who dug trenches with finger snaps and stacked sandbags via powers—sucking the fun out. Kim Chomo let it flow in one ear, out the other.
"Fuck, always yapping about machines breaking so we shovel by hand—what kinda frozen training is this...?"
Pitiful conscripts with zero willpower hacked granite-hard peninsula soil, bodies aching.
But the military? Bust your ass, and it all turns to wasted effort anyway.
"...Nothing's happening."
Terror faded to boredom, then emptiness. Time passed since the shit hit—no action, what'd you expect?
"...Tch, fuck. Knew it. What do those pricks know to grind us like this."
Kim Chomo, barely done digging with shovel and pickaxe, wanted to crack skulls. But hey, when was the army ever rational? Shrug it off.
Soldiers sprawled, filthy uniforms soaked in sweat and dirt—physical hell just the starting line.
While lab geeks in full gear sampled at the gate...
"Scientists don't know shit either, geared up like that—what're we doing?"
"Gotta at least look busy. Cameras rolling."
Resting in containers (makeshift shelter/blockade), hell arrived for the troops.
"Full combat gear! Carry gas masks—don at any whiff of trouble!"
Already wrecked from manual labor, now extra DLC gear?
"That prick never digs...!! Hope he dies miserable!"
The battalion commander—blamed for "should've happened already"—had troops cursing his whole family.
Mentally and physically fried soldiers snapped.
"Air's fine, soil too... Ditch the masks. No radiation, no bugs."
"Oh, good?"
Just unknown energy, harmless per tests. Even relieved researchers ditched suits—but orders stood.
Blue-rippling gate screamed radiation, sure, but survivable environments? Lift the alert!
"Huh? Army's a joke!? Full gear or you'll die?!"
'Fuck, strutting in shades, phone-glued, yapping death.'
Containers sweltering, windows wide—triple-mask carry, wear at gate? Peninsula summer stress maxed.
Did brass think their backs were stab-proof?
Thud!
"Phew, nearly suffocated... But Sergeant Kim? Even real toxins—would this block 'em?"
"Think brass cares? It's 'don't wear it and it's on you' bullshit. Ptoo."
Finally ditching restraints after hellish day—brass unchanged, no field overrides thanks to two bogus muhwa flowers.
Troops dodging officers, masking on-off—murder in their eyes grew.
"Tch, rice half-raw. Why's 80s field kitchen trailer still around post-millennium?"
"Leftovers? Oh, Sergeant Kim? Gimme any... Tch!"
While troops bitched over undercooked meals in heat, plastic-bagged chow...
"...Anything special? Even tiny details."
"Our gate's got faint dust... Nah, cleaner than next town."
"Okay, stop! Don't leak that on air—international incident."
Generals, rare spotlight, dined proper while briefing up.
"Let's claim that land... occupy it."
"""Yes, sir!"""
Safe, non-Earth land naked and tempting—who skips planting the flag?
Bullshit.
"...Fuck, conscripts ain't human, huh."
Grunts' views? Ignored. Civvies want, troops obey—modern flow.
Soon, gate-probing nations shoved troops inside.
From initial shock, folks thought Earth doomed—turns out, land giveaway alarm. Cheers!
New territory discoveries everywhere. Gates global—no immediate land wars. Sweet.
"Drones say it's bigger than us! Rivers?! Farmable?! Oh Allah!"
Desert nations, wealth sans survival: jackpot.
"Plants, mines, underground riches?! Manufacturing saved!"
Peninsula export-humans education nuts: boom.
"Land overflowing—greed more?"
"Unlike our snowy hell, it's fertile... Sir?"
Ice nations content. Pioneer paradise!
Flag planted? End? Nah, capitalism rolls on.
"Infra! Factories! New cities? Opportunity!"
Corps drooling over megaprojects. Fight rivals on old turf vs. monopoly? Bet on latter.
Land one contract? Hype stocks—shares pump.
"Good news! We snagged new land dev rights! We're alive! Trust us!"
"Splitting without backstab this time? For shareholders?"
"......"
"Why silent, asshole! Speak!"
Economy immature, but day-traders cashed out. Cheers.
"New territory" hype spread fast—prime dev chance.
"Eat till we burst! Tech makes new cities quick, right?"
"End of evil capital house prices! One household per person era..."
Economic boom—old/young hyped rosy futures.
Life ain't manga movie with dad. Fate season 2? Blocked homeland, new shot? Ha, naive.
Rosy needs troops stabilizing first.
"Plant flags fast! Nation's chance! Boosts my polls too!"
Conscripts' sweat/blood? Ignored.
"Our unit shines, helps my promo!"
Brass designs fancy ops for glory.
"Lunch maybe via cart, dinner more mush..."
"What karma... Brass starts shit, we clean."
Grunts whined, tears over camping hell.
Result? "New territory" rebelled with "Get out—!!"
"...What the fuck are those...!!"
"Alert! Incoming enemy assault!"
No free lunch. Grunts pay in blood first.
Bang! Rat-tat-tat!
"Aaaah, why our company up front—!!"
Poor Kim Chomo's tragic reality.
Early autumn.
Safety assumed, forward push met hostile force—costly.
"Sergeant Kim, we're fucked! Green monster bastards everywhere!"
"Less yapping, more shooting, dipshit!!"
"Ack, jammed again... Aaaah!!"
Low-reliability rifles? Eaten alive in monster waves.
But "invincible" troops—fewer numbers, peaked performance—their ugly lovers, assault rifles, gifted hot lead to small fry, racking kills.
"...How long we holding?"
WWE turned WW2—enlistees' stress pierced skies.
"Aigoo, why you too! You go, we're done! Four down!"
"Fuck, I took civil service for stable job, not admin vs. monsters! Scram!"
Sudden career swap dried civvie/military clerks early gates.
"Ah, fuck... Wanna discharge—!!"
Period soldiers, rot-eyed, adapted to daily beast clashes—tent life, sentry, repeat.
"Raaargh... Kyaaah—!!"
"That's my scream, you beast fuck! Why tank rounds when bigger?!"
Life: pain, then bigger pain atop familiar.
Small fast ones thinned—bigger filled gaps.
"Anti-personnel tested on human size" for reason.
Mag-dump? Glances off, cores deflect—new monster.
Thump-thump...
"Fuck. Misses weren't enough—now bullets whiff air."
Leader monsters' invisible barriers: futile spins.
Grrr...
Ugly fucks mocking—troops' rage skyrocketed.
"Damn it, call arty! Carpet with HE!!"
"Not West Point reject! Love ya, captain!"
BOOM—!!
Sneering high-tiers couldn't grin under barrage.
Squeee—!!
"See how long you last! Keep firing—that force field shit?!"
"Mmm, love their burning stench! Blow good, fuckers!!"
Elite squads poured fire till energy drained.
Peninsula firepower faith claimed another soul.
Military tech triumph—troops' Pyrrhic hold.
"...Fuck, glad that's over."
One-hour fight, casualties heavy—war journo snapped away.
"Squad! Report casualties! Wounded—evac now!"
"Stretcher here! Hurry! Bleeding stopped, but kid won't wake!"
New war: guns once brother-aimed now foe-ward. Hate-forged weapons aid irony—snapped for pics.
Click!
One dazed youth forgot three-lines-to-four, stared blankly at flash.
Post-initial shock, gates classed risky/imminent—troops camped, blocking periodic monsters. Time passed.
"Sergeant Kim! Remember 'spray everywhere'?! Fix this—!!"
"Yeah, back then... Argh—!! Fuck, shooting us, you psycho—!!"
Otherworld's monster middle finger fresh—in humanity grabbed counter: award.
Private debuted: crisis energy bolts wild spray. One friendly hit, enemy wipe—Ability Era curtain rose.
One drop overflows tension-held cup.
Post-"energy spray," squad abilities bloomed.
"...Hiss, feels instinctive... Untie tourniquet? Lemme try."
"...Pain doc always slaps red potion—why nervous? Fuck, lab rat now...!!"
Energy-hit thigh: quack medic sprouted fresh meat—second.
Regrown flesh Kim Chomo: third ability case.
Gates truly "poison and cure."
...First activations poison-heavy, yeah.
You hit me, I hit you—strong abilities bought breather.
"...Minus powder mag guard who got pulverized."
"Common sense: three-cart smoker blows mag, expected."
Accidents inevitable.
Blame monsters, credit command—routine.
Abilities grew, formed units.
Shake-shake...
"Gasp?! What!"
"Sergeant Kim Chomo. Patrol time. Late again? Disciplinary."
Monster floods, ability transfers, eternal double-shift recon/core defense drafts.
"...Two months. Two months. Two months..."
Hellish service—poor youth's 22nd birthday slipped by.
One winter day.