Can't Chain a Sinner: The Authority's Dilemma
A nation's authority might seem weak to most upstanding citizens since it doesn't bother them much. But to those who stir up trouble, it's an immense pressure cooker. If that's hard to grasp, just check the economic news closest to everyday life.
"Dodging taxes again, you corporate scum...? Time to harvest since you've grown so big?"
"Moooneyyy—!! I'm just a slave to capitalism trying to squeeze out any profit without paying proper taxes—!!"
Even mid-sized companies fold like cheap suits at the mere mention of "tax audit," their voices hitting soprano highs.
"No words to say... I'll fully cooperate with the investigation..."
Chaebols, those economic empires, roll out in wheelchairs for sympathy every time they're probed. That's what state authority is—a two-faced sun dishing out vitamins and skin cancer in equal measure.
"Minister, you've arrived? Haha, I owe you big time from last time."
"Nah, for pillars of society like you, why nitpick the small stuff and draw pictures? Hahaha!!"
Thanks to that, folks wielding even a sliver of that sunlight have always commanded deep respect. Or...
"You said it was possible back then—what the hell are you saying now?!"
"I said it might be possible—who told you to build without double-checking?!"
"Fine. Time to hit 'start coverage' and end your short civil servant career."
"Wha—?! Wait, sir! Sir!"
Not knowing how to use it properly and badmouthing it can get you fried like a bug under a journalist's magnifying glass fueled by the sun's wrath. Or just vague words from a civil servant dodging responsibility can tank a business.
Even a speck of that power can ruin lives—how potent is that authority?
"A cyberpunk dystopia where centralized power is taken for granted, and citizens are just numbers."
Too long under absolute centralization where the state calls all the shots. People so accustomed to it they don't see the weirdness anymore—that's the circus act possible here.
From monarchies repeating total wars, through dark eras losing the nation wholesale, to a divided land with decades of mutual hatred and civil war.
A control freak nation that out-spices any communism or totalitarianism.1
That's how this peninsula's authority shines today, protecting the country and countless people.
Of course, it's no lie if no one's trying to ignore it amid all this.
"Argh, you idiot! Wanna screw up your whole life path?! Don't you know how massive the fallout is from crossing the line here?!"
Even famed scholars became eternal trash in history books if the king marked them. The higher you climb, the worse the crash—and it's routine.
"Fall from power, you're done. No matter your popularity, one controversy line erases your career! Live right!"
In a society where second chances are rare, avoid scandals at all costs. That's why countless celebs scream behind bookshelves at their past selves.
And the biggest sin? From some point, it's "shirking social duty."
"What?! Skipping the military?! Why you and not me?! I got dragged in kicking and screaming—what makes you special?!"
Celebs ditching other work to dodge end up never on live stages again. A "generational sensation" renouncing citizenship becomes a "military service pizza" shop owner.
The rage from ordinary folks forced to crawl at their brightest prime—watching that active volcano, the elite wanting conscription got a brain zap.
"If we leverage it right, we can lock in the mindset that 'Korean citizens must serve'!"2
No handouts, just redirecting that rage vortex at others to sustain the system—perfection!
So they politely send someone with a veiled threat: "Wanna hit rock bottom too?" announcing "extended service."
The elite figured Kim Chomo would crawl back: "Aigoo... no choice! It's dirty and gross, but gotta follow, haha!"
"Fuck this country! Used me once and now extended service?! Eat shit!"
Pffft—!!
"What the—?! What wanted criminal struts in front of cameras like this?!"
Hunting broadcast live cams, asking "What're you gonna do?"—the first rebel figure.
The moment ordinary citizen Kim Chomo shoved national authority into a shit pit.
Ignoring a state summons is a crime punishable anytime. So as a friend, after a tiring day sprawled in the barracks watching TV, seeing your buddy appear wasn't enough.
Reporter?
"Tax-paying scum who shove it down your throat then get drunk and rubber-stamp shitty laws..."
...Cut! Cuuut!! Ahem, technical difficulties. Our network fully complies with broadcasting committee guidelines...
Live-flipping off a certain Yeouido building with every gesture? No choice but to pick up the communal barracks phone that madman ignored while muttering "world's gotten better..."
"You nuts?! Even if the law's bullshit, what the hell are you doing there?!"
"Chill, man. Even if the military hardened my skull, I'm not that dumb."
"Your career starts at rock bottom hell—what the fuck do you mean chill..." Click.
Whatever his thoughts, rudely hanging up twice on the rage-ranting youth teaches manners. Proper protocol.
"...You psycho. So what's your plan? If it ain't logical, turn yourself in."
That calm, grounded voice hits right.
"Why worry? Quick question: if your service got extended, who'd volunteer for a suicide op?"
"Eh, half-ass it or bail at the first whiff of danger. Who'd die for that shit?"
The weary tone rings true—no lies. Kim Chomo chuckled.
Rank-and-file ability soldiers' morale's in the red deeper than wiped stock accounts. Forcing the unmotivated to risk life against fellow abilities? Annoying enough dodging monsters barehanded, let alone fighting one who punches them dead?
From the moment they enacted extension, soldiers aren't enemies—just fuckups pouring diesel in gas tanks or filling holes instead of digging.
"More service?! Grab him... Wait, where'd everyone go?!"
Threaten demerits? Empty barracks and more mini-Kim Chomos await. Opponents know it—no visits from Jeong Il-hwan.
"...They could promise tons of leave. Or dangle discharge as bait."
Our naive pal Jeong Il-hwan still thinks sweet-talking suckers exist...
"Sure, then hack your careers for one flop. It's the military, right?"
"Damn... Persuasive. Already hate it."
No sweet talk sways a rigid society. Next: regular troops or anti-terror units to nab him...
"Okay, random question: firepower to capture or neutralize ex-sergeant Kim Chomo here?"
"...Depends on ability output, but minimum multiple rocket launchers for takedown."
Jeong Il-hwan's cool calc seals it—capture odds: zero forever.
"I'm in downtown Seoul? Firing shells that vaporize 50m? In last year's 10 million pop megacity?"4
"...Holy shit. 10 million random hostages."
Even rifles need evac—normals block for "one in a million." But Kim Chomo, shrugging off bullets and blades while fretting their welfare? No need.
"See the evac circus? I just stroll out mixed in."
Blend into crowds, hit next district—infinite hostage theater.
"Public backlash? Try that shit, you'll be cursed to hell."
"Maybe short-term hate... but I'm not the root cause, right?"
If society tanks on his watch, arrows might turn—but "society made me" holds real weight this time.
"They'll thank me later for stopping at this."
"...Yeah, better than a monster-puncher rampaging full tilt."
Turned foe: unkillable casually, disaster if wild. "Peaceful protest" is luck—realize it. Confirm bad law twisted mild youth? Lawmakers get lynched instead.
They know it's juicy—noise nearby already.
"Yo, watching? I'm the big bad now. Spill later. Peel out."
"...Sigh, psycho. Catch ya on leave." Click.
Helicopters buzz overhead, riot gear cops and troops swarm shields and batons. Mid-encircle, a familiar face grabs the megaphone after weathering time.
"Don't move! You're fully surrounded..."
Screaming surrender pleas, negotiation vibes.
"Coming through! Pedestrian passing!"
Faster than that, one dives center—domino-light taps.
Crashhh—!!
"Gah! Buried! I'm buried—move, asshole!"
"Told you encirclement's pointless—why?!"
Troops topple screaming—straight path cleared.
Broadcast cams catch the 21st-century miracle: parting crowds like Red Sea.
Even post-relocation big networks, Yeouido's state broadcaster HQ turf. Live feed inevitable.
Ability user's debut superhuman feat—post-gate grunts finally spotlighted—drops spoons mid-dinner for masses.
"...Forcing these monster-tier psychos? Low IQ real?"
Spilled spoons weren't alone. Live failure to halt by safety forces? Comment floods inevitable.
"B-block it!! Somehow!! Get up!!"
High-up's panic megaphone-check useless.
"Friends! See you next stage! Citizens! Your taxes vanishing here!"
Monster mic-drops, sucking lampposts dry, bolts fast.
Choppers pursue—into skyscraper jungle long ago.
"Ugh, collision risk too high. Landing."
Hover futile, slump to pad.
Neighbor bird in eaves—ground dogs deflate.
"...Fuck, chase again?"
Cursing, repack gear onto rides—bonus.
"Don't pack too tight. His antics? Repeat incoming."
"Sigh... hope the van's toast, can't load gear. What karma?"
Unlike vanished command van, armed troops wait ages for mobility.
Sigh, cram into abuse-magnet old deuce-and-a-half.
"...Shit, gates stole all good rides—always relics."
Unsteady elder-village iron truck bed, no steps—roll in, dust-caked.
"One psycho diversionist, and this mess?!"
Too massive for mere bait scale.