That school was a brutal place.

Every student’s rank, from first to last, was posted prominently for everyone to see.

The weak were weeded out and driven to leave of their own accord.

The system didn’t encourage cooperation but competition, demanding mechanical coldness rather than humanity.

Creativity wasn’t tolerated; only obedience and discipline were enforced.

It had to be that way.

Our enemies were merciless, and no mistakes were allowed.

Boys and girls fresh out of middle school were turned into machines within those walls—machines designed to fight against humanity’s enemy: the monsters.

Everyone had their own reasons for being there. Mine was hatred.

Having lost my parents and sister to monsters, I became an orphan. My hatred was razor-sharp, so intense that it’s hard for me now to even imagine.

Lee Sang-hoon, on the other hand, was my complete opposite.

He grew up in a wealthy family, with his parents alive and well. He entered that school because of the promise of honor and prospects.

For someone raised in a sheltered environment, defeating someone like me, who had nothing left but venom, might have been an impossible task from the start.

From the time we enrolled until we graduated, he was always second—blocked by the wall that was me.

When he first entered, he could never have imagined that the number “2” would become his lifelong trauma.

But our competition ended in a completely unexpected way.

The playing field changed.

To use a musical metaphor, imagine musicians competing in a classical music competition, only for the genre to suddenly switch to rock and heavy metal.

I don’t think one genre is superior to another—it’s a matter of taste.

But on the battlefield, rock and heavy metal were the music of choice.

Mozart and Salieri became outdated and irrelevant in that context.

A nobody who had been lurking in the shadows suddenly rose as a hero, taking center stage in the spotlight.

We were pushed to the periphery of the stage, left to endure the malicious ridicule and contempt that always finds its way to those cast aside.

One of us left, and the other stayed.

The one who left became a wanderer, while the one who stayed became a bureaucrat.

Our rivalry ended.

The one thread connecting us had been severed.

I never thought I’d see him again.

But now, he’d reached out to me.

What could he possibly want?

As Kim Elder once said, “When someone you haven’t heard from in a long time contacts you, it’s rarely for a good reason.”

“Did you put that capsule on Route 13?”

“How did you know?”

I admitted it right away.

I know his personality too well.

Lee Sang-hoon is a perfectionist.

He tries to execute even the smallest tasks flawlessly, which is precisely why he was always a step behind me.

“Why would you do something like that? What if the capsule cracks and a monster gets summoned?”

“Summoned? What do you mean?”

“You still think those are eggs?”

“Aren’t they?”

“It’s been confirmed that capsules are actually makeshift portals. They’re temporary rifts used by infiltrator types.”

“...Is that so.”

It had been quite a while since I retired from active duty.

I knew from experience that capsules weren’t exactly eggs, but realizing that my knowledge had become outdated stung.

“I think I know why you placed it there.”

“Take a guess.”

“You didn’t want refugees coming near your bunker, did you?”

“You’re as sharp as ever. So, what do you want? You must be busy.”

“Are you interested in going to Jeju Island?”

Was this a recruitment attempt?

Not the direction I wanted this conversation to go.

“What would I do there?”

I’d turned down similar offers before, but it seemed Lee Sang-hoon, now a high-ranking official, wasn’t aware of that.

“There’s an instructor position open. The last candidate died in action three days ago. I’ve received other recommendations, but none of them feel right. Then I saw you moving that capsule.”

“Instructor, huh.”

“It’s a better life than rotting underground.”

“Probably comes with a lot of stress.”

“Isn’t your current life even more stressful? You’ve been living alone for nearly two years, with no one to talk to and no friends. Isn’t that punishment in itself?”

“Not at all.”

For the first time, I seriously disagreed with him.

And I meant it.

These past two years, while they’ve had their rough moments, have mostly been peaceful and enjoyable.

I’ve got plenty of internet friends. If I need to vent, I can write in a journal.

Who cares if I’m unpopular on the forums?

I even have neighbors to exchange Christmas greetings with.

“Are you serious?”

His voice wavered, as if he couldn’t believe it.

I answered firmly once more.

“I like it here.”

Sure, Jeju Island might be warmer than here.

But that’s about it.

There, I’d have to face people and realities I’d rather avoid.

That’s why I left in the first place, giving birth to the unpopular Skeleton of today.

“You’re still stuck in your insecurities and inferiority complex, aren’t you?”

His tone turned cold and mocking.

My expression hardened instantly.

I couldn’t see my own face, but I was sure my gaze had sharpened—maybe not as much as it used to back in school, but enough.

“What can you do? Neither of us has any real talent.”

His mocking words gradually softened into a sigh.

“You have no idea how hard it’s been for me.”

I didn’t respond.

I could understand it in theory.

Being in a high position means bearing enormous responsibility.

With Seoul falling apart, could he possibly be at peace?

But I couldn’t sympathize with his struggles.

We had clashed too many times, misunderstood each other too deeply.

We were rivals, never friends.

“Let’s have a drink sometime. I’ve got a good bottle of wine.”

“I’d like to, but the capsule...”

My answers grew increasingly curt and indifferent.

He wasn’t oblivious enough to miss it.

“I see.”

His voice grew distant.

“Take care, Park Gyu.”

The call ended—or so I thought.

Suddenly, his voice murmured faintly through the speaker.

“...The back of your head.”

“What?”

And that was it.

His words lingered in my mind, sparking my imagination for a long time.

I even reached up in a panic to feel the back of my head, but there was nothing there.

*

There’s a saying: If you want to hide a tree, hide it in a forest.

Some community users had set up bases within Seoul itself.

They didn’t dig bunkers but repurposed corners of mundane structures, such as apartments, into hideouts.

One such person was Gijayangban (Reporter Guy), who often shared fresh updates from within Seoul.

He had welded his apartment door shut and carved an entrance through the ceiling of the apartment below—because the family living downstairs had all committed suicide.

Recently, Reporter Guy was living up to his name.

Gijayangban: “Here’s the current situation in Seoul.jpg”

The photo showed hundreds of thousands of enraged citizens crowding the area in front of the government building.

And it wasn’t just there.

Citizens appeared near nearly every government office, staging protests.

Seoul was in complete upheaval.

It was a predictable outcome.

There’s only so much you can cover with sweet talk about hope before reality breaks through.

The protests were becoming increasingly violent and chaotic.

The slogans had also simplified, boiling down to just one demand:

Save us.

That was all they wanted.

The plane called Seoul was beginning its descent.

The community’s response was cold.

Anonymous848: “Serves them right. They mocked us so much.”

Kyle_Dos: “I still remember that TV show ridiculing us. What did they call us again?”

Anonymous458: “A group of delusional misfits choosing to isolate themselves from society.”

I could understand their sentiments.

This country has a habit of establishing a model life trajectory and mercilessly ridiculing anyone who deviates from it.

As survivalists, we were those outcasts—targets of significant social ridicule and persecution.

Even I had been called schizophrenic by government officials when trying to get construction permits.

Meanwhile, the stream of refugees was accelerating.

Those who still had the will to escape were trying to leave Seoul.

The so-called pioneers were refugees operating under military supervision.

If they applied to be pioneers and formed a group, they’d be given weapons, equipment, and a little food. If their efforts to settle a new area succeeded, they’d receive additional resources and support for permanent settlement.

How many of them would actually succeed was unclear, but in the process of scouring every livable area, they were making life hell for community members like us.

Defender: “[Verification Image]”

Even Human Hunter seemed busy lately.

He hadn’t posted on the forum in a while, likely because he was occupied with killing people and burying the bodies.

But one of his verification photos sparked a small controversy.

The shadow in the image seemed slender, almost feminine.

This, to me, reflected the pervasive gloom of the times.

In the past, a photo of a corpse would have sent people rushing to hit the back button or left them swallowing hard at the sight of stiff, chilling bodies.

Now, having seen so many corpses, they had the mental bandwidth to fixate on other details.

One user even zoomed in on the shadow, traced its silhouette in MS Paint, and started a debate about whether Defender was a woman.

Unicorn18: “Look at this line. Is Defender really a woman?”

The uproar sparked by Unicorn18 briefly heated the forum but didn’t last long.

Defender: “I’ll come find you.”

With that, Defender himself shut it down.

The idea of Human Hunter being a woman?

I was skeptical.

I’d seen his shoe prints. They were men’s sizes.

And there’s another reason.

Sure, with a gun, a woman could kill a man easily.

But dragging and disposing of dead bodies? That’s no small feat.

Even for me, dealing with a few corpses leaves me utterly exhausted.

And Human Hunter? He kills and disposes of intruders daily.

Even a strong man would find it tough.

For a woman? Near impossible.

SKELTON: (Skeleton’s Take) “Defender seems like a man to me.”

I chimed in with my opinion, but it didn’t even get a single like.

Why did he even send me a friend request if this was how it’d be?

Meanwhile, the refugee issue that was lighting up the forum remained far removed from my life.

Thanks to the capsule.

A small number of military personnel and rookie hunters were stationed around the capsule, blocking the road and standing guard.

They were likely fresh graduates from their hunter training schools.

Thanks to them, I hadn’t heard gunfire in a while.

“Hey, are you still alive?”

It had gotten so quiet that I reached out to the sniper mother and daughter.

“Medicine.”

The sniper’s usual response was to ask for medicine.

“Morphine. Do you have any?”

She especially wanted painkillers—probably drugs.

How exhausting must her life be, living atop a high building, unwashed and underfed, fending off anyone who dared approach?

I occasionally considered offering them one of my decoy bunkers.

But it wouldn’t be easy.

Even if I invited them, they probably wouldn’t come.

And honestly, I didn’t trust her either.

A sudden gunshot could bring our nearly two-year acquaintance to an abrupt end.

It had been 1 year and 11 months since the war began.

The worst of the heat had subsided, and the self-sown rice in the fields had begun to turn golden, bending low under its weight.

While Seoul grew increasingly chaotic, I enjoyed the peace of harvesting the small amount of rice I’d cultivated, packing it into sacks, and preparing to mill it.

I’d never milled rice before, but I figured I could manage with some tutorial videos.

As a city boy, I had learned a few things from Kim Elder, and I figured I’d at least get a bowl of rice out of it.

After all, even trial and error can be enjoyable for someone like me.

For people like us, whose lives are already set, time isn’t an asset but an obligation to spend.

I was heading back to my territory, slinging the sack of rice and my gun over my shoulder, when my K-Walkie emitted a distinctive signal.

A personal ID transmission.

Was it Lee Sang-hoon again?

I could choose to answer or not—it was entirely up to me.

Seoul was turning into less of a meaningful hinterland and more of a disaster zone.

I checked the transmission.

Personal ID: DARAM

It wasn’t Lee Sang-hoon. It was Kim Daram.

This guy was just as annoying as Lee Sang-hoon, but at least he’d suffered under my command before. Out of old camaraderie, I answered.

“Long time no see, Commissioner Kim.”

I was prepared to reject whatever favor or request he was about to make.

After all, the capsule was proving to be quite the multi-talented friend.

The first sound that came from the walkie-talkie was a sigh.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I waited to hear what he had to say.

“Lee Sang-hoon is dead.”

“What?”

For a moment, I doubted my ears.

“Lee Sang-hoon? My classmate Lee Sang-hoon is dead?”

“Yes, your fellow classmate, Lee Sang-hoon.”

I’d never liked him.

I didn’t think I’d feel anything if he died.

But fate has a way of clinging to you in unexpected ways.

Lee Sang-hoon’s death hit me harder than I’d anticipated.

After all, we’d spent ten years in the same space, fighting and even saving each other’s lives.

The clearest memories, ironically, were from when our relationship was at its worst—back in school.

Now, those gray, dust-covered memories resurfaced vividly, overtaking my mind.

I saw him sitting in the front row of the classroom, his shaved head bobbing as he eagerly raised his hand to ask questions.

He always knew the answers but shamelessly asked questions anyway to curry favor with the instructors.

For some reason, that irritating sight filled my mind.

Slightly disoriented, I pressed the walkie-talkie closer and demanded, “How did he die? Was it in battle? Or was he caught up in the protests?”

“Suicide.”

The moment I heard that, the image of school-age Lee Sang-hoon flashed before me again—this time, turning around to look at me.

His face was so blurry I couldn’t make out his features.

What did he even look like?

Lee Sang-hoon...

Lost in thought, I forced out the words.

“...Why?”

My voice was rough and shaky, even to my own ears.

Kim Daram sighed deeply before responding in a resigned tone.

“Someone always has to take responsibility, right?”