Defender: Proof.

Defender reappeared with his latest kill confirmation, and the victims this time were all soldiers.

They looked like something out of World War II Nazi Germany, adorned with an absurd number of badges and medals.

While people say these decorations represent the bittersweet reality of a nation that claims to have transitioned to a volunteer military but continues to rely heavily on conscription, they aren’t exactly a pleasant sight to behold.

The larger and more numerous the badges, the more seasoned the soldier—something well-known to both military personnel and civilians alike.

The soldiers Defender had killed were covered in badges, their shoulders weighed down by the sheer number.

They were most likely career soldiers tasked with guarding the frontlines.

Defender: The cold wave saved me.

The soldiers in Defender’s photos showed no visible injuries.

They had all frozen to death.

Caught off guard by the sudden cold wave, they likely fell asleep, unable to cope, and never woke up.

The unrelenting cold claimed countless lives, arriving without warning.

For those living in harsh conditions with no proper heating or insulation, it was a death sentence.

Countless people died, and even more suffered from frostbite.

The deceptively warm days leading up to the cold snap, which had felt almost like spring, only worsened the casualties.

Take the people who froze to death near my territory, for example.

In Seoul, they said there was at least one frostbite victim per household.

Just three years ago, the city’s chimneys would emit white clouds of steam in winter. Now, black smoke rose everywhere as people burned piles of corpses.

At every corner and plaza, bodies were stacked and burned. The living warmed themselves by the flames, as if offering solace to the frozen dead.

Seoul’s decline had been ongoing for some time, but this cold wave was a devastating blow.

Fortunately, us doomsday survivalists weathered the storm well.

A few inactive users disappeared, but among those I knew, no one had died, and the population on the forum hadn’t significantly decreased.

Still, everyone knew things weren’t going to improve.

And they were right.

Message from Defender: The deserters from the Legion are turning into small raider groups and pillaging everywhere.

Message from Defender: I think I need to move soon.

In the east, deserters from the Legion were wreaking havoc.

These deserters posed a far greater threat than any enemy we had faced so far.

To make matters worse, users living near the frontlines confessed that their territories had been overrun by monsters and mutations.

lifeismagic: Since the soldiers stopped guarding the frontlines, monsters and mutations are crossing over freely from the North.

Anonymous213: I live in Sokcho, and a monster just strolled into the outskirts. The area around it started turning weird—kind of gray. Nobody could do anything about it.

qwer740128: I’m in Hanam, and I’ve never seen a mutation before now. So this is what you’ve been living with?

The western region, where I lived, was relatively safe.

Centered around Incheon and western Seoul, the government, along with the military and National Assembly, had managed to preserve some semblance of order.

But the outlying areas were unraveling.

Boss_domingo: The pioneers are acting up again.

keystone: I thought we were safe after the last group froze to death, but now another batch has shown up.

Anonymous848: It’ll probably get worse when it warms up. They call them pioneers, but really, they’re just people abandoned by the government.

The weakening of the Legion likely meant the National Assembly faction was regaining its footing, possibly redirecting the pioneers back to the frontlines.

Before winter’s tranquility could truly end, the new year was already demanding payment in full.

Crackle—

My K-walkie caught a garbled frequency.

“Park Gyu? Park Gyu?”

An unfamiliar voice called my name.

Whose voice was this?

I recognized it, but I couldn’t immediately place it.

“This is Baek… It’s Baek Seung-hyun… I’m here…”

The heavy static could have been caused by nearby signal interference or increased sunspot activity, but the most likely reason was the distance.

Adjusting the frequency for long-range communication, the voice became clearer.

“This is Baek Seung-hyun. If you can hear me, please respond.”

So, it was him.

An upperclassman from my hunter training days.

He was known for handling the dirtiest jobs for the National Crisis Management Committee.

But why was he contacting me?

The last time I saw him, he was working under a much younger subordinate, being called an “old man” while doing menial labor.

I was slightly relieved to know he was alive, but I was also uneasy—especially since he was reaching out to me from such a distance.

“I heard from Kim Daram that you live in this area. If you’re there, please respond. I have something important to discuss.”

Hearing Kim Daram’s name stirred something inside me, but a cold rationality quickly stomped it out like a boot on my chest.

I held back and waited for his next words.

“Kim Daram said you were around here. She’s in grave danger and is requesting rescue. Only you can save her, Park Gyu. Are you nearby? She said you were in this area.”

Baek Seung-hyun kept talking.

But the longer he spoke, the less sincerity I felt in his words.

From the faint sound of grumbling in the background, I could tell there was at least one other person with him.

“This doesn’t seem like the place,” the unidentified voice muttered faintly through the speaker.

The transmission cut off, but in the distance, I heard the fading roar of a motorcycle engine—a familiar sound from my memories.

Baek Seung-hyun was leaving, taking with him a lingering unease and a chilling sense of foreboding.

“······.”

I once read in a book that as the apocalypse progresses, it eventually reaches a stage where humans begin eating one another.

It feels like we’ve entered that stage now.

*

The chaos began three days after the mass deaths at the golf course.

“This is the 22nd Pioneer Corps Headquarters. This is the 22nd Pioneer Corps Headquarters. If there are any survivors from the 333rd Pioneer Unit, please respond. I repeat, if there are any survivors from the 333rd Pioneer Unit, please respond.”

The pioneers had returned to my territory.

The flag fluttering atop a distant 5-ton truck bore an emblem I recognized—perhaps I’d seen it back at the apartment complex overrun by "cat moms," where the elderly were abandoned and left to die.

“Looks like they’re all dead. May they rest in peace. We’ll take care of the bodies and equipment.”

Even after driving so many people to their deaths, the voice over the radio sounded disturbingly cheerful.

“Oh, really?”

The unsettling drawl was followed by eerie silence.

Then, moments later, mocking laughter filled the static before a man’s voice rang out, clear and menacing.

“There’s someone here, isn’t there? Someone alive, right? Took all the good guns but left the stripped ones behind, huh?”

Human insight isn’t as extraordinary as people like to think. In the end, judgments are always made from a first-person perspective.

At the time, I made the best judgment I could: retrieving usable firearms and removing the firing pins from the rest. If another refugee or raider got their hands on an automatic rifle, I’d be their closest and most immediate target.

But who could’ve predicted that the cold wave’s retreat would bring the Pioneer Corps down on me so quickly and efficiently?

The bodies at the golf course had no flags. Perhaps they discarded such useless symbols of survival amidst the deadly cold.

“I’ll give you one minute.”

The voice over the radio demanded attendance in a low, ominous tone.

“You messed with the wrong person. I’m Colonel Cho Sung-yong of the 22nd Pioneer Corps. Cho Sung-yong, the Chihuahua! Once I bite down, I never let go!”

From the ridge overlooking the golf course, drones rose into the sky like a swarm of hornets. Pioneer troops spread out, searching the area on foot and in various vehicles, including several trucks, an SUV, and even a lightweight armored car.

As expected, my barren territory—camouflaged to resemble a desolate graveyard—went unnoticed.

One drone passed low over my area but soon veered off elsewhere. With all systems powered down and the pipelines sealed, I sat in silence, listening to their communications on my radio.

“Colonel, this is Ko Min-soo. We’ve combed the old U.S. base but found nothing.”

“This is Ha Choong-soo. We’ve searched all units of the Shinwha Apartments. Nothing to report.”

“Sir! Sergeant Kang Min-jae here. We’ve finished sweeping the ruins of Dongil-ri but found no survivors. Should we continue searching?”

This Pioneer unit was heavily armed and well-equipped, their frequent radio chatter revealing an organized and professional operation.

Perhaps they didn’t bother with security, or maybe they deliberately broadcasted on a public frequency to intimidate anyone listening.

For someone like me, forced into silence, the constant radio chatter was a form of psychological warfare.

Colonel Cho Sung-yong excelled at this, leveraging his advantages to mentally corner his targets.

“Search the nearby streams. If someone’s hiding out, there’ll be signs—waste, foul odors. I’ve never met a single doomsday prepper who bothered with proper sewage systems. They’re all selfish bastards who think only of themselves. Look for pipes covered in shit stains.”

Cho’s words might’ve sent shivers down the spines of other survivalists listening in. But not me.

Having operated in China and observed countless survivor behaviors, I’d meticulously planned my bunker, studying international cases to prepare for the worst.

Sewage systems were a key consideration.

I’d learned about a case in India where rioters found and killed wealthy survivors by tracing the stench of human waste. Installing a septic tank wasn’t a simple decision—it required expensive equipment, and as a solo survivalist, I had to handle the sludge myself. But the effort had paid off.

“Colonel, the streams are clean. We found some agricultural intake pipes, but no human waste.”

The search team had ventured as close as the valley below my main bunker but found no trace of me.

“Is that so?”

Cho’s sigh of frustration crackled through the radio.

“Were there any raiders in this area?”

“No, sir. Reports mention remnants of U.S. forces holding a town and a pack of mutated dogs nearby. There’s also talk of a rogue group of wandering raiders in the southeast.”

“Recover the drones, recharge them, and search every accessible road. If anyone’s traveling by vehicle, they’ll leave tracks. Gather everyone.”

The pioneers regrouped at the golf course.

Even without listening to their radio chatter, it was obvious from the way they congregated—they hadn’t found me. They were leaving empty-handed.

Victory.

No, this wasn’t just my victory; it was a victory for individual survivalists everywhere.

While group survivalists like DSIRAE were gaining influence on the forums, they likely hadn’t faced an adversary this formidable. When deserters from the Legion start heading south, they might change their tune.

As the tension eased, hunger crept in. I pulled out a brick-hard piece of hardtack, placed it in a bowl, and poured lukewarm water over it from the purifier.

One of humanity’s many sad survival rations.

As I mashed the softened hardtack with my spoon, transforming it into a sticky porridge, the radio crackled to life again.

“Ko Min-soo, take your team and clean up the bodies.”

“Yes, sir. On it.”

“Sergeant Kang, sort the remaining firearms and hand the worst ones to the new recruits.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Pil-jae, contact headquarters and request more dogs.”

The stream of radio chatter ended with a chilling threat from Cho Sung-yong.

“Hey, thief. I know you’re listening. I know everything. Just wait. I’ll release the dogs in three days. Leave the stolen weapons and compensation at a spot visible from the golf course. This isn’t a warning; it’s a notice.”

The truck honked its horn, and the fully armed pioneers climbed into the covered bed. Cho Sung-yong, presumably staying in his vehicle the entire time, never showed his face.

Soon, the convoy disappeared over the ridge.

“······Phew.”

I’d survived this crisis somehow. But it was too soon to relax.

Feigning retreat and leaving behind surveillance was a classic tactic.

Sure enough, by evening, the hum of a drone buzzed overhead, heading northward. They’d left a drone behind, likely stationed high above to monitor the entire area.

And this wasn’t the end.

Cho had promised to release the "dogs" in three days.

I prepared for the worst.

I masked my scent, sprayed imported dog repellent across the area, and sealed all bunker entrances with dirt and rocks.

I moved supplies from the first floor of my main bunker to the generator room and laid out the claymores Rebecca had gifted me at regular intervals.

Knowing they favored tear gas, I ensured the ventilation system’s controls were fully operational.

Finally, I inspected my bullets and sharpened two axes to razor precision.

Three days later, two buses arrived at the golf course.

“?”

I assumed they’d brought two busloads of search dogs.

But the reality was stranger than fiction.

Cho’s "dogs" weren’t canines—they were ordinary people.

Locals, men and women, looking like bewildered neighbors plucked from their homes, now aimlessly wandering the barren, icy wilderness in -12°C windchill.

A loudspeaker blared from beyond the golf course.

“Dear citizens, there is a criminal here responsible for the deaths of dozens of people. Your task is to find that villain. Whoever finds them will be rewarded with first-class tickets to Jeju Island’s evacuation ship—for you and your family!”

To catch me, Park Gyu, over 100 people were mobilized.