NoveLight ™
Before the apocalypse struck, one of the most popular threads on Viva! Apocalypse! was titled “Show Off Your Shelter.”
Survivalists from around the world shared glimpses of their refuges, inspiring their peers who walked the same path.
Each showcased shelter had its merits—enough to make one nod in agreement at their ingenuity.
Not all shelters involved digging bunkers or constructing defensive structures.
One Canadian user, for example, had mastered the techniques of Native Americans to such a degree that they demonstrated living completely off the grid without cumbersome equipment or construction.
Their "shelter" was the endless expanse of the primeval forest.
On the other hand, there were wealthy users whose sheer displays of extravagance silenced any critics.
Take the Arabian oil tycoon who boasted a luxury yacht worth billions, fully equipped with survival essentials, private security, and even a helicopter. No one dared to question his setup.
In Korea, the most extravagant shelter belonged to Chairman Park Cheol-joo, a scion of a powerful chaebol family.
Perched atop a hill, his fortress was nothing short of a small self-sustaining world. It featured grandiose walls, agricultural and livestock facilities, and even a modest golf course.
However, the fortress met its end unexpectedly when artillery fire rained down, leaving it in ruins.
For no discernible reason, the Legion faction’s artillery unit launched a barrage, and the chaebol’s fortress crumbled helplessly under their firepower.
Since then, few have heard anything about the fate of the chaebol family.
It was two days after the Jeju fleet’s arrival that they came to my territory.
*
Message from unicorn18:
"Hey, Nuna! When’s the next beatbox upload?! I’m totally vibing right now! (@@ )( @^))(@@ )( @@)"
Lately, unicorn18 has been sending me messages every day.
I think I know why, but it’s starting to feel a little overwhelming. Still, it’s probably best to just ignore it.
“…”
Strategic ambiguity.
And it seems to work.
“Hey, senior.”
Not long after I uploaded SKELTON’s Beatbox (4), Woo Min-hee reached out directly.
“You don’t have some kind of weird hobby, do you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“N-never mind, forget it.”
She abruptly cut off the transmission, almost like she was running away.
I have no way of knowing what was going through her head, but maybe—just maybe—she had started to suspect me, SKELTON, even just a little.
Well, anyone might be suspicious if they noticed the identical personal identification numbers and usernames between me and my Viva! Apocalypse! handle.
The debates on Failnet and our own boards have been heating up.
The main topic? As always, the Jeju evacuation fleet.
The government’s recently released video shows a procession of ships docked at the serene blue Jeju harbor, unloading countless people.
Everyone who arrived seemed overjoyed, embracing either waiting family members or what looked like welcoming crowds.
In a time like this, where there’s little reason to smile, it was a heartwarming video. But, as always, some claim it’s all fake, a fabricated illusion.
Leading the charge among skeptics is none other than m9, the most infamous figure on the Jeju forum.
No one knows what he did for a living before the apocalypse, but now m9 has appointed himself as South Korea’s top fake-video analyst.
m9's posts on the Jeju forum:
“00:13 — Upper left corner: The woman in the purple jumper’s hand creates visible noise artifacts.”
“03:37 — Close-up of a man: The angle of light reflecting in his pupils doesn’t match the way it reflects off the child’s hair beside him.”
“04:10 — The trawler visible in the upper-left corner has a mismatched shadow direction. Q.E.D., proven fake.”
“...What.”
I have no clue what he’s going on about.
I’ve never delved into that kind of analysis, and frankly, doubting everything is exhausting.
Still, watching the keyboard wars between optimists and skeptics is oddly entertaining.
Time flies when you’re watching someone else’s “homework.”
But before I get too distracted, I have more pressing matters.
It’s time to sort my supplies.
Rustle.
The once-endless supply in my food storage is starting to show empty spaces.
My freezer, in particular, is being heavily depleted—a deliberate choice.
Even with electricity, I’ve realized that running a freezer for nearly three years has risks.
When the power inevitably goes out, it becomes a huge liability.
While stockpiling is essential, it’s only sustainable with an infinite power supply and absolute security—neither of which I have.
Although my territory is relatively safe, nowhere is truly 100% secure. Another crisis could strike at any moment.
It’s better to reduce my reliance on frozen foods, converting what I can into preserved forms like smoked meat, pemmican, jerky, or sausages.
The biggest nuisance right now is the game animals Gold brought me.
After dropping off a boar, two roe deer, and three of each—chickens and pheasants—Gold hasn’t returned.
Apparently, in Gold’s mind, this offering was sufficient payment for his medical treatment.
So, according to him, his life is worth precisely:
I devoured the birds in a frenzy, but the four-legged game is another story—especially the venison.
I can’t bring myself to eat it. Even boar meat is a stretch for me, and venison is just… too much.
Maybe I’m just not hungry enough yet.
The fact that I’m still picky about food in this hellish world speaks volumes.
Still, roe deer meat is an excellent source of protein.
I’ve heard that venison is packed with nutrients.
How can I prepare it?
After some thought, I decided sausages would be best.
Unlike jerky, sausages don’t shrink as much, and they’re relatively easy to preserve.
Fortunately, I have the equipment and ingredients on hand.
I got to work immediately, finishing the partial skinning job and butchering the carcass.
I separated the meat and fat from the bones, a process that took quite a bit of time.
My radio, transceiver, and communication devices sat nearby, just in case.
Whirrrr.
The minced meat fell into a large bowl.
Next came the white fat—pork fat, not roe deer fat.
When making sausages, pork fat is the go-to for flavor and texture.
It’s best to grind the fat with crushed ice for a smoother mixture.
The ground red meat filled half the bowl, now topped with a white, sauce-like layer of minced fat.
So far, so good.
Today, I’ll finish one batch, and tomorrow I’ll tackle the rest—maybe even the boar meat.
I don’t know how it’ll taste, but hunger has a way of improving even the worst meals.
Just as I was about to pick up the pace, I heard a car horn in the distance.
Was it the Pioneer Corps?
I removed my gloves and looked through my periscope.
A single jeep was parked near the road leading to the U.S. base.
It didn’t seem to be the Pioneer Corps—they weren’t flying their usual flashy flags.
Who could it be?
As I observed, my transceiver crackled to life.
"Static—Hunter Park Gyu? Are you alive?"
A young woman’s voice.
It sounded familiar.
While I racked my brain trying to recall, she spoke again.
"This is Ji Young-hee. You helped me before. Are you there?"
Why does she keep asking if I’m alive?
I could respond, but for now, I chose to ignore it.
If she needed me, she’d come closer, and I could gauge her group’s size and intent without direct contact.
Returning my attention to the mixing bowl, I resumed kneading.
The key is to mix curing salt containing sodium nitrite evenly.
Sodium nitrite in excess of 10 grams can be lethal, but without it, deadly bacteria could grow in the sausage.
So, to avoid poisoning myself, I had to knead thoroughly.
As I worked, I kept an eye on the activity outside.
After about 30 cycles of kneading and observing, the jeep remained stationary, and Ji Young-hee hadn’t transmitted again.
Then, another convoy appeared near the U.S. base—larger this time.
A massive group.
The fleet included a container trailer, two large trucks, and five SUVs—a convoy of significant scale.
Alarmed, I halted my work and checked my weapons: firearms, ammunition, grenades, recoilless rifles, and Claymores.
I even prepped my Javelin launcher, connecting the battery just in case.
The sharp tone of the Javelin powering up filled the air.
I sent a quick update to the Sniper and her daughter:
“There’s a large convoy near my territory. It’s far from you, but stay alert.”
Soo answered, "Got it. Let us know if anything happens."
I appreciated her concern but had no intention of dragging them into this.
This wasn’t a fight where a few extra hands would make a difference.
Bringing them into such a lopsided battle would be tantamount to asking them to die with me.
Even I, Park Gyu, wouldn’t stoop so low.
By evening, the convoy was still at the U.S. base.
Though obscured by trailers and cargo, it seemed they were setting up some kind of operation.
I sent another update to Defender:
“There’s activity near the U.S. base. It’s not the Pioneer Corps, but I’m unsure of their intent. Be cautious.”
Satisfied for now, I returned to making sausages.
After thoroughly mixing the meat, seasonings, and MSG, I loaded the mixture into collagen casings.
For a first attempt, the sausages turned out surprisingly well.
Once I finished about ten sausages, I glanced back toward the U.S. base—and froze.
“...What?”
They were having a barbecue.
Fifteen people, men and women, gathered around a grill. Each held a glass of beer, smiling as they watched their food cook.
Even though the smell couldn’t possibly reach me, the sight of large metal skewers loaded with vegetables and meat sizzling over charcoal was enough to make me imagine the aroma wafting toward me.
A fleeting thought crossed my mind:
Were they trying to lure me out with food?
“...”
No, that would be giving myself too much credit.
Still, the scene managed to ease some of my tension.
I spoke into the transceiver.
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
This time, I introduced myself.
“This is Park Gyu. Do you remember me?”
*
"It's been a while, Hunter Park Gyu. We were worried something might’ve happened since you hadn't been in touch," Ji Young-hee greeted me.
This time, she wasn’t accompanied by her father.
I didn’t bother asking about him.
More importantly, standing in front of me, glaring at me with sharp, intense eyes, was someone far more notable: Park Cheol-joo, the chairman of Seokju Group, one of South Korea’s top two conglomerates—though now, barely a trace of their former glory remains.
Instead of speaking to me directly, Park leaned toward a middle-aged man who seemed to be one of his subordinates, whispering something in his ear.
The man then turned to Ji Young-hee, saying something that made her wave her hands in protest.
"Hunter Park Gyu isn’t that kind of person. He lives here alone. My father and I have confirmed it several times."
It seemed like I was the one being suspected.
I couldn’t blame them. I’ve always been wary of others, wondering if they’re raiders—but to strangers, I must look just as suspicious.
In this world, being a young, armed man is enough to intimidate anyone, let alone someone labeled a “Hunter.” That alone could make anyone see me as a potential threat.
Ji Young-hee guided me to another table, away from the grill, to a dimly lit corner. Still, she brought over a plate piled high with meat and a glass of beer.
"I’m fine without the alcohol," I said.
"We have cola too."
"Then cola, please."
As she went to grab the soda, I picked up a piece of the meat to try.
“...!”
My eyes widened in astonishment.
Real beef.
It had been so long since I’d tasted beef this good.
And it wasn’t just the beef—the bell peppers and green onions threaded on the skewer were fresh and vibrant.
I devoured one skewer in no time, savoring every bite.
Ji Young-hee returned, watching me.
"Would you like more?"
"No, this is enough. Thank you. More importantly, what brings you here?"
As I slowly finished the rest of the plate, she began explaining.
However, Ji Young-hee didn’t share anything about herself—nothing about why she was with the Seokju Group, nor about her father’s current whereabouts.
Instead, she spoke calmly about the purpose of the people she was with.
"We’re planning to go to Japan," she said.
"Japan?"
I almost couldn’t believe my ears.
Japan?
Right now, Japan has a strict isolation policy. No ships, planes, or people are allowed entry or exit.
There were even rumors of a refugee ship carrying thousands from Busan being sunk by Japanese warships.
Hearing someone talk about going to Japan sounded, to me, like a death wish.
"Japan? Isn’t that too dangerous?"
"We’ve secured permission. The chairman has connections with Japanese politicians."
"I see. And where in Japan are you headed?"
"The Ogasawara Islands," she said with a smile, taking out her phone.
She showed me photos—likely taken for promotional purposes—of the idyllic tropical scenery of the islands.
"The chairman told us," she added, her smile radiant.
"He said, ‘Let’s leave this hell and go to paradise.’"
Her smile was so genuinely happy that I couldn’t bring myself to ask how they planned to get there.
In a world like this, I know how difficult it is to hold onto even a small shred of hope.
I’d had a good meal, and that was enough for me.
The next day, as I continued making roe deer sausages, I kept a distant watch on their operations.
I saw a forklift pulling something large out of a shipping container.
The moment I realized what it was, I couldn’t stop myself from exclaiming aloud.
An airplane.
It wasn’t assembled yet, but the sleek, silver fuselage radiated hope.
That elegant structure seemed to hold the promise of taking them anywhere in the world.