From Seoul to Paju.

Not that far of a distance.

In fact, it’s practically a stone’s throw away.

But short distance doesn’t always guarantee a quick arrival.

Bang! Tatatatang!

Gunfire rang out.

The convoy came to a halt.

There were three people in the truck I was riding.

A silent driver, an officer with sergeant stripes who looked seasoned at a glance, and me—Park Gyu.

“Are there still marauders around these days?”

I asked the officer beside me.

He nodded.

“There aren’t marauders anymore. Seoul absorbed them all. But lowlifes from other places have started leaking in.”

He added, with open hostility.

“Yeah. Wae-gu.”

Whether it was true or not, the Japanese government had bragged until last summer that it was maintaining a population of 100 million.

So-called the only normal country in Asia—no, in the world—they stuck their noses in the air, cut diplomatic ties with wartime ally Korea, and flaunted their superiority.

Everyone knows what happened when Korea’s refugee fleet entered their waters—Japanese warships fired artillery and sank the vessels.

When that “great” Japan collapsed, it created a wave of refugees.

And like their ancestors, those refugees headed out to sea, committing all sorts of maritime atrocities along the way.

They appeared off Jeju’s coast, in Korea, in Hainan where Chinese nobles gathered, across Vietnam ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) and all of Southeast Asia, even in Australia, Oceania, the jewel-like islands of the Pacific, and reportedly, as far as the western coast of the United States.

In that sense, the term “Wae-gu” isn’t so much a slur as it is a historically accurate label for their ongoing piracy.

Naturally, many Japanese end up flocking to Korea, the closest nation.

There are as many Koreans fluent in Japanese as there are Japanese fluent in Korean, and while mastering each other’s language is tough, picking it up isn’t too hard.

Over 40,000 Japanese refugees had once settled in Seoul—only to be massacred en masse by the Skull Brigade.

The details are unclear, but it’s said that Defender’s ruthless soldiers killed all the men and children, sparing only the young women.

The elderly weren’t spared because there were no elderly among them to begin with.

Not all were killed, of course.

Some escaped Seoul, became marauders, and now lurk around the outskirts.

It was this group of Japanese that held up our time-sensitive convoy.

“If we had even one armored vehicle, this wouldn’t be a problem.”

All 24 vehicles in the convoy were now stuck in the middle of the road.

We couldn’t really blame poor planning.

The road connecting the Paju Crack and New Seoul was one of the few deemed safe.

Construction workers had repaired the roads, and drones and military vehicles patrolled it frequently.

But a recent monster eruption and a riot suppression operation in the Japanese zone just three days ago had left the route in this state.

According to the latest intel, a group of Japanese had occupied a hill 200 meters above sea level overlooking the road, blocking passage and demanding some food and medicine.

I used my binocular-style observation gear tucked inside my jacket to look at the group entrenched on the hill.

I spotted armed Japanese figures.

Three had emerged from cover, all wielding unfamiliar rifles—very Japanese.

Even from this distance, they looked pitiful and worn down.

They seemed to have fled from Seoul, set up camp after repeated escapes, and turned to banditry out of necessity.

A quick drone recon confirmed there were about twenty of them in total. No signs of ambush units, no heavy weapons, no heavy gear.

Not a particularly troublesome force.

Still, the terrain made them hard to flush out without heavy gear or a group of skilled combatants.

Someone with my marksmanship could shoot all three visible heads simultaneously and initiate the attack.

But the convoy troops, while technically military, were far from elite—and most were just contract workers.

This road had long been classified safe, and pre-departure drone recon had confirmed there were no major threats.

But small groups like this often slip through large-scale recon nets.

“Maybe we should just give them what they’re asking for.”

That’s what I thought.

Maybe that’s selfish of me, but I didn’t want to waste time dealing with this ragtag group.

It wasn’t like they were asking for much, either.

They probably didn’t want a fight, either.

It’s like a rat cornered in a dead-end alley, raising its hackles and asking for a bit of cheese.

The convoy leader didn’t see it the same way.

The man named Captain Bang Jung-woon had a huge frame—easily 190cm—and a booming voice to match. Charismatic, boisterous.

And a bigger vision than mine.

“We can’t let this slide.”

He spoke loudly, his smiling face full of confidence.

“These Jap bastards need to be taught some manners.”

The sergeant beside me, Im Jeong-pil, was one of the few who knew my true identity and mission.

You could tell he was from the mainland by the scar running across his cheek.

He had been through a few battles, even bedridden from injuries.

He was one of the combat troops assigned per vehicle.

He was meant to deal with situations like this, but his thinking aligned with mine.

“I don’t see the point in wasting strength on guys like that.”

Like most mainland warlords, he had more experience with irregular warfare than formal engagements—especially raids against marauders.

“No matter how weak they look, fighting desperate punks never ends well. They bite.”

Im Jeong-pil wasn’t avoiding combat just because of experience.

A framed family photo sat on the dash.

It showed a younger version of him, a woman, and a boy—different snapshots from different years.

He must’ve married young; though he looked mid-thirties, his son already looked like a high schooler.

“Your son? He looks older than that.”

“He’s still in middle school.”

“Middle school? He looks way past 180cm already.”

“Kids grow fast these days. We were in Wonju—honestly, nutrition and welfare were way better there before it collapsed.”

“I see. So he’s in school now?”

“Yes, though...”

“?”

“He’s got Awakened aptitude.”

“Awakened?”

“Yeah. We won’t know the exact stats until he blossoms, but his basic test result came back white-grade.”

“Oh, so he might become a regular Awakened?”

“Maybe. But I’m not sure. I’ve heard the perks of being a regular Awakened aren’t as great as they sound.”

Whenever he spoke of his son, the deep scar across Im Jeong-pil’s face would soften.

Then the siren blared.

Assembly order.

Im Jeong-pil slung his weapon and opened the door.

“This is a waste of time.”

But his opinion held no weight with Bang Jung-woon.

“I don’t think it’s just about our convoy being robbed by some foreigners on Korean soil,” he declared. “It’s a national disgrace, an insult to the Republic of Korea itself.”

He gathered the driver, laborers, and combat troops and gave a short, loud speech. Then he outlined the plan.

“We’re going to wipe them out.”

The soldiers—especially the seasoned combat troops—visibly grimaced.

They were all veterans like Im Jeong-pil. They knew how dangerous even desperate small groups could be.

A man whose pinkies looked like they’d been worn down to stubs raised his hand.

Bang Jung-woon didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t give him the floor.

But the man voiced his thoughts in a voice like scraping iron.

“This mission is unnecessary.”

Bang Jung-woon glared at him, offended. But the staff sergeant didn’t so much as flinch.

He met Bang Jung-woon’s gaze and finished his sentence confidently.

“Just give them what they want. It’s barely anything.”

This is what a military looks like during the apocalypse.

Rank matters less than strength and experience.

You can’t throw your weight around just because you’re an officer.

Step out of line, and someone might stick a gun to your head and pull the trigger—that’s the battlefield these days.

There’s a reason soldiers use honorifics so diligently now.

Jeju held onto formal discipline longer, but once mainland soldiers transferred, they had to adapt fast.

Bang Jung-woon, to his credit, had adapted too—rather than raise his voice or get angry, he tried a different tone.

“I understand your concerns. Maybe this fight isn’t necessary. But before we’re a convoy, we’re soldiers of the Republic of Korea. I believe we must remove threats that could obstruct future missions.”

Murmurs spread through the soldiers.

Discontent. Even light curses.

Bang Jung-woon quickly added:

“I’ve come up with a plan. No one will get hurt.”

The plan sounded like something out of ancient history—or a drama.

It involved negotiation, betrayal, and annihilation.

“We draw them into a parley, pretend to offer supplies, and cut them down. The drone recon said there are only a few men—most are women. If we take out three, the rest will lose the will to fight.”

The soldiers grumbled, but Bang Jung-woon seemed determined to carry out his proposal.

Im Jeong-pil muttered as he came back to me.

“Looks like he’s pulling this stunt for career points.”

“Career points?”

“Being a convoy commander means jack shit. You have to shine somewhere like this if you want a shot at getting a major’s bars.”

Honestly, the plan didn’t look too bad.

The enemy lacked experience and had few real fighters.

And if too few came to the negotiation, they’d just drop the plan and give them what they wanted.

Above all, Bang Jung-woon was taking the riskiest role—going to the parley himself.

The commander, unarmed, walking up to armed enemies. No one could really object to that.

Even Im Jeong-pil gave a nod of respect on that point.

“Still... I’ve got a bad feeling.”

The operation began.

The atmosphere wasn’t too tense.

When Bang Jung-woon walked unarmed toward the hill, the Japanese sent all three visible figures down as negotiators.

They probably knew it wasn’t wise, but courage isn’t a common currency.

Most people can’t go alone or stake their life on it.

But when you’ve got comrades beside you, even the faint-hearted find courage.

Snipers had been positioned in the truck corners.

Im Jeong-pil was one of them.

I wanted to join, but he stopped me.

He argued it wouldn’t help for someone disguised as a crack laborer to stand out, and he was absolutely right.

Bang Jung-woon stood tall at the negotiation spot, flashing his usual smile as he greeted the Japanese.

The exhausted and emaciated Japanese approached, hesitantly.

With a bright grin, Bang Jung-woon spoke in Japanese.

“Konnichiwa!”

That was the signal.

Bang!

Multiple gunshots rang out like a single blast.

The three Japanese collapsed instantly.

As Bang Jung-woon ducked and sprinted back, our troops appeared and advanced in loose formation up the hill.

The fight didn’t last long.

Without even one decent gunshot from them, the Japanese marauders raised the white flag.

It looked like a flawless victory.

But soon after the soldiers reached the hill’s blind spot—an explosion echoed.

An explosive device.

Gunfire erupted, frantic and chaotic, across the hillside.

A chill swept through the entire convoy.

Then the gunfire stopped.

Bloodied soldiers emerged from the ridge’s crest. A combatant gave the report:

“Suicide bomb attack. Two injured, one dead. All enemies neutralized.”

As they descended, another death was reported.

The one who died had been beside me just moments ago, bragging about his son.

They said he survived for a while even after the blast—his body grotesque—before finally succumbing.

I looked at Bang Jung-woon standing in the distance.

He wore a strange expression—smile or fury, it was hard to tell.

Eventually, face frozen, he averted his gaze and climbed back into the truck.

“Move out!”

The deputy relayed the order.

As soldiers buried the fallen, the convoy started rolling again.

“Nothing happened.”

The driver, silent until now, finally spoke.

“Same as always.”

I understood what he meant.

Someone died, and Bang Jung-woon would be rewarded.

He’d get promoted, climb higher.

Thinking this way is wrong—but we’ve gotten used to this wrongness.

The convoy crawled forward, tail after tail, down the paved road.

After a few mountains and bridges, we reached familiar scenery and met the glowing eyes of those waiting.

Beyond them—the Crack.

A thought surfaced from deep within.

If, as some claim, the Crack has a will—what would this world look like through its eyes?

“······.”

Probably not beautiful.

Maybe even disgusting, revolting.

That’s what I think.