People usually only take an interest in things that interest them.

I’m not the type to pick apart other people’s tastes or possessions the way Kim Daram does.

If anything, I’m indifferent.

But when it comes to post-apocalyptic housing, I’ve always been keenly interested.

In the early days of the war, my interest was only in bunkers, but as time went on, I found myself drawn to people’s living spaces themselves.

From a survivalist’s perspective, my first impression of Dies_Irae’s home was that it felt peaceful.

It took me a moment to dig the word “pastoral” out of my memory.

Yes—pastoral was the word.

The interior was smaller than it looked, with warm wooden floorboards, simple but sturdy beams and walls, nothing artificial. Every small, crude item inside was useful in some way. An unlit fireplace with a kettle resting on top.

The only artificial touch was a rough-hewn wooden desk with a monitor and keyboard on it.

Dies_Irae was standing by a small table, waiting for me.

His thin frame held a kind of unshakable solidity, radiating a weight beyond its actual mass.

His calm eyes, filled with unreadable meaning, left me with the feeling that there was a gulf I’d never be able to bridge.

I was sure of one thing—he was weaker than me.

But I also knew he wouldn’t be easy to kill.

My thoughts were cut off by his voice—casual, but with an edge.

“Skelton.”

I gave a slight bow and looked around again.

No one was serving him.

No women’s belongings, no trace of a woman’s scent.

The only thing in the air was a heavy, almost overpowering scent of cedar.

The air was chilly, no heating—completing the impression of austerity.

“Sit. Bit cold, isn’t it? I only run the heat in the early morning and at night. No annoying warlords anymore, but if too many smoke plumes rise at once, it causes trouble. Seoul’s in enough of a mess as it is.”

He picked up the kettle and poured a black liquid into a cup.

Coffee.

“Here. It should taste pretty good.”

I took a sip.

It was good—on par with the beans I’d gotten from DragonC.

He’d probably killed someone and taken it.

We drank in a strange silence—my eyes on empty space, his eyes fixed on my every movement.

“How is it?”

“Good. Better than I expected. Been a while.”

It was an honest impression—not flattery.

“Good. Glad you like it.”

Time to get to the point.

“I’m planning to stay at Foxgames’ bunker for a while.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll impose until winter’s over. Come spring, I’ll leave.”

“Where to?”

“Probably Sejong.”

“King—no, IAmJesus’ city.”

Dies_Irae smirked and nodded.

“Fine, under those terms. But you’ll have to hand over Foxgames’ bunker and all the equipment inside.”

“All the equipment too?”

I studied him before speaking again.

“Planning to set up an online forum? Or launch a game?”

A genuine question. In my mind, anything ‘Foxgames’ had nothing to do with Dies_Irae’s world.

“You never know. If Foxgames’ assets prove valuable later, I want to preserve them. You know I’ve known him a long time, and I’ve sorted out plenty of his... troubles.”

“Troubles?”

“Yeah. I’ve driven off refugees like Keystone did, killed a wandering mutation for him once, and done plenty of other favors. We’ve put in enough effort—ought to get something back.”

Whether it was true or not didn’t matter much.

Right now, the knife was in his hand.

Even if I could kill him personally, my group and his had such a gap in strength that there was no point calling it a negotiation.

“Fine. If that’s what you want. But there’s something I want too.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m planning to make a second PaleNet. I’d like to take only the parts related to that.”

“PaleNet, huh...”

A fleeting, strange smile crossed his lips—tinged with clear disapproval.

No surprise. Dies_Irae was a pureblood oldbie. He wouldn’t welcome copycat sites like PaleNet, Necropolis, or FoxWeb. He only recognized the original Viva! Apocalypse! forum friends.

To someone like him, even a small difference could feel as stark as heaven and hell.

He sat there with that odd, unnameable smile for a moment before speaking.

“I can’t give it to you for free.”

“You want something in return?”

“Not yet. But I might.”

“If ~Nоvеl𝕚ght~ it’s monster-related, I’ll take care of it.”

A spark of interest lit his eyes.

“Oh?”

I could tell—he liked that.

Of course. For the untrained, monsters were an impossible problem to handle.

“Fine. No troublesome monsters now, but there’s no harm in having Skelton’s word.”

“I can’t handle every monster—small types are my limit, and only with adequate support. I’ll take the risks, though.”

“That much I can do.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs the other way.

Watching him, I spoke again.

“And there’s one more thing I’d like to ask—”

“What do you think?” he cut me off.

I stared, and he smiled faintly.

“Your impression, seeing our group for the first time in two years?”

Sure enough, people who build communities tend to feel attachment to them. In that way, he was human enough.

“Much improved—scale, people, everything.”

“And?”

The smile deepened, a strange gleam in his eyes—something other than ordinary emotion.

What answer did he want?

I decided to touch on a sensitive subject.

“I noticed you have slaves. And you’re still hanging bodies like before.”

His smile broadened into a full grin, teeth showing.

“And? What do you think of the slaves? Do you like it?”

Was that something to be so delighted about?

Keeping my face neutral, I answered:

“Seems inefficient.”

“The slaves themselves—”

His grin vanished.

“—are inefficient.”

True enough. If he were running a mine or other labor-intensive operation, slaves might be useful.

But he just had a small hilltop domain.

Farming is work, sure, but not enough to require slaves—especially when modern farming tech can drastically cut labor needs.

Construction was the same—unless he was building a pyramid, there was no need.

So why keep a large number of abused slaves?

“It cheers up my family.”

I stared at him in silence.

“People feel good when they see someone beneath them. Koreans, especially, have that streak.”

“Just for that reason?”

“Remember when you visited before and saw them beat a woman to death?”

I nodded.

“Same principle. A community can rally around a heroic leader, lofty ideals, clear goals—but those are hard to achieve and easy to corrupt. So I built a wall of status between members.”

“Status?”

“Think of big companies—they split workers into contract and permanent, then split contracts into direct hires and temp agency. Permanent staff are split into office and production, then into high school hires, college hires, open recruits... Some call that discriminatory. I see it differently.”

I was starting to understand.

He smiled faintly and murmured:

“What if that finely sliced hierarchy itself is the company’s welfare?”

“Welfare?”

“Think about it. The company’s ‘real’ family is the regular staff—but not everyone can make department head. You have to give even the ones who can’t climb that high somewhere to feel superior.”

I stayed silent.

I understood, but I didn’t want to agree.

I’d seen the dreams of madmen beyond the Rift, but his twisted worldview was a different kind of madness.

One eyebrow lifted.

He got up and sat at the desk, turning on the monitor.

“Got something good to show you.”

A drone feed appeared—an overhead view of the ground.

He picked up a radio.

“It’s me.”

“Oh, boss!”

“How far along are you?”

“Just about to start.”

“Good. Begin now.”

Two men appeared onscreen.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, but hunched and dull-eyed, his spirit broken.

The other was short, big-headed, but solid.

Both were slaves.

Armed men stood behind them.

“Run! Get inside that building and come out the other side, and you’re free. Graduated from this shitty slave life.”

The big man suddenly dropped to his knees, begging.

I couldn’t hear his words.

A rifle butt and boots smashed into him.

Shouts to hurry rang out. The smaller man, face set with resolve, ran toward a building in the distance.

“What’s this?” I asked—

Bang!

A blast—and two blackened chunks flew through smoke and hit the ground.

A minefield.

Only then did I realize the building they’d urged him toward was an old warlord storehouse—long abandoned, the ground seeded with mines.

Dies_Irae said calmly:

“Too wasteful to just dispose of them—so we develop marked areas. My people call it graduation.”

“Graduation. Charming.”

“Agreed. But as you see, they enjoy it. If this isn’t welfare, what is?”

Meanwhile, the big man lay face-down, crying.

Rifle butts and boots rained down on him.

I let my disgust show, and Dies_Irae switched off the feed.

“You don’t like our welfare?”

“Not my taste.”

“You asked, I answered.”

He turned the feed back on, lowering the volume this time.

The big man was limping forward, glancing back and begging. The watchers’ eyes were cold.

Watching without emotion, Dies_Irae spoke:

“When basic needs are met, human desire can be summed up in one phrase—being above others.”

For a moment, Kim Daram and her husband’s faces crossed my mind.

“You need someone beneath you. Think about it—Joseon lasted 500 years because it had slaves. North Korea’s the same—Pyongyang elites had their provincial lackeys.”

“I see.”

I wanted the conversation to end.

It felt like a different kind of contamination than the Rift—an ideological stench.

But there was one thing I wanted to confirm.

“What will you do when there are no more slaves to catch?”

He rolled his eyes, then smiled in satisfaction.

“Make them.”

“Make them?”

“Yeah. From my own family.”

Not a flicker of hesitation in his tone or eyes.

No irony, no self-mockery—just the same unbridgeable gulf I’d always felt with him.

Bang!

A small explosion on the feed.

Soft laughter seeped through the echo of the blast.

Dies_Irae murmured:

“Graduation.”

Yes—this man was a devil.

Not all devils are the same, though.

Dies_Irae’s devilry had its own flavor.

“Skelton, I’ll make an exception for you. From the moment I first saw you, I felt something—and I was right. You’re the Professor. You killed that monster! The General! That awful bastard! Only you could kill him!”

“...”

“A friend like you—I can’t treat you like the rest. Friend! Yes, that’s the perfect word.”

This devil liked me.