"Good, keep pushing. All the way."

It’s ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) true—Foxgames’ bunker looks flashier than mine, has more amenities, and more living space.

I’ll admit that.

But the fact that his bunker is inferior to mine is just as objective.

No garage.

Mine, on the other hand, has a big, beautiful garage.

A military-grade garage, at that—complete with a concealable underground gate mechanism, plus a little seasoning of personal upgrades.

Pity for him, but his bunker philosophy has always been strictly domestic.

North American users considered garages essential, but Korean users—used to subways—claimed the North Americans’ view suited their lifestyle, and that Korea had its own ways.

In my opinion, the real reason Korean players insisted on that was cost.

Land prices are vastly higher than in North America, and construction isn’t cheap either.

An above-ground garage made of lightweight steel frames is one thing, but digging underground costs a fortune.

There’s a reason diligent Park Gyu here ended up a multi-debtor writing letters of remorse in court.

Thanks to that, we’ve been breaking our backs since early morning—

Digging into the ground with shovels, pushing a bus in—just enough so the wheels are barely buried—covering it with tarp and camo netting, decorating with weeds.

It’s true the bus that brought us here is scrap.

Technically “cardiac arrest.”

But the chassis is sound, and before leaving Dies_Irae’s territory, I had a talk with Defender.

"A bus, huh. How many tons? No—how many seats?"

Defender’s got better mechanical knowledge than me.

He’s stuck in Dies_Irae’s territory now, but you never know with people.

I’m willing to take risks for him—

Not now, though.

We’ve settled in a new place, and settling in doesn’t just mean moving your body. It means making the entire surrounding environment yours.

A lone tree on the horizon, a far-off three-building apartment complex, collapsed farmhouses, looted warehouses, a low ridge still scarred by fire—

Even small changes matter.

Just like in my last home, it’s annoying having nosy neighbors peeking over now and then—but they have their uses.

Even a dog guards its own yard—they filter out intruders before they get near.

They don’t mean to, but it takes a load off my own perimeter watch.

Here, in this empty wasteland, every change is mine alone to notice.

Kim Daram complains of boredom, but I’m used to this.

Snow hasn’t fallen yet.

The temperature’s been hovering below freezing for days, but no heavy snow.

When it comes, the view will turn into a white field.

I wish I had sunglasses. I’ve got mine, but nothing for Chun Young-jae or Kim Daram.

According to Dies_Irae’s intel, there’s a jangmadang nearby.

“Nearby” meaning an hour and a half on foot—or over thirty minutes by bike.

Its safety is... reasonably reliable.

No one officially protects it, but every survivor group that trades there works hard to maintain order.

One time, when a raider gang attacked the market, no less than five different survivor groups crushed them and hung their bodies at the gate.

It’s not big, but it’s diverse—gunsmiths, phone repair, mercs, technicians, hunters, doctors and dentists, food stalls selling mysterious meat—an old-fashioned market atmosphere.

One part of my generator’s worn out.

It’s not critical, but I’d rather have a spare for the long winter.

In sub-zero weather, a dead generator is a life-or-death problem.

Plus, I’ve always thought it wise to leave a few threads of connection with human groups.

I hadn’t planned anything yet—just “someday” in the vague future.

No rush. For now, the priority is modifying the bunker so the five of us can use it comfortably.

But you never know.

And sure enough, we’re headed there right now—

Because my companion, John Nae-non, isn’t doing well.

*

Everything has a lifespan.

Small animals, especially rodents, are known for short ones.

We’ve all learned by now that mutation can cause explosive growth and improved intelligence in animals. But whether mutation delays aging or extends lifespan? No evidence.

When I found John Nae-non in the ruins, he already looked old.

His previous owner had picked him up early in the war.

Now we’re in year six. That makes him at least five years old.

For a mouse, that’s a long life.

The signs were there long ago.

Before meeting me, he’d been stealing bullets for his dead master out of habit. After meeting me, he spent whole days curled in my pocket or in his hideout.

“Don’t you have a wheel? They need those to relieve stress.”

Dongtak said that once, after seeing him.

I knew what a wheel was, but didn’t think it was essential.

Truth is, he’d been weak from the start.

Cute enough from birth that you couldn’t guess his age—but when I met him, he was probably the human equivalent of at least sixty, and hard-lived at that.

Hard-lived people usually die sooner.

I was... inattentive.

Maybe my natural, trained detachment made me ignore his decline.

I realized it directly when he couldn’t eat his nutrition bar.

I’d been impressed, thinking he was controlling his weight like a mutation might—but Kim Daram corrected me immediately.

“If he’s not eating, he’s done. You’ve never had a dog or cat, have you?”

“Nope.”

“Look at his fur. He’s skin and bones.”

“...”

“He’s always in your pocket, right?”

“Yeah—sleeping in my warm sunshine, like always.”

“Or maybe he’s cold and trying to warm up?”

“You think?”

“Hah. Hamsters—when they’re dying, their body gets cold. That’s the clearest sign.”

Turns out Kim Daram had kept multiple hamsters for her kid—and, like most parents, ended up caring for them herself.

She knew her stuff.

Jonennon’s a mouse, hamsters are in the golden hamster family—but they’re both tiny rodents. The difference isn’t huge.

“How old is he?”

“Over five, I think.”

“Long-lived, then.”

That was the first time I really felt John Nae-non’s age.

Watching him, limp in my arms, stirred mixed feelings.

As the Professor, I thought, It’s time.

He’d done his part—shielding me from detection, helping me inside the Rift with daring and cunning.

No animal had ever been more useful.

But as Skelton, I didn’t want to lose a friend.

If Live! Apocalypse! ever came back, I’d wanted to appear with him.

Animals, kids, sex—eternal crowd-pleasers everywhere.

And as Park Gyu, I didn’t want to lose him either.

He’d become like air to me.

The name John Nae-non deserved to live on—I didn’t want to let it fade.

“...”

The decision came faster than I expected.

“I’ll be back.”

I’d like to take Chun Young-jae, but this is personal.

We’re in the middle of refitting the bunker—can’t spare even one of the three combatants we have.

And I know this area.

I’ve been here before, and Dies_Irae gave me an updated map—

Nicely done, with a detailed legend for mutations, monsters, zombies, and unknown threats.

The unknown threat worries me most, but I don’t have the ties to learn more—people avoid me.

As for that ex-employee couple Foxgames mentioned—no sign of them.

When I told Dies_Irae, he just smiled faintly and stayed silent.

Dead, probably—or something close.

In his group, even “regular” members probably don’t last much longer than slaves.

Only those he calls “friends” are true members.

That means Defender’s in danger too—maybe not now, but someday.

Anyway, I set out alone.

Transport: bicycle.

Foxgames left behind some good ones—even a fixie.

From his old photos, he’d been in a riding club pre-war.

True to his inconsiderate nature, he and his buddies took up an entire two-lane highway, blocking cars—proudly photographed.

Still, the bike’s good—better than my old one.

Barely used, smooth over hills and rough spots.

The fancy paint and design are a problem, though, so I slapped tape all over it to make it look shabbier.

There are three routes to the market—all dangerous.

One runs through a survivor group’s turf, another through a mutation zone, the last through monster territory.

The map shows danger by color density. The mutation zone looks worst—but I chose it.

Two reasons: flat, open terrain—one side just a row of low shops—and the road’s in best shape.

Mutations can be deadlier than monsters, sure—but I’m a trained hunter.

And the fact that the friend in my pocket is also a mutation... played a small part.

Still, I came prepared.

Click!

Three rifles: Chinese, domestic Korean, and American shotgun.

.45 caliber pistol, only four rounds—but enough insurance against mutations.

The rifles are mounted within arm’s reach.

I stared down the cold, empty country road.

A faint squirm in my pocket—John Nae-non shifting.

I’ve felt it before, but given the timing, even that small movement tugs at my emotions.

“Hang in there.”

Whether I’ll even find a vet is doubtful—and even if I do, I doubt he’ll recover.

It’s lifespan.

You can’t fight it.

Some jellyfish in the Arctic are said to be immortal—cycling death and rebirth—but we’re not them.

I’m not sure things will improve—but sometimes you act anyway.

At least I won’t have regrets.

With that lightened feeling, I entered the mutation zone.

Before long, its ruler appeared.

Wolves—or rather, dogs.

A pack of mutated dogs.

Across the dry, withered grassland, three huge dogs spotted me and trotted closer.

Click!

I raised my gun.

They pricked their ears, then wandered off as if nothing happened.

“...”

I’d better hurry.

They’re not calling friends, but if a dozen showed up, it’d be a fight to the death.

Maybe because it’s been a while since I’ve seen mutation dogs, Gold’s image flashed in my mind.

Yeah, I had a connection with him too.

He’s dead, but I wonder how his son’s doing.

Makes me think—it’s rare for animals to live out their full lifespans in this world.

Lost in those thoughts, I passed through the ruins.

In the distance, smoke rose.

The market.