Ever since people began saying that reading is just as important as writing, interpretation has always been the duty of those of us who consume media—and the skill that makes us a little more special.

Especially with Necropolis, the art of reading is demanded far more than with # Nоvеlight # any other medium.

To pick out the present among the chaotic echoes of the dead—fragments of the past, the present, and perhaps even the future—requires persistence and keen observation.

Usually, when you turn on Necropolis, this is the kind of confusing chatter you’ll see:

Dead9924: Anyone want to trade good liquor for medicine? I need painkillers and antihypertensives.

Dead21313: I like killing women more than having sex. Especially torturing them to death.

Dead6211: The phone guy in our neighborhood sucks. Anybody know a decent repairman near Icheon?

Dead32322: I hear the King’s life is in danger.

Dead8433: Saw a prostitute who used to be a celebrity. Her face was all mangled.

Dead8431: Seoul’s going to hell right now.

...

...

From this alone, you can’t know much.

In the U.S. at least, the dead get state tags next to their handles, but here in Korea you just get a string of numbers. No chat functions, no basic messaging—nothing to tell you where the writer was.

And with dozens of posts going up every minute, real-time communication is impossible. Sure, some are live, but ever since old posts started backwashing into the present, even trade offers might just be echoes written long ago.

Some users take the trouble to add dates, times, and exact locations to their posts, but when there are dozens going up at once, who can say if they’re genuine? Even if they are, you can’t assume they’re not just bandits trying to lure prey.

In the end, Necropolis barely functions as communication between living people.

And yet, we can’t let go of it—because even if they’re echoes of the dead, hidden inside are still the voices of the living.

What caught my attention was that line at the bottom: Seoul’s in chaos.

That message quickly sank under dozens more, but I check Necropolis daily, and I found other posts, similar in content but with more detail.

Here’s a scrapbook of what I collected about Seoul:

Dead103284: A strange fog rolled into Seoul. Just like before—when the General-type marched. Everyone’s on edge.

Dead48321: What the hell is Jeon Si-hoon thinking? He started a war, then drained all the resources to build his Tower.

Dead30942: Fog in Seoul’s one thing. But there’s something weird moving in it. Not zombies. Definitely not zombies.

Dead9951: Looks like all the knights crawled into the Tower with King Jeon Si-hoon. What the hell are they doing in there?

Dead876: No one knows what happens inside the Tower. Nobody’s ever come back out.

...

...

From posts like these, it’s clear that something strange is happening in Seoul.

And sure enough, I’ve observed large groups of refugees—something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Armed groups of at least ten, sometimes dozens, dragging sleds or smoke-belching vehicles across the snowfields that cut through my territory.

And that’s only the groups I saw. They don’t represent the whole.

Bzzzt—

All you need is to set the K-WalkieTalkie to a public frequency and you’ll hear it:

“Hong-gu’s team, where are you now?”

“Just passed the rest stop.”

“Okay. No trouble?”

“Nothing. Haven’t even seen a damn mutt.”

The refugees deliberately split into multiple groups. If one column got ambushed, the others wouldn’t be wiped out in the same blow. Each unit had just enough firepower to hold out until a nearby group rushed to support.

It gave attackers the chance to pick them off piecemeal—but if they failed to finish the job quickly, they risked being pincered.

A perfect ambush is hard to pull off against defenders this wary.

These refugees had seasoned guides in the lead, some even deploying drones, showing off the skills that had kept them alive through the end of the world.

In a world where everyone’s max level now, no one falls easily.

In fact, they had enough leeway to crack jokes over the public channel—something you’d never have dreamed of in the past.

“I’m just a local. Why the hell are there so many of you coming down lately?”

“What do you think? Got screwed by the gov again.”

“Got screwed?”

“Yeah. Government screwed us over again!”

“Ha. That’s hilarious. You heading for Sejong?”

“Yeah. Where are you? Got a bunker with a spare room?”

“Too cramped here. Supplies are short.”

“Stingy bastard. For real.”

Of course, nobody knows how much of that’s true.

You can’t tell if the ‘local’ is a native or a migrant, or whether he’s a refugee or a raider.

With the internet gone and Necropolis useless for this, people fall back on radio chatter for banter.

I only decided to join in after four or five columns of refugees had passed through my territory.

“A, a, a.”

I cleared my throat. Tested a husky timbre, in case anyone recognized my real voice.

“Uhh.”

Clumsy, but distinct enough from Park Gyu.

Mark Two, fiddling with a tablet game, and John Nae-non the Third—who seemed to grow bigger every day and stir in me the urge to cull him—looked up.

Pretending not to notice, I keyed the mic.

Click—

“This is a scavenger from Sejong. Something happen in Seoul~?”

Thus began my performance as “Park Gyuchul,” a fabricated persona.

The upside of public radio was that my words weren’t logged, and my voice had no nickname attached.

Predictably, no one answered.

“......”

The silence was as desolate as back when Skelton was just another nobody.

Hell, I was the kind of guy who barely got replies, too. Why was that?

I could’ve sworn I had fans—maybe they were just too shy.

Anyway, I tried two more times. No one responded.

Maybe my voice modulation was too good, making people instinctively wary.

Still, traffic was heavy. I saw two more groups pass by just today.

This route isn’t even a straight shot to Sejong, nor is it as comfortable as a highway, but at this rate, more will keep coming.

The next day, while checking up on John Nae-non the Third:

“Come here. Let’s weigh you.”

I always test him when my resolve softens. When I steel myself again, I’ll reassess.

Mark Two won’t like it, but if he’s dangerous, he can’t be spared.

Life comes first. Even if they hate you for it.

As Gold’s grandson, the pup’s sharp. Not as cunning as Silver, but he knows I’m wary of him. He whines, reading my mood.

Mark Two, clueless, said:

“Don’t fuss, Baduk. The Hunter’s asking you to weigh in.”

Reluctantly, he climbed on the scale.

Already the size of a golden retriever, he weighed in at 18 kg.

Dangerously big.

“Small mutation” or not, we’ve seen the toy poodle and mini pig cases—things that look small at birth, but gorge themselves into monsters.

In the animal world, size is power. Not the only measure, but enough to make a human dangerous prey.

We fear strange young men more than strange old men—not because old men are kind, but because they’re weak.

“Isn’t he getting too big?”

I needed a pretext, though I felt bad for Mark Two.

Given the original was Woo Min-hee, maybe she’d let it slide with her usual coolness.

“He just eats well.”

Still a kid, Mark Two didn’t catch my intent. But John Nae-non the Third did—his ears and tail drooped instantly.

“...He’s too big. We won’t be able to handle him.”

“I’ll feed him less.”

“That’s not the issue.”

Just then, the public channel buzzed.

Lucky for John Nae-non the Third.

“Anyone out there? It’s too quiet. This is supposed to be the killer mutant-dog zone, so I’m being careful.”

Perfect.

I tuned my voice.

“A, a, a.”

Awkward, husky—unrecognizable even to Woo Min-hee or Kim Daram.

“Ah.”

Flawless. A little smile tugged at my lips—until Mark Two piped up.

“Hunter.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you think your voice sounds weird?”

“What?”

“Like an anime villain. A monster kind.”

“Really.”

“Yes. If it were me, I wouldn’t want to talk to someone with that voice.”

So much for quiet and gentle. The blood shows. Woo Min-hee’s blood.

My smile vanished. This time, I used my real voice.

“Just a local.”

So what if they recognized me? Even Jeon Si-hoon, that ungrateful bastard, knew I was alive.

Maybe it was the normal tone, maybe just a decent person on the other end, but this time, I got an answer right away.

“Wow, a real person. You’re local?”

I sighed lightly and kept it up.

“Yes.”

“Do you see us?”

“No. I’m in the mountains. Just bored, listening in.”

“I see. You know about the mutant dogs? Heard there’s a pack with a big yellow one.”

“They froze to death or got hunted down in the war.”

“Good. We came ready for them.”

Rumors were slow; plenty still thought Gold ruled this region.

Truth is, Gold’s reputation came from his intelligence, his pack’s discipline, and the government’s negligence. But mostly, I think, from the government using him as an excuse—pretending they couldn’t manage the provinces, so they blamed Gold instead.

They were always planning to abandon the countryside. They just needed a pretext.

Those decision-makers are all dead now, but they were filthy bastards.

A handful of scum steering an entire nation—that wasn’t so different before the war, was it?

Anyway, this guy seemed like a decent talk.

“So, what’s going on in Seoul? I’ve noticed more traffic heading down to Sejong.”

Exactly the question I wanted to ask.

“Don’t get me started. Fuck.”

He jumped in eagerly.

“Seoul’s wrecked. Wrecked. Ever since Jeon Si-hoon went off the deep end, it’s been hell. It’s not a place for people anymore. Just hell.”

“What happened? I heard something about fog?”

“Not constant. Maybe three days a week. No one knows. Some say weird things move inside it. What’s certain is the screams. Bone-chilling screams all over Seoul. Once you hear them, you’ll never forget.”

He breathed deep, then said with conviction:

“Stay there long enough, you’ll go insane. Maybe the only reason anyone’s still alive in that city is because they already went mad.”

Outside the bunker, I watched the group that had given me this precious intel.

They were 4 km away, dragging sleds.

But strangely, they had mutants with them.

Dogs.

“Hey, isn’t that one as big as Baduk?”

Mark Two, naturally trailing me outside, peered through the scope.

“Mm. Different breed.”

“Breed?”

“That’s a cocker spaniel. Old, noble line. Ours is just a mutt.”

“Mutts are better, right? I read that. Healthier genes.”

Our little lady talks more these days.

Am I too soft? Or just too good?

I really am a good man, I guess.

Anyway—it’s confirmed. Something’s happening in Seoul.

Later, more friendly refugees filled in the picture.

Jeon Si-hoon hauled all the government’s stockpiled supplies into the Tower—an old landmark skyscraper—and holed up there with his so-called knights.

Those who refused tried to survive in the suburbs, but the gray fog and stranger events drove them out.

Still, plenty chose to follow him into or around the Tower. Hero or not, Jeon Si-hoon had been personally named Kang Han-min’s successor.

One thing’s certain: no one who goes in comes back out.

If it were ordinary people, I’d understand. But even his knights haven’t emerged. That made even me suspect something was happening inside.

Most of all—I remembered: before any of this, Jeon Si-hoon had contacted me.

Said he was turning into a monster.

Begged for help.

So—did he become one?

I don’t know.

Tens of thousands still survive in Seoul.

Not my problem. Just interesting.

Until one refugee mentioned this:

“By the Tower, Necropolis is... different. You know how it’s text-only? Someone got it to play video. High resolution, too—not grainy shit.”

Maybe... what I want most is waiting near that Tower.