Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 54: Province

Before the war, regional issues never seemed to gain much attention.

For example, even if the countryside experienced the same level of flood damage as the metropolitan area, the former would get nothing more than a brief mention in the news, while the latter would have all three major networks and even commercial stations broadcasting 24-hour special coverage.

I can’t really blame them. After all, 30 million of South Korea’s 50 million population lived in the metropolitan area.

The more people affected, the louder the noise. Journalists also prioritize what will get more clicks or views.

Even now, with the population reduced to a tenth of what it once was, regional issues still don’t get much attention, just like before the war.

You can tell just by looking at the responses on PaleNet.

ㅇㅇ: "Yangsan? Where’s that? Whatever happens there won’t affect us, will it?"

ㅇㅇ: "We’re barely surviving ourselves."

ㅇㅇ: "Shouldn’t we reassign the soldiers protecting those regions to defend us instead?"

ㅇㅇ: "It’s all warlords out there anyway. Aren’t they effectively running the place?"

ㅇㅇ: "Just abandon it. Save the metro area first. No offense, but isn’t it a fact that people here are generally better than those out there?"

On our forum, the proportion of users from regional areas is pretty low.

There are probably many reasons for this, but the biggest one, as I see it, is accessibility.

The headquarters of Starjeon Korea, which managed the Viva! Apocalypse! satellite equipment by Melon Musk, was in Seoul. The Seoul-Gyeonggi area had seven branches, but there was only one small, understaffed branch in Busan.

I think I read complaints about how cramped the Busan branch was, how unfriendly the staff were, and how limited the equipment was for hands-on experiences. But I don’t remember the details clearly because I wasn’t particularly interested myself.

Looking back through the forums, it’s clear that regional accessibility was indeed lacking.

At least in the early stages of the war, there were quite a few regional users.

The Gyeongsang region, in particular, had a significant number of users. The Honam region had fewer users, but their content quality was on par with or even better than that of the Gyeongsang users.

One user from Jeollanam-do, who focused on seasonal foods made by hand, was a favorite of mine during my lurking days, along with Anonymous337.

But like most regional users, that person gradually stopped posting and eventually disappeared.

It wasn’t just them.

At some point, users identifiable as regional disappeared altogether.

Maybe it was partly because I wasn’t paying attention, but at least 20% of the forum’s active users vanished.

Is surviving in regional areas harder than in the metropolitan area?

I don’t think so.

Looking at war damage, rift intensity, and civil conflict, the metro area suffered far more.

I remember reading about cultists appearing in the southern regions, but no matter how capable they are, they couldn’t possibly have wiped out entire regions in such a short time.

So where did they all go?

Sitting in a summer cabin I’d built to beat the heat, I idly posted a question while enjoying a fan’s breeze:

SKELTON: "(Skelton Question) Where did all the regional users go? Why don’t we see them anymore?"

I thought I’d risen to semi-notoriety, but no one responded.

So I had to resort to drastic measures:

SKELTON: "(Skelton Video) Skelton’s Tank Top Zero Two Dance.msi"

Sorry for the bait, but seriously, where did all the regional users go?Unlike my earlier post, this one got comments.

unicorn18: "Tsk, tsk..."

ㅇㅇ: "God, this guy..."

Dolsingman: "This is making me swear out loud."

mmmmmmmmm: "(Pure-blood Seoulite) Tsk, tsk."

gijayangban: "?"

All I got was insults, no helpful information.

To be fair, useful people are rare on our forum these days. There seemed to be a lot more of them in the past.

Later that afternoon, long after my post had been buried, I received a notification.

Someone had commented on my old post.

Busangalmaegi: "Wanna know where all the regional users went?"

This person was from PaleNet.

You can easily distinguish PaleNet users from forum users: if the "Send Message" button isn’t active when you click their nickname, they’re from PaleNet.

From their username alone—Busangalmaegi—it was clear they were a proud Busanite.

Since they’d commented on my post, I decided to reply there to start a conversation.

SKELTON: "(Skelton Positive)"

This method of communication—posting comments back and forth—was slow.

Notifications only came to me, not them.

But Busangalmaegi seemed to be actively watching the forum.

This chapter is updated by freēwēbnovel.com.

Busangalmaegi: "Do you have GukminNet cash?"

What in the world is that?

SKELTON: "(Skelton Confused) What’s GukminNet?"

Busangalmaegi: "What rock do you live under? Where are you from?"

SKELTON: "(Skelton Private) Gyeonggi-do."

Busangalmaegi: "How far are you from Incheon?"

SKELTON: "Pretty far."

Busangalmaegi: "Ugh, you’re useless."

SKELTON: "What even is GukminNet?"

Busangalmaegi: "It’s a new government-run site to compete with PaleNet. You can exchange GukminNet cash for goods offline."

SKELTON: "Really? If I ever get GukminNet cash, I’ll give it to you."

Reflecting on it, I started to suspect something.

Maybe this "Busangalmaegi" lived in Incheon, not Busan.

Shouldn’t they be "Incheon-galmaegi"?

Busangalmaegi: "Go to the Maya Board."

With an air of condescension, Busangalmaegi revealed a new frontier: the Maya Board.

Busangalmaegi: "Check out the Maya Board."

Busangalmaegi generously pointed me toward this mysterious corner of the internet.

The Maya Board?

I’d heard of the Maya civilization, so I assumed it must be related to their language. But did anyone still speak it?

Trusting Busangalmaegi’s suggestion, I navigated to the Maya Board. For someone who rarely even ventures into the English board, this felt like an expedition to the ends of the earth.

While waiting for the page to load, I bit into a chamoe melon I had grown myself, crunching through the skin.

The Maya Board finally appeared before me.

null: "(Busan) Isn’t this a monster?"

null: "(Gwangju) Looks like some kind of massive monster. Where was this taken?"

null: "(Busan) Dongnae District. Martial law has been declared here."

null: "(Pohang) Still safe here."

null: "(Jeonju) That area has critical industrial zones. Are there still soldiers stationed there?"

null: "(Pohang) Only around the steel mills. The rest has been abandoned."

null: "(Gwangju) They’re taking our food to the capital again. Evidence attached."

null: "(Daegu) Same here. All the fuel we produce goes straight up north."

At first glance, I felt like I’d wandered into the wrong place.

There was no mistaking it—this was a Korean-language board.

Everything was in Korean.

However, several differences stood out compared to our usual board.

First, everyone’s username was "null." Each post began with the location of the poster.

I clicked on one of the usernames, but it was also "null."

This board was clearly unfinished.

It seemed like Melon Musk, in one of his whims, had created this space but deprioritized its development, leaving it incomplete.

Somehow, certain users from our board had discovered it and started using it as a secondary forum.

Despite the limited number of posts, those using it seemed dedicated.

On a single page, I could see posts from two days ago, indicating a low user count.

This was essentially a niche club.

null: "(Gwangju) Military transport plane just took off from the airfield, heading south."

Refreshing the page revealed a freshly posted comment.

The users here were active, at least.

A question began to form in my mind:

Why were these people using this obscure board instead of our main one?

Even with the recent influx of PaleNet users, the Korean board likely had no more than a thousand members.

Excluding lurkers, the number of actively posting users was probably under a hundred.

null: "(Skelton) Why are you guys using this board instead of the Korean one?"

I decided to ask directly. If no one replied, so be it.

But as soon as I posted, the atmosphere shifted.

It’s hard to describe—an intangible tension, like the air thickening.

It’s absurd to think you can sense the mood of an online board through electronic signals, but as a seasoned Viva! Apocalypse! user, I trust my instincts.

null: "Skelton? That unfunny lunatic?"

They didn’t hold back.

But I’m not one to back down.

null: "(Skelton) ?"

I shamelessly shoved myself into the conversation.

null: "What are you doing here? This is the playground for country bumpkins."

null (Skelton): "I came because there’s barely any talk about the provinces on the board."

null: "Honestly, there’s nothing worthwhile on the Korean board anymore."

null (Skelton): "Why?"

null: "Sometimes I check out the popular posts, but it’s all chatter that has nothing to do with our survival."

Though all users were labeled as "null," it was clear from the conversation flow that there were multiple participants, possibly more than one.

Sure enough, several comments flooded in soon after.

null: "It’s always something about Seoul this, Incheon that. Honestly, not helpful at all, is it?"

null: "I joined this service for information exchange, but all they talk about are places a million light-years from my home. Why would I care?"

null: "We still use the Korean board, but mostly for monitoring. This place is where we focus. The Korean board is just pointless chatter and irrelevant local news."

Listening to them, I began to understand why these users had migrated from the Korean board to this forgotten language forum.

Even a quick glance at old posts revealed the nature of this board—it was dedicated solely to sharing information.

Casual chatter or personal diary-style entries were strictly excluded. Instead, users focused on real-time updates about regions outside the Seoul metropolitan area, specifically catering to Viva! Apocalypse! players in the provinces.

One anonymous user succinctly explained their reason for leaving.

null: "The quality was already declining, but it got worse with the influx of PaleNet users. Honestly, I wasn’t happy with it even before, but now it’s just useless for what we need."

In short, they felt the main board had become polluted.

I couldn’t help but agree.

I remember the early days when the board was a scholarly haven for refined information exchange. Now, that era feels like a distant memory.

null (Skelton): "(Skelton thanks) Appreciate the explanation."

That was likely my last post on this board.

As I fell silent, the Maya Board users returned to their usual activities as if nothing had happened.

Unlike our board, where the scroll bar never seems to rest, this place moved at a much slower, steadier pace. Refreshing the page revealed new posts trickling in.

null: "(Busan) Massive monster neutralized."

null: "(Busan) Different angle."

null: "(Busan) What happened to YangsanMan? He hasn’t posted since that day."

null: "(Daegu) Is the Gochang rift stable?"

null: "(Gwangju) Still seems okay here, but who knows."

null: "(Daejeon) I’m planning to drive to Gwangju. Is it safe?"

null: "(Gwangju) Don’t come. The warlords and local thugs have already taken over."

The slow but steady posts reminded me of our board’s early days.

I recall the atmosphere during the initial stages of the war: everyone constantly on edge, vigilantly watching their surroundings, yet still exchanging information in a desperate bid for survival.

It’s not that I dislike our current board.

Despite occasional unpleasantness, it remains a sanctuary for lonely, desperate souls seeking solace.

The problem is simply that there are now too many people seeking that solace.

“······.”

I can’t deny that I’m one of them.

However, even this board’s days seem numbered.

null: "(Yangsan) It’s over here. Even the soldiers are fleeing. It’s every man for himself now."

The provinces are vanishing.

This collapse signals that the long-delayed end of this country is drawing ever closer.

The ripple of this news reached PaleNet, but as usual, it garnered little attention.

Another event had overshadowed the collapse of the southeastern industrial hub.

ㅇㅇ: "[Celebration!] Second Jeju evacuation fleet departure imminent!"

A fleet meant to carry a fraction of the population to safety was somehow deemed more important than the destruction of a region that had supported the nation’s entire industry.

It’s a ridiculous notion, but not entirely incomprehensible.

For those who have tasted despair so often, even a glimmer of hope is enough to seem overwhelmingly significant.

Yet, even that hope is suspect in this age.

ㅇㅇ: "The truth about the first Jeju evacuation fleet.txt"

A user uploaded a satellite image to PaleNet.

The image, taken from orbit, showed a harbor along China’s Shandong Peninsula.

The boundary where the blue sea met the ashen-gray world was cluttered with ships, stranded like waves frozen mid-crash.

Zooming in revealed clear markings on the ships’ decks.

[Korea]

If this image was genuine, it meant that not a single one of the 200,000 passengers aboard the first evacuation fleet had set foot on Jeju Island.

They were all dead.

Not even in their homeland, but on foreign soil.

“······.”

A storm seemed to be brewing.