Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 57.1: Judgment (1)

I first encountered the collective known as judges during my time as a multi-debtor.

What I remember is that they wore clothes distinct from others, sat on an elevated platform, and everyone had to stand when they entered the room.

Most people stood.

Only those stubbornly clinging to baseless defiance remained seated. Even they, however, would stand during the appeal hearing, as I recall.

According to what I found online, standing for the judge’s entrance isn’t about respecting the judge personally but rather showing reverence and respect for the judicial system of the Republic of Korea as a whole.

I’m not sure about that.

Most people seemed to stand simply because others were doing it or out of fear that defying the judge would lead to disadvantages.

What might a judge think as they look down from their lofty podium, watching people stand reflexively the moment someone else does?

Would they vow to ensure not even a single innocent person is wronged?

Would they imagine the scales of justice often depicted outside courtrooms and see themselves as one of those scales?

Or would they instead be fixated on recalling the case number of the person who dared to remain seated?

Regardless, it’s undoubtedly a difficult job.

Not just because of the sheer workload but because making judgments is inherently a heavy burden.

Maybe that’s why the selection process is so rigorous.

To sit in such a position demands more responsibility than most can bear.

After the war, the image of judges in robes was erased from my memory.

I no longer had dealings with them, nor did I hear any news about them.

Yet, by chance, an opportunity arose that brought me back to a courtroom where I once stood.

*

The second wave of refugees is an entirely different breed from the first.

Unlike the naive first wave, who blindly believed they might find a chance to survive outside, the second wave knows all too well that the outside world is a living hell. They are prepared to do anything—anything—to survive.

Chhh--

"Buying bullets~! Will trade for fuel. Offering a generous deal! The fuel is good quality, starting with lot number 4."

Recently, the K-walkie has been buzzing with activity, spitting out more messages than usual.

Not all the second-wave refugees are murderous maniacs bent on hunting down Viva! Apocalypse! Korean forum users.

Just as we are a minority, so too are those who want to kill us.

Most of them are just people trying to find a new place to settle.

Of course, if they happen to stumble upon a bunker along the way, they'd happily strip us clean.

But it’s not just pure refugees flooding out these days.

True to the reputation of being a nation of merchants, some are trying to do business with the refugees.

"Ah, we have women too! Lonely gentlemen, come by for some company and unwind for a bit. If you know Geapo Full House, we’ll give you a special discount~!"

One of these mysterious traders has set up shop just within the range of my domain’s frequencies.

Their primary commodity is synthetic fuel, but they also offer tire patching, minor repairs, and even prostitution—a full-scale enterprise.

I can’t determine the full extent of their numbers or operation.

While I can pick up their radio signals, they’re stationed somewhere just beyond what I can observe from my domain.

The K-walkie allows for a limited range of public frequency reception, and I’ve set mine to a maximum radius of 15 kilometers.

So they’re within roughly that range.

“Ah, the noisy guy who’s been yammering lately? Yeah, I saw him.”

Defender, whose voice has regained its vitality recently, seems to have personally spotted the trader in question, true to his wide-reaching connections.

“They’re set up at the old highway rest stop. Pretty big operation. Four buses, one freight truck. Didn’t count the cars. From the looks of it, they’re probably a gang.”

The fact that gangs are active in the city isn’t news to anyone.

The so-called “kings of the night” are like mosquitoes or flies—no matter how many you kill, more just keep showing up.

This noisy trader operation seems to be a gang making their way out of a dying city to explore new opportunities for profit.

As much as I’d rather not deal with such people...

"Offering a drum of fuel for every 30-round magazine of 5.56mm."

The terms are too good to pass up.

While ammunition is undeniably valuable, I have more than I could ever need.

When the U.S. forces withdrew, I was among the first to raid their ammo depots.

Fuel, on the other hand, is scarce for me.

Especially synthetic fuel, which I’ve been eyeing as a potential new lifeline.

It’s to replace the ancient diesel, long past its expiration date, that barely powers my magnificent generator—the Skelton Heart.

If trade originated from the surplus of resources, this transaction is exactly what I need right now.

I can make it through this winter with the fuel and firewood I have, but beyond that, fuel is indispensable for anything resembling a human life.

Even knowing the risk, I find myself drawn to the offer, unable to ignore it.

“Hmm...”

To be honest, Defender hasn’t been sitting well with me lately.

Maybe it’s that we’ve grown more aware of our differences.

Understanding that someone is different is one thing, but feeling that difference is another, more emotional matter.

Even if they were intruders, I can’t understand slaughtering a defenseless family like livestock and then flaunting it online as a way to make a grand return.

If someone had invaded my domain, I would’ve killed them too—but I wouldn’t have broadcasted it to anyone.

Still, what choice do I have?

Defender is the only one I can rely on.

“What? You’re thinking of trading with those guys?”

After about a second of consideration, Defender responded casually.

“Fine. I’ll go with you.”

"..."

There’s no such thing as a 100% perfect person in this world.

If such a friend exists, it’s only in your imagination.

I arranged to meet my trusted friend, Defender, at a midway point.

As always, Defender brought along something he had scavenged and cobbled together—this time, an electric scooter.

The frame looked crude, and the wires were loosely tied together and exposed, suggesting it was homemade.

“Whoa. Is that new?”

“Yeah. Saw your motorcycle and figured it looked handy, so I threw one together with what I had.”

I glanced at the sky.

A drone hovered high above, its flight pattern tracing figure eights like a bee in the air.

“Nowadays, these are a must,” Defender said, waving at the drone.

I waved too, nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, makes sense.”

On the way to the rest stop, we didn’t discuss any recent happenings.

No point in asking. If he kills someone, he’ll undoubtedly post about it online again.

Our silence hung awkwardly in the air.

Neither of us is the talkative type.

Defender, like me, isn’t the kind of person to initiate light conversation without a purpose.

“Skelton, you heard about this?”

Defender’s sister broke the silence that seemed like it would last forever.

“Heard about what?”

Her voice crackled with static, muddling her words. We were nearing the edge of the signal range.

“A named mutation popped up near our area, apparently.”

“A named mutation?”

“You know, the Seven Horrors, the Five Mysteries, the Three Divine Beasts... things like that. Something straight out of a comic book.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard about them.”

I recalled hearing about them back when I was at Hunter’s Alley.

It was one of the reasons I decided to return to my bunker.

Sticking around would’ve meant eventually facing monsters worse than armored apes.

“One of the Three Divine Beasts... chhhh... appeared... chhhh...”

Her already unstable voice cut off entirely.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

I paused, wondering if I should turn back.

As the drone above began to descend, Defender gestured for it to stay put and filled me in.

“One of the troublesome ones from Gangwon Province recently showed up south of Incheon.”

“What’s the reason?”

“More prey.”

“Hmm. What kind of creature? A cat? A dog?”

“No, an eagle owl.”

Just hearing the species made me nod in understanding.

“Of all things...”

“Yeah, of all things.”

A silent, shadowy predator that snatches people in the dead of night—a creature as cunning as a human.

It truly deserves to be called a Divine Beast.

Just hearing about it, I couldn’t think of any way to deal with it.

“They call it Hoot. It’s caused trouble even for the Legion faction. Completely silent until it strikes, and when it does, it’s instant death—or you’re left half-crippled. The Legion sent hunters after it multiple times but failed to capture it.”

“Interesting news. Where’d you hear about it? I should look it up if I get the chance.”

“Oh, I didn’t read about it online. I heard it.”

“Heard it?”

“Yeah, I’ve got connections. Old classmates I still keep in touch with occasionally.”

“Ah.”

I didn’t press further.

It wasn’t a comfortable topic for either of us.

The fact that Defender had ties to the Legion faction was unsettling.

Still, steering the conversation elsewhere seemed like the better choice.

“If that kind of thing shows up, it’ll be dangerous here too. You’re saying we could be next?”

“Stay inside at night.”

I decided to do the same for the time being.

Mutations might seem like weaker versions of monsters, but at that level, they’re no less terrifying and far trickier to handle.

Still, the discussion about the mutation helped make the otherwise awkward trip feel shorter.

In the distance, the remains of the old rest stop came into view.

It was fortified with four trailers forming a makeshift wall—an apocalyptic shop operating with a haphazard setup but an effort to look presentable.

“So, they’re the ones offering trades?”

Hidden behind a rock overlooking the rest stop, I reached out via radio.

“I’d like to stop by and check things out.”

Trading, in this era, is a life-or-death matter.

Especially when the other party is a city gang.

Caution isn’t optional—it’s mandatory.

“Oh, a customer?”

An over-the-top, exaggerated voice came through the K-walkie.

“Come on in! It’s Geapo Full House!!!”

*

"Oh, you can leave your walkie-talkie on while you come over. If we pull any funny business, just broadcast it at maximum power. Everyone within a 20-kilometer radius will hear it, and then we won’t be able to run our shop."

This was my first impression of the man called Geapo Full House.

Just a regular guy.

Average height, unremarkable features, and a face worn by time.

He wore loose black slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt that must’ve been white once but had long since faded.

Gangsters aren’t always the hulking figures covered in tattoos that movies make them out to be.

A gangster is simply someone willing to inscribe indelible marks on their soul.

But the normalcy of Geapo Full House didn’t last long.

The moment I stepped inside the shop, surrounded by walls made of stacked shipping containers, it was clear this man was a devil to his core.

Inside the containers were women, all bearing obvious signs of abuse.

Beside the displays of various goods, stereotypical tattooed thugs with scowling faces were playing cards.

What stood out most was an elderly man, chained like a dog, holding up a crude sign that read, “Manseok Shop.”

"..."

He was naked.

His emaciated body was covered in scars and bruises from years of abuse. A chain was wrapped tightly around his neck.

Even a brief glance was enough to tell me that this man had endured unimaginable torment under Manseok.

“Hey, you bastard! Hold that sign straight!”

Sure enough, as Manseok walked toward a desk, he barked orders at the naked man.

Just his shouting made the poor man tremble uncontrollably.

But when Manseok turned to me, he wore a grin as wide and artificial as a theater mask. His voice became smooth and polite.

“You’re selling bullets?”

“Yes. About half a crate.”

“Half a crate, so around 800 rounds?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. That’s quite a lot, especially these days.”

Manseok glanced at me while typing on a laptop.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a refugee.”

“800 rounds... That’s a lot of barrels. It’ll be heavy to carry.”

“I plan to bring a truck.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Can I inspect the goods?”

Despite the oppressive atmosphere inside the shop, the transaction itself proceeded smoothly.

It became clear from little details here and there: Manseok had set up this shop not just as a front for nefarious activities, but with the genuine intention of conducting business.

“This is what we’ve got for now. Come back tomorrow; I’ll replenish whatever’s missing. Oh, the synthetic fuel comes from Changwon, so you can trust its quality. If it’s not good, feel free to come back at night and burn the place down.”

We’ll see about that.

Time would tell if these gangsters were serious about trading or not.

“But, sir~ Don’t you need a woman?”

As I was about to leave, Manseok smiled slyly and gestured toward the container where the women were kept.

“I’ll give you a good deal. Can’t guarantee they’re disease-free, though.”

“No, thank you.”

“Why not? Are they not to your liking? Or do you not trust us?”

“No, I just don’t engage in those kinds of things.”

“Ah, I guess you don’t know who Geapo Full House is. I’ve been in this business for a long time, you know. Since right after the war. I’ve built my reputation on trust.”

He persistently tried to pitch the women to me.

I refused outright, not wanting to even look at them or acknowledge such a grim reality.

Instead, I brought up something that had been bothering me since earlier: the naked man holding the sign.

“What about that man holding the sign? Is he one of your employees?”

I threw in a lighthearted tone to avoid provoking him.

Manseok burst out laughing, his eyes glinting with malice.

“I sell judges.”

“Pardon?”

For a moment, I didn’t understand what he meant.

It was a word I hadn’t heard in a long time.

“Judges. You know, those assholes who used to strut around on their high platforms before the war.”

Manseok sneered, unable to hide his disdain.

“I’m different from the rest of you. I’m up in the clouds. I love repentance letters.”

I wondered for a moment if his hatred was directed at judges as a group or at this particular individual.

Maybe it was both.

There was a depth to his resentment, far too vast to be contained by a single target.