“But why are you trying to get Dragon Skin? It’s not like it’s illegal for civilians to buy body armor in Korea.”
The executive who asked Junho that question said he had started in the 75th Ranger Regiment, gone through 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, and later served in U.S. Army Special Operations Command before retiring.
Now changed into a crisp combat uniform with a patch showing he had completed Redrock Academy’s training, Junho shrugged.
“Because it looks cool? It’s on my collection list.”
“No kidding.”
At the executive’s dumbfounded reaction, Junho smiled.
“I’m serious. I’m into military stuff. That’s why I volunteered for a Ranger unit even though I was drafted in Korea. Same reason I went to a civilian tactical academy in Korea and trained in Krav Maga.”
“Ahh.”
Since it was the kind of case that showed up from time to time among Redrock’s clients, the executive nodded.
“Anyway, getting you Dragon Skin won’t be difficult. It doesn’t use any especially sensitive technology, so it’s not export-restricted, and it probably won’t cause any problems even if it’s sent to Korea.”
“Right. I checked into it, and there shouldn’t be any issue.”
Korea imposed some of the strictest restrictions in the world when it came to explosives and firearms, but on other items it was strangely permissive.
Civilians could freely purchase real, functional firearm accessories as long as they were not suppressors, and they could also buy body armor without restriction.
So even though Dragon Skin was Level IV armor, there was no real problem either sending it from the United States or receiving it in Korea.
The flexible hybrid structure based on carbon nanotubes, graphene, and ceramic composite materials used in the body armor was already well-known technology.
The cooling and ventilation systems were nothing particularly new, either.
The impact-absorption frame was fairly ordinary compared to the latest military exoskeleton systems, and the electronic equipment and communications module technology applied to it were nothing special, either.
At a glance, someone might not understand why he was going out of his way to get something that did not even seem all that remarkable.
But in Junho’s judgment, Dragon Skin was the absolute upper limit of the kind of specialized body armor a civilian could realistically purchase in Korea.
Something better than Dragon Skin?
There was a ninety-nine percent chance it used newer or more sensitive military technology and would be difficult to import or export.
“Then that settles it. I’ll get it for you myself.”
The executive did not doubt Junho when he said it was for his collection and that he would be keeping it at home for display.
Because the reason Dragon Skin had not sold well in the United States and had faded away was precisely this: its ballistic performance was excellent, but its other functions were ordinary, and above all, it was too expensive and too heavy.
The base full-set price, with this and that optional feature removed, was a staggering twenty thousand dollars.
And wearing something that weighed nearly forty-five pounds—about twenty kilograms—while running military operations was difficult even for special operations personnel.
Just wearing Dragon Skin by itself would not be much of a problem, but once you added a ballistic helmet, a primary weapon and sidearm, magazines, and mission equipment, the total load came to a hundred and twenty pounds—about fifty-four kilograms.
A ridiculous weight that would have America’s active top-tier badass special operators dropping f-bombs without pause.
No matter how many areas he had been rated Outstanding in, even a “Korean badass” would not realistically be able to handle that.
“I’d appreciate it if you could send two full sets in my size to this address. If the cost runs over, bill me. I’ll wire it to Redrock’s account.”
Before coming to the United States, Junho had contracted a rental storage unit in Yangpyeong, Gyeonggi Province, and he handed over a business card with that address printed on it.
The card had only a normal phone number and address printed in Korean and English, and after taking it, the executive grinned.
“Send another twenty thousand dollars. I’ll get two full-option full sets sent over within a month. We’ll handle any extra expenses and customs on our side. Part of it is my personal respect for the Korean badass, but part of it is also Redrock’s service for handing over the video-use rights so cheap.”
“Thank you. I was sincerely impressed by Redrock’s high level of education and training facilities as well.”
Junho shook hands one by one with the executive and the staff in the operations room.
At least half of the people here would die or turn into zombies once the apocalypse came.
And even those who survived would either get caught up in the U.S. civil war that would erupt in succession half a year after the apocalypse began—
It had only been a brief connection, but Junho sincerely hoped these professionals of war would survive for a long time.
With a small sense of guilt, he meant it.
***
After finishing a three-week business trip in the United States, the brothers Junho and Junhyeok returned to Korea through Los Angeles International Airport once again.
Woof-woof-woof! Woof-woof!
Purdy, who had stayed at a boarding-and-training hotel for pets while they were in America, came tearing over like a maniac and leaped into Junho.
The trainer said that even though he had been separated from both of his owners for quite a while, he had done perfectly fine without getting depressed or throwing a fit at all.
That made Junho feel proud, and at the same time, seeing Purdy this happy tugged painfully at a corner of his heart.
“You won’t have to stay somewhere far away for long again.”
Woof!
As if he understood what Junho had said, Purdy barked energetically.
After bringing Purdy back to the Bucheon house, Junho played with him for about ten minutes, then switched out with Junhyeok and went down to the basement.
The basement, which had gradually filled up with workout equipment and all sorts of other things over time after they first moved in, looked very different now.
For starters, the large workout equipment and the other miscellaneous junk were all gone.
And in their place, taking over the cool, lightless basement environment, were bottled water, all kinds of canned goods, and freeze-dried combat rations with shelf lives that would still last another three to five years.
What still remained was the small-capacity ESS hybrid battery and the diesel generator set off in one corner.
And the PC controlling the solar generation system, the high-performance surveillance cameras, and the regular CCTV, along with the air conditioner, refrigerator, and freezer.
“......”
Silently looking over the basement, Junho pulled out the secret notebook from the drawer of the computer desk, tore out a page, and wrote something long on it with a ballpoint pen.
He placed it beside the keyboard, then operated the PC to set the solar generation and ESS battery so that they would prioritize supplying power to the control PC, the refrigerator, the freezer, and the air conditioner, which had been set to a target temperature of 27 degrees.
All of them were either first-grade power-efficiency appliances or low-power products, so even in summer, they would only consume about three to five kilowatts of electricity per day.
After finishing, Junho shut the thick blast-resistant door installed at the basement entrance and removed the batteries from the door lock.
Now, to open this door, someone would have to insert new batteries and enter the twelve-digit passcode.
And forcing it open would probably be difficult even with something like explosives.
After looking through the living room, kitchen, and rooms of the house—now practically like an abandoned building because they had moved almost everything out long ago and no longer maintained it properly—Junho set up a ladder and climbed onto the roof.
Then he unplugged the power cable for the high-performance camera, threw an old, filthy waterproof tarp over it, and tied it down tightly with plastic cord.
After packing the portable ladder into the trunk of the car, Junho called for Junhyeok and Purdy.
As Purdy sprang lightly into the back seat, Junhyeok looked around the house and said,
“Bro, are we really never coming back to this house again?”
“We’ll probably need to come back once or so to change the generator fuel and make the place look more abandoned.”
“Damn. Kind of a shame. It was still a nice place to live... Oh, right. What about the lease?”
“I extended it for another two years. The realtor seemed pretty happy about it.”
Since the original contract ran through the end of November 2023, Junho had renewed it in advance for another two years.
Of course, after August 2024, neither the lease nor the rent would mean anything anymore.
“Still, this neighborhood feels like it’s getting emptier by the day. But are you sure we don’t need to put up barbed wire or something?”
Junhyeok asked, probably because the house had been small, but he had still gotten attached to it.
“That would just make people more suspicious. Better if it naturally looks like an abandoned house no one’s lived in for years.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Oh, right, bro—that chicken stew place we went to when we first moved here really did shut down.”
“I figured it would. Business was terrible.”
Not just the chicken place, but even the junkyard right in front of the house had shut down.
A few people still lived in some of the old houses forty or fifty meters away from where the brothers had been staying, but there was no reason for anyone to come all the way to this house at the innermost end of the alley.
Both sides were vacant lots, and there were no streetlights, so once the sun went down, the place felt bleak as hell.
“So the only thing left now is saying goodbye to the people at the gym...?”
“Yeah. Officially, we’re moving to the countryside in North Gyeongsang.”
Junho had rented a country house in Sangju, North Gyeongsang, in Junhyeok’s name.
And he had also switched every kind of statement and bill that would have gone to the Bucheon house over to email or electronic notice.
At times like this, living in Korea—with some of the best IT infrastructure in the world—was a huge advantage.
From here on out, no one would be coming to look ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) for the Bucheon house.
“I’ll handle the goodbyes by myself, so you head to the pension with Purdy. If both of us go, the conversation could drag on for no reason.”
“Got it. But, bro... no. I’ll tell you later.”
Junhyeok, who had cautiously started to say something, shook his head instead.
But Junho already knew what his younger brother had been about to say.
“I’ll take care of the Hyunwoo issue.”
“......!!!”
Looking at Junhyeok, whose eyes had gone wide as lanterns, Junho let out a snort of laughter.
“Hey. No matter how I am, do you really think I’d just leave alone the guy who stayed through Dad’s funeral all the way to the send-off? The hell do you even take me for?”
“What do I take you for? The King-God-General-Emperor-Majesty Big Brother, obviously. Heh-heh. Thanks, bro.”
“You little bootlicker, with that damn King-God-General again... Anyway, don’t worry about Hyunwoo. I’ve got something prepared separately. Now get moving first.”
“Yes, sir!”
Junhyeok, who had gotten his driver’s license last year, drove off in the diesel SUV with Purdy.
Junho got into the electric car and headed for Sang-dong, where the gym was.
***
The people at the MMA gym welcomed Junho back after a long absence, but they also looked more than a little surprised.
And for good reason—Junho looked different again from the way he had during the times he used to show up only sporadically.
He had lost a little weight compared to then, but after Krav Maga, parkour, and even tactical training in the United States, not just his outward appearance but even the atmosphere around him was unmistakably different from before.
Like a blade honed so sharply that it looked like it would cut the moment you touched it.
“You didn’t join up as security for Mr. Baekho or something, did you?”
Even the coach who had personally trained Junho asked that carefully.
“Hey, what are you talking about? Mr. Kang was here not that long ago asking about Junho too.”
“Right. That’s true.”
The gym owner clicked his tongue at the coach, who scratched at the hair on his head that had gotten even thinner in the meantime, then spoke to Junho.
“So you’re really moving all the way to Sangju for good?”
“Yes. I didn’t know it myself, but after my father’s only relative passed away, it turned out he’d left behind a house and a small farm. And there are some pretty decent youth support benefits or something along those lines, so I figured I’d go give it a try.”
“In an economy like this, that’s not a bad move. Hell, our gym’s doing worse now than it was during COVID.”
The gym owner let out a deep sigh, and the coach beside him just watched the mood.
After firmly planting the idea that he was leaving Bucheon for good, Junho spoke with the most serious expression he could manage.
“Boss, Coach, you remember what I said when Yang Jincheol got elected, right?”
“Of course I remember. You said he looked bad, and that his energy was seriously rotten. Said he’d screw up every event he showed up at and probably screw up the whole country too.”
“Hey, after you said that to me last year, I actually laughed at you in my head. But... Jesus. Anyway, Junho, you’re seriously something. Do you really see stuff like that?”
Looking at the two men, who had both seen and lived through all the chaos and disasters caused over more than a year by Yang Jincheol’s catastrophic administration, Junho gave a grave nod.
“Yes. Ever since shortly before my father died in that accident, I’ve had something like... intuition? A stronger sense for things like that. So what I’m trying to say is... honestly, there’s another real reason I decided to leave Bucheon.”
“......!?”
Watching both men flinch, Junho continued.
“I keep getting this feeling that something unbelievably bad is going to happen next year. Just thinking about next summer makes my heart pound. The feeling is way worse than what I had before my father’s accident.”
“......”
They still looked half doubtful, but having directly experienced the remarkable “gift” Junho had shown, the two of them listened for now.
“So I wanted to tell both of you to be careful too. If at all possible, don’t go anywhere crowded next summer. Especially during vacation season, I think it’d be best if you stayed home with your families. Ah... even thinking about it now, my heart’s starting to pound.”
At the sight of Junho putting a hand to his chest and even taking deep breaths, the gym owner and the coach swallowed dryly.
If someone else had said the same thing, they would have laughed it off.
But the Junho they knew had always been serious, and not once had he ever talked nonsense.
“Anyway, I know it sounds like bullshit, but don’t ignore what I’m saying. Just... next summer, on weekends or during vacation season, try not to go places with big crowds if you can help it.”
“Jesus, that’s creepy. Anyway, all right. I’ll make sure to do that.”
“Same here... Christ, I’ve got goosebumps now.”
“That’s because you’ve already got the air conditioner blasting like hell, dumbass.”
“Ah.”
At one time, they had persistently urged him toward going pro and had been a little annoying about it.
But as a small human courtesy to the gym owner and coach who had done their best to make him stronger, Junho hid his bitterness, forced a smile, and exchanged his final goodbyes.
Starting with the gym, Junho used the excuse of moving to Sangju in North Gyeongsang to cut off all of his personal ties.
For about the next year, he planned not to meet or stay in contact with almost anyone unless they either knew about Our Pension or were at the place themselves.
There were a very small number of people already set aside in his mind to whom he intended to give appropriate help or consideration right before the apocalypse broke out, but everyone else had to be cut off coldly.
Anyway, a year was a long time, and by next year, most people would probably be confused about whether he had moved to North Gyeongsang or South Gyeongsang in the first place.
And so time passed quietly.
At last, it became 2024—the doomed year when the apocalypse would begin.
