Test (5)

Now, the order had shifted. The surroundings fell silent. The focused gazes felt piercing. Would the youngest recipient of the Medal of Honor live up to his reputation? Or was he simply an exaggerated or manufactured hero? Gyeo-ul sensed everyone’s slightly suppressed breathing as they pretended to stay indifferent. There was not even a small movement. It was so unnatural.

Amid their attention, a faint anxiety could be felt.

‘I know. It’s not always wise to completely reveal your skills.’

The Few, the Proud. The pride of an elite minority was the motto of the Marines. And the Force Recon, to which Captain Fowler belonged, was known as the Marine among Marines.

Not all members of White Skull were originally from Force Recon. There were likely reinforced members like Gyeo-ul. However, regardless of their original affiliation, they must have been soldiers with the best records in their respective domains. Moreover, those careers represented dedication that came with a life allowance. Of course, they took pride in both their innate talent and the effort beyond that. It was no wonder they differed from the soldiers Gyeo-ul had met before.

He welcomed such wary caution whenever he saw it. It made him realize that, in the old era, there truly were people who were proud of their lives. Gyeo-ul rarely saw anyone with deep self-esteem while alive. If you can’t love yourself, it’s hard to care for others. Judging by the steadily piling messages from his audience, the world outside remained unchanged even after the boy’s death.

Gyeo-ul tilted his head, struck by a sudden, odd thought. The Gyeo-ul’s afterlife admired by the audience was simply a reconstructed past enshrined in a columbarium. Could this not be seen as nostalgia for what was lost to time?

“First Lieutenant Han Gyeo-ul, shall we begin?”

Perhaps Skylar had used Perception on the distant Gyeo-ul; he asked the question with a frown.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Gyeo-ul assumed a relaxed position.

He decided not to conceal his abilities. The disadvantages would likely outweigh the gains.

Skylar hid the remote behind his back.

Beep—

The instant the signal broke the silence—bang! A gunshot erupted. The interval was virtually nonexistent. A hole opened in the center of the target’s vital zone. A shell casing, glinting gold, bounced on the floor with a clear ring. Only after that sound faded did Skylar read the timer.

“0.49.”

After staring at Gyeo-ul with a complicated expression, he turned to Captain Fowler.

“What do you think, sir?”

“Well… Did he really move after the sound?”

It wasn’t just the captain who felt dubious. The only one who looked both surprised and delighted was Joanna. The rest reacted with deflated bewilderment. Confusion and suspicion. Everyone here was a marksmanship expert. People who operated in the realm of hundredths of a second. Thus, they knew the limits of human capability better than anyone.

Yet Gyeo-ul’s skill was at the threshold of the superhuman.

Skylar nodded.

“Let’s measure again. Lieutenant Han, get ready.”

At the vanishing point of scrutinizing gazes sharper than before, Gyeo-ul wordlessly assumed his stance. He raised both hands to head height. Then closed his eyes, to focus. After all, even high-level technique depended on Gyeo-ul’s own focus, and that could be affected.

‘This should also help reduce suspicion.’

The suspicion that he might have moved after spotting Skylar’s sign to press the remote. That was likely why Skylar took a few steps away. Having thought this far, Gyeo-ul emptied his mind. Time stretched endlessly in his pitch-black consciousness. All of his senses sharpened like needles.

The timer rang.

His body reacted at lightning speed. Drawing his pistol and opening his eyes, his focus was already on the target. A brilliant flash. The timer blinked. Almost simultaneously, the bullet traced by the sights penetrated the red vital zone. Gyeo-ul perceived the three changes happening in an instant, in order. Perhaps it was all just an illusion.

“0.48.”

It had gone down, rather than up. Skylar scratched his chin, looking irritated. Reality felt even clearer.

“This doesn’t make sense. And it’s not like you moved before the signal.”

Captain Fowler muttered in distress. He looked at his men, checking if anyone wished to raise an objection. But no one reported a rules violation. The captain ordered the timer to be replaced. A spare was brought out immediately. Installation ended after a brief commotion.

Fowler addressed Gyeo-ul.

“Let’s try it once more. It’d be nice if we could check with a recording, but this isn’t a baseball stadium.”

“That’s fine.”

The previously cross-armed and wall-leaning captain now approached to a closer distance. His upper body leaned forward subtly. Gyeo-ul closed his eyes once again. He relaxed his arms, tensed the muscles from his neck through his back, thighs, and calves. This was preparation to maximize Movement’s correction.

Beep—

Gyeo-ul spun with resilience. In the instant his spread arms froze, just before the momentum could sway him, the technical firing took place below the minimum unit of perception. The sensory feedback actually lagged behind the phenomenon itself.

The result was the same as before. After the second 0.48, a belated commotion rippled through the crowd.

“Should I go again?”

When Gyeo-ul asked, Captain Fowler groaned.

“No. If this were cheating, there’s no way you could be this consistent.”

Then one of the team members objected.

“We need another measurement, sir. You know as well as I do—this is an impossible record.”

The malice and self-reproach Gyeo-ul had expected didn’t appear yet. There were merely people suspending judgment, caught between experience and reality. Captain Fowler shook his head, clearing himself of doubt.

“Bullshit. In a world where corpses run around, you’re still talking about ‘impossible’?”

“……”

“What a bunch of gormless faces. Why even have eyes if you won’t believe what you see?”

But since he wasn’t the only one unable to accept it, the captain requested Gyeo-ul try again, with an expression that said he had no other choice. It was obvious that pushing things forward while suspicion remained would only lead to pointless grumbling.

Gyeo-ul, who had resolved to adapt to his changed combat abilities, had no reason to refuse. He would do it as many times as needed.

After a spare magazine was emptied with repeated shots, Gyeo-ul finally shaved off another 0.01 seconds.

The captain’s gaze grew more hollow as he watched.

“Your skill is both stable and overwhelming. Even your accuracy is excellent. With proper cover and support, there’s no way you’d die. You could handle up to five enemies in front, and three at the rear. Distance wouldn’t matter, either…”

Five and three—these were the number of opponents assumed to be engaged simultaneously. Judging from the captain’s conclusion, Gyeo-ul assumed those enemies were well-trained regular soldiers.

The demand for vital zone shots proved it. The area of the red vital zone was about half the size of a person’s face, and the position was similar. It was akin to fighting enemies in body armor and ballistic helmets.

“Let’s continue.”

At the captain’s words, the test resumed. Three more times with a drawn pistol, three more with a rifle under the same rules. The pistol’s average was 0.37 seconds, the rifle’s 0.41.

The team’s faces hardened like stone.

To be honest, this was an embarrassing result. Technical correction wasn’t pure skill. Gyeo-ul solved this problem through pain. In twenty-six Apocalypses, Gyeo-ul had never once used pain reduction. Thus, pain was the same in both life and afterlife. He merely kept shock-prevention turned on.

‘Not that this is the only reason…’

Initially, he couldn’t feel reality in the world after death. He always felt detached and isolated. At that time, pain was the nearest escape hatch. The moments of unbearable intensity made for overwhelming immersion. It was also a way of diluting grief that carried over from life.

Pain was the most realistic sensation.

In this world’s setting, it had been comparatively easier to become strong, but only due to compounded talent advantages. In other words, his talent was manufactured, and it hurt a lot to accumulate it. That, too, was a privilege. Walking a thorny path on purpose was only permitted to Gyeo-ul in this worldview. Still, rational understanding and emotional consolation lay in separate realms.

A sound of music was heard.

Music?

Gyeo-ul glanced around, puzzled. The source was the ship’s broadcast. The quietly flowing guitar melody was random and unexpected. Captain Fowler checked his wristwatch, frowning.

“Is it that time already?”

It turned out to be the meal call.

The music was not an instrumental, after all. After the introduction, the bizarre lyrics began. ‘A psychic spy from China is trying to steal your mind’s energy.’ To Gyeo-ul, recently caught by the undertow of the soft melody, the drop in mood felt abrupt. The taut atmosphere collapsed under the husky tenor. The captain shook his head.

“Lousy choice. What can we do? Reconvene at 13:30. Dismissed.”

He intentionally ignored the supervisor.

As the team dispersed, their tangled gazes lingered in the air like an afterimage.

While heading to the mess, Gyeo-ul listened to the song. The melody and vocals were captivating, and even the awkwardly starting lyrics made more sense as he listened.

“This is the edge of Western civilization and the end point of the world. The sun will still rise in the east, but it is fated to set over here. That’s just how Hollywood sells Californication.”

“The dream of Californication, the dream of Californication.”

“Destruction will lead us down a very rough road. But it is also the mother of creation. And the earthquake is like a little girl’s guitar. It’s just another good vibration.”

“Not even a tsunami could save the world from Californication…”

“It’s not the kind of song one would want to hear in times like these. I get the message, but in this era, the meaning just hits differently,”

Gyeo-ul commented.

Joanna agreed with Gyeo-ul’s evaluation.

“That’s true. What can you do—it was a popular song in the late twentieth century. I was young then, and I loved it. But now it feels ominous. Even the title is ambiguous—Californication. In the song, it means changing into something like California, but in the dictionary, it can also mean to ruin something.”

In any case, the two of them were sitting at California’s ocean. After seeing this corrupt sea and the ruined boundary, after witnessing people breathing as if dead, Gyeo-ul could hardly hear a song critical of modern civilization—especially with a word rooted in California itself—as its original meaning.

Reminiscing, joanna spoke of joys that had wilted away.

“There was a drama of the same name, wasn’t there? It was entertaining but overloaded with sex appeal. The phenomenon the song criticized played out as-is. Honestly, so much of American adult comedy is like that… But now I even miss that. They say the past is always beautiful.”

“There are times that simply can’t be beautiful.”

“For example?”

“… Right now.”

At Gyeo-ul’s measured answer and gesture toward the outside, joanna gave a faint smile.

“It depends on what you look for. We see fear and filth as humanity teeters on the brink of disappearance, but thanks to that, I got to meet someone like you, Gyeo-ul. Stars shine brightest in the dark. Isn’t a single star enough for someone to live by? That alone means it isn’t total darkness.”

A single star. Gyeo-ul recalled the wish of the control entity. The promise made in a conversation where a star was at stake—the child.

Child?

Oddly, Gyeo-ul felt the control entity seemed like a child to him.

That child would likely exist in Joanna’s mind right now. After all, the entity supervised all the calculations of the afterlife. It was probably present also for Captain Fowler, Team Leader Chadwick, Yura and Jin-seok, and the two division chiefs. They had all come to him for answers, even after twenty-six rounds of the Apocalypse, after all those indirect conversations.

Thus, even amid Gyeo-ul’s weightlessness, one star remained.

Lost in thought, he noticed the guitar sound fading away. The husky rock ended, followed by the station’s jingle and an announcer’s voice.

“So it wasn’t an album—it’s the radio,”

Gyeo-ul mused, tilting his head. He’d guessed it was Team Leader Chadwick’s distasteful taste. Joanna nodded.

“It’s a frequency that used to broadcast in this region. Not just San Francisco—major cities in the contamination zone are doing the same. Specially made noise makers replace radio relay stations.”

“There must be plenty of reasons for that.”

“Yes. The most important is still emotional stability for isolated citizens. Like I said before, a single star—a small hope—is enough to sustain a person. Fragments of normalcy from the old days are valuable comforts. Broadcasting survival information ranks below that.”

She added that, additionally, it was a symbolic act showing that the United States still exercised jurisdiction over this region.

“They must worry that refugees might claim territorial sovereignty, even though America lost this land?”

Joanna confirmed Gyeo-ul’s question.

“Yes. As you heard in the briefing, the people here aren’t ordinary refugees. They’re an armed group with enough military power to threaten national security. Even if the chance is low, it’s right to prepare.”

Weather reports, contamination zone updates, and supply drop schedules flowed from the radio. Judging by the slogan the announcer read with the jingle, it had originally been a music channel. But the times were what they were, so now it included disaster broadcasts and news programs.

‘They must try to put new info into every broadcast. Some places only pick up certain frequencies.’

The mess, which they’d reached via the elevator, was different from how it had looked at night or before his morning shower. In the morning, only simple meals had been served. Now, it was set as a full buffet—on the level of a proper US military dining facility. Considering they’d even mobilized a submarine just to transport people, this was almost extravagant. Gyeo-ul felt a bit incredulous.

Food would be vital to morale on a long-term mission, but still…

Sitting at a table with Joanna, about to start eating, Gyeo-ul was surprised by a news story on the radio, right after a song.

—————————= Author’s Notes —————————=

#Afterword

Sometimes, people say they don’t like the afterword—maybe it’s too long, or too childish.

Hmm, but over on Naver, where there’s no afterword, people say they miss it…and when I cut back on the Q&A because of comments about length, others say they miss that too.

Childishness…well…maybe I haven’t grown up yet…ha ha. Sorry.

The afterword isn’t part of the main story, so you don’t have to read it. You certainly don’t need to suffer through my silly jokes.

Still, I’ll try keeping the Q&A shorter for now—pick just three or fewer questions each time.

#Q&A

Q. Guaaaaak: @Ha ha, that’s basically a general hospital-level. How about taking a break and getting a checkup?

A. Nah, it’s not hospital level yet… I’m still holding up. What I always realize with writing is, it’s not my body but my heart that’s the problem. It keeps getting shattered! I piece myself together in tears every day. Ha ha. Anyway, thank you for your concern.

Q. Na-Ru: @Can I recommend “Halkeginia Sealbreaker” in this novel’s comments? Seems like that author disappeared, though, hahahaha

A. That author is dead. RIP. ㅠㅠ

Q. 감자껍질 (Potato Skin): @But author, is the chance of world destruction in your story really close to 0%? Did you skip simulating the universe… A meteor could hit, or we could make a cameo… Even a few earthquakes at nuclear plants and humanity is done for…

A. Which is why After the Apocalypse is a game of chance. If you’re upset, get those microtransactions going! The Virtual Reality Division is as profit-driven as ever.

On a more serious note, the period for calculating these probabilities isn’t infinite into the future. It’s for the 10 years after the story timeline. The reduction to 0% is calculated per event—plagues, quakes, meteors—separately, rounding up or down at the decimal.

But this level of detail isn’t that important in the novel. The necessary info will be given in the story. At least enough that you can guess what’s happening. 🙂

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