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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: The Little Prince of the Columbarium
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#Journal, Page 21, Camp Roberts
It had been a week since the government sent their last relief helicopter, and our food supplies were running low. There were too many places in need and not enough aircraft. Ground transport was on hold due to the high risks and potential losses. Communications were still getting through, but it was clear the U.S. government had lost control of the California region. Hygiene supplies, which hadn't been stockpiled sufficiently, had run out long ago. People's behavior had grown even uglier.
Late autumn was settling in. Camp Roberts wasn't prepared for winter. We needed heating solutions, and food and supplies were insufficient.
Refugees in the camp were asked for volunteers to go out and scavenge what was needed. The base commander gathered refugee representatives to discuss. The living dead prowling outside the fences didn't discriminate, so fairness demanded that volunteers come from all ages and genders. As long as they weren't too young or too old, everyone should contribute to survival. Of course, fairness wasn't the real motive for those pushing this. They just wanted to minimize their own chances of death. But the commander approved. So even minors and the elderly were eligible to volunteer. The societal safety net that protected children and the aged was dismantled by collective agreement.
A San Francisco cop who joined the camp handled personnel management. Ration cards were prioritized for mission volunteers, so anyone sitting idle risked starving if supplies grew short. Still, many refused to go, huddling in corners and choosing starvation over venturing out. Death was death anyway, and they figured dying of hunger in a safe spot beat being torn apart alive outside. Supplies might not get that bad. The military didn't pressure them either, citing the danger to soldiers if volunteers disobeyed orders during operations.
「Player's Choice: Accept the supply procurement mission.」
I was different. If malnutrition weakened me, I might die from something other than starvation. I wanted to struggle a bit first.
I went to the recruitment office and volunteered. One of the officers there, Lieutenant Robert Capston, dragged me back out. Among the U.S. officers, he was one of the more moderate ones. He said I was the only mid-level manager without an affiliation. He asked if I felt excluded because I was a minor and offered enough ration cards to keep from starving if I'd reconsider.
「AI Help (Insight Level 4): Accepting the offer increases community stability correction. Gains favor from moderate U.S. officers. Boosts player's influence in the community. Upward correction to player's leadership. Rejecting decreases player's will, charm, and leadership corrections.」
「Player's Choice: Volunteer for the supply procurement mission anyway.」
I thanked him for the kindness but refused, saying I wanted to go out. I didn't want to stay idle and powerless; I wanted to help people. Lieutenant Capston looked stunned but didn't force me to stay. He just patted my shoulder and told me to come back alive.
Good people exist even in times like these. It was a relief someone like the lieutenant was around.
#Supply Procurement, Camp Roberts
That was the setup. Pre-game situations were provided via videos and journals, varying by set nationality, gender, age, job, traits, and starting point. Even restarting with the same conditions didn't repeat exactly.
That's why I paid close attention to the journal through multiple deaths and restarts. Excluding exceptions, the journal—in monologue form—held tons of info on the player's situation. The virtual persona narrating it refined itself over runs, adapting to the player's tendencies.
Reading the journal wasn't boring for the boy. The monologue served as narration, but it was experienced as full VR. Players didn't control words or actions; they just felt preset outcomes. Think of it as the ultimate evolution of a 4D movie.
The boy looked around.
Under the dawn sky, faded white tents and drab military ones stretched in rows. The camp was city-sized. People avoided eye contact. Following holographic guides visible only to players, he headed to his mission as a dull, low thud echoed nearby. On first playthroughs, he hadn't understood. Now he knew the sound instantly: a blade stabbing flesh. A middle-aged man clutched his gut; the woman who'd dropped her knife with a clatter spotted the boy while scanning around. She flinched, froze briefly, then warily snatched the ration card from the dying man and fled. The boy watched with a frown. He just observed. This wasn't his first time in the game. He'd progressed through events via repeated deaths and knew she was low-level gang fodder. Chasing her meant facing her whole crew.
Stabbing sounds varied by spot. The boy knew from experience. Inevitable experience. The enemies outside—infected variants—were once human. The sensation wasn't much different. Above all, in this VR world 「Day after Apocalypse」, evil humans posed a bigger threat than variants. Even good-natured ones killed in desperation. Progress required killing people.
An AR hologram read: 「Viewer messages received. 77. Check logs.」 It had been flashing for a while. Reluctantly, the boy opened the log. Semi-transparent windows divided into system, general, and viewer message logs appeared. Viewer messages activated only in public broadcasts. Adjusting tabs filled his view with colorful strings.
「Dodohan Gongchu♡: Oppa, why not chase that girl?」
「SALHAE: Chase and kill her! You SALHAE, therefore you exist! Women only need the lower half! Kill and fuck—that's the man's path! Who's the real man? You are! How real? Fucking real! You're a 12/10 real man! Hesitation's for girls! Do it!」
「ㄹㅇㅇㅈ: Fuck, the guy above is a psycho lololol Public streamer, mind his age」
「Cashmere: Post-mission insurance covers no VR age limits, right?」
「Banmal Home: ㄹㅇㅇㅈ total nerd shit—Cashmere acting smart—Wtf's Oji-myeong?」
「Ryeo Gwon Nara U: Oji-myeong? Ancient term... Banmal old man verified... Gramps, you hard?」
「Geumsujoe: Ugh, peasant scum」
It jolted him awake. For the boy new to public broadcasts, his face burned. He slammed the log shut, hesitated, then reopened it and carefully typed a message. The VR 「Teletype」 module instantly turned thoughts into text, auto-translating languages. Thinking and input were simultaneous.
「Han Gyeowol: As announced beforehand, I won't take advice. And please use polite language.」
He closed it fast. New messages exploded in count, but he didn't care to read.
Why the intense aversion and disgust? The boy shivered. A stone in his chest, forgotten for a while, rolled around, bumping painfully. He ignored it and hurried on.
Multiple mission markers beckoned. Choices shaped the future. But he had his plan, no hesitation. Vehicles waited at the destination. U.S. military unlike any the boy recalled from life. The era was early 21st century—unavoidable. Human extinction via bio-disaster lacked realism against mid-century tech boom Earth.
Control AI, reactive to user subconscious, labeled vehicles. Armored Humvees with machine guns flanked a line of oddly shaped military trucks. Two camouflaged fuel tankers (M978A2) sat center for gas runs.
The area was tightly controlled, fearing refugee vehicle hijackings. The boy queued patiently. Volunteers got patted down, then issued body armor, gas masks, duffel bags. Weapons distributed on-site, the staff sergeant repeated mechanically.
His turn: the gum-chewing Black sergeant scowled.
"Tiny! They letting shits like you volunteer?"
"Not mandatory."
A sergeant beside replied. The staff sergeant eyed him familiarly.
"Robocop lieutenant likes him. Volunteered to help people."
"How you trust that?"
"No affiliation. Good English, picking up Japanese and Chinese lately. Useful for controlling volunteers."
Robocop was Robert Capston's nickname—first syllables sounded similar.
Languages were XP-invested skills, not prior knowledge—system-aided translation. In social-heavy 「Day after Apocalypse」, languages were key survival tech.
The staff sergeant asked,
"How old are you?"
Subconscious-reactive interface: control AI hologram with fitting lines, keywords, hints—tied to intellect (intelligence), 「Insight」, 「Discernment」, 「Deception」 levels.
Just displayed set age. Lying option existed, but the boy answered honestly.
"Seventeen."
"Seventeen? Damn, not twelve? Can't tell Asian ages by looks." Grumbling, he gestured for search. The private confirmed nothing on the rough pat-down, handed the boy armor, mask, duffel like others. No airborne transmission proof, nor disproof. Staff sergeant warned: no mask removal on mission without orders.
Past checkpoint, into tent per controls. U.S. soldiers seated volunteers by nationality—mostly Koreans nearby, murmurs in Korean. Some greeted the boy. Unwilling but he replied. No gain in snubs.
Seats full, Lieutenant Capston signaled from podium. Projector lit screen: map. He scanned, called interpreters forward.
"Those named, translate my words from now."
Boy and others nodded; he snapped fingers to mic for attention, began briefing via map.
"This is San Miguel County's map. Small town, as you see. Original pop around 3,300—likely empty now. Primary target: the village's sole gas station."
He pointed: at 101 Highway fork into town.
"Convoy stops here. Tankers fill while waiting for you. You'll split into two teams. First: church two blocks south of station. Used as shelter during evac—high chance of supplies. Second: farther, four blocks north to 14th Street center—restaurant and mill. Best food odds, worth the risk."
He looked around.
"As heard, mill riskier. You bravely volunteered, but I'll ask again. Hands for mill team?"
Boy translated verbatim, raised hand immediately—looked self-nominating. Capston and others eyed him intrigued. Favor logs popped: U.S. side warmer, one immutable correction.
「Sergeant Elliot's favorability increases. Unquantified affection favor up-correction. Unquantified affection favor immutable up-correction.」
Relations fluctuate. Favor can drop over time or conflicts. Immutable doesn't.
Unquantified due to low 「Insight」.
'Not much, probably.'
No big hopes.
"Anyone else?"
Capston asked; all eyed each other. Praised bravery, but most sought safe rations. He looked disappointed, faintly resigned.
Reasons for refugee use: camp unrest limited military drafts; didn't want soldiers frontlining danger. Hard to expect refugee zeal.
"Question."
Boy raised hand; Capston nodded.
"Personal bags have limits. Why not truck to mill?"
Asked knowingly—to speed things. Capston nodded, ordered satellite pics.
"Good question. Was about to cover—pay attention. Pre-quarantine San Miguel County sat pics. See stalled cars at intersections? Crashes from signal-ignoring during evac, plus out-of-towners. You'll get radios. Clear them? Radio us—transport trucks move up. But if clearing draws variants, safer solo scavenging. We judge; you follow orders."
Minor questions followed. Worst: Chinese guy's ration query. Capston deflated but answered routinely.
"Base three days, scaled to attitude and results."
Quest info updated: rewards per U.S. escort eval. Ambiguous—bias like racism could screw it. Realism-heavy VR norm.
"No more questions? Follow squad leaders for map drills by team. Dangerous mission—master map to avoid panic, accidents. Dismissed."
Post-Capston, sergeants-plus controlled. Map drills: study ops area, discuss moves. Player chance for minimap. 「Map Reading」 or high intellect got full; else buggy, gappy.
Solo mill volunteer: boy. Others drawn—doomed faces.
Safety-critical but quick—tiny county. Tutorial-level. Tough would suck.
#Intermission, Advice on Character Settings
Player character settings impact gameplay in various ways.
Starting nation affects race/nationality/gender discrimination. Tolerating yields XP gain corrections.
Minors get stat down-corrections but XP gain ups.