Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 50.1: The Giant Tree (1)
Before the war, I briefly worked at a company. I had even shared a candid and unembellished account of my experience on our forum.
The company had two bookkeepers—one was the boss’s girlfriend, and the other was the actual bookkeeper. Neither of them did much work, but at least the real bookkeeper pretended to be productive. While I hadn’t mentioned this on the forum, it was obvious that the real bookkeeper had a strong attraction to me.
“Look at this, Park Gyu.”
Perhaps that’s why one day she showed me her favorite online community. She was likely trying to find common ground with me, but even now, I’m not particularly warm toward women.
“I don’t use the internet. I don’t do KakaoTalk or any of those apps. I don’t do group chats at all.”
It wasn’t just because she wasn’t my type. That was part of it, sure, but not the whole reason.
“Then what’s that group chat?”
“It’s for business. I’d like my personal life to remain private.”
Even if she’d been more attractive, it wouldn’t have made a difference. My focus was solely on surviving alone—I had no interest in shared survival or any such indulgence.
Still, the community she showed me left a strong impression, even on someone like me, who was mentally and emotionally drained from constant debt collection calls and the looming fear of war.
I don’t recall its exact name, but it was an anonymous forum. Despite being anonymous, it wasn’t entirely private. The site had a unique feature: posts displayed the name of the poster’s company. It was designed to create a space where workers could openly and honestly discuss the inner workings of their workplaces, fostering transparency and protecting employee rights.
The intent was noble. It sounded good in theory.
But through my eyes, that system seemed like a revival of South Korea’s deep-seated societal rot.
“Ta-da~ This is how our company shows up!” the bookkeeper exclaimed as she posted something on the forum.
SeafoodPancakeLv.1 (New Company): Feeling down, sigh...
“New company?” I asked.
“Yes. Usually, companies like ours...”
She gestured for me to come closer.
“You can just explain from there,” I said, not moving.
She pouted, turned her head away, and replied curtly, “This is how it shows up for small companies like ours.”
Out of curiosity, I secretly accessed the site and registered. It required a business card and company phone number. Since my company hadn’t issued me a card, I had to use a 2,500-won template to create one and entered the phone number for verification. I managed to get an account.
Once I joined, I browsed the posts to get a feel for the site. It was practical and realistic, with plenty of information that reflected the lives of office workers. But even amidst this, something familiar hit me like a punch to the throat.
This chapter is updat𝓮d by freēnovelkiss.com.
SKELTON (New Company): Work is so exhausting.
Three seconds later, a similar post appeared:
CorporateSlaveA (Jepho Motors Headquarters): Life is so hard (12)
There was no difference between the two posts—except for the number of comments. My post had none, while CorporateSlaveA’s had twelve. I read through some of them:
ㅇㅇ (Cheolju Media): I feel you, sigh...
TomorrowWillShine (Cocao): Still gotta work tomorrow...
SatoriGeneration (CK Telecom): Let’s hang in there.
SlamDunk123 (Civil Servant): I want to take a vacation.
I couldn’t understand it. Even as someone unfamiliar with internet culture at the time, the unfairness felt glaring.
Had I done something wrong? No, I hadn’t.
But being human, I couldn’t help but wonder if the problem lay in the “New Company” label next to my name, as the bookkeeper had mentioned.
Refreshed with a lingering sense of frustration, a new post caught my eye:
BonobonoHamster (Doctor): Our workplace summary.txt (13)
OverworkedLow payDealing with elderly patients all dayNo idea why I even studied medicine“‘Doctor’ as a company name? That’s odd,” I thought, finding it curious. Inspired, I decided to write my own post:
SKELTON (New Company): Our workplace summary.txt
Always told to arrive ten minutes early, but they want me to show up even earlier.Get called back during lunch break walks for no reason.If I ask questions, I’m told I lack initiative; if I don’t ask, I’m scolded for not asking.“...”
Despite writing such a long post, I received zero comments.
Browsing the popular posts later, I began to grasp the site’s culture. The company name next to a username was more than just a label—it was a status symbol.
It reminded me of old Korean class distinctions, where people were categorized as nobles or commoners, or even divided into factions like civil or military officials. More recently, it was akin to the social hierarchy imposed by apartment names or neighborhoods.
For someone from a “small company” like me, the choices were limited: either avoid posting altogether or prepare to be mocked. Rarely were opinions or thoughts from “small company” employees taken seriously.
Even when a “New Company” user made a rational and objective argument in a debate, a single dismissive comment from a user with a prestigious company label could reduce their words to nothing more than a whining rant. I’d seen it happen several times.
Maybe it was my heightened sensitivity, fueled by the debt collectors and the emotional strain I was under, but that was my impression of the site. I never visited it again.
Two years and seven months into the war, a similar situation unfolded. This time, it wasn’t on some corporate forum. It was on Failnet, the symbol of freedom in this apocalyptic world.
*
ㅇㅇ (A13): Oh, what’s this? Something weird just popped up!
ㅇㅇ (B31): It’s real. What is this?
ㅇㅇ (F13): Purrrrrr
ㅇㅇ (D07): Is this some kind of ID system?
ㅇㅇ (E31): Test.
ㅇㅇ (E31): Huh? Why do you have the same code as me?
I first heard about the chaos erupting on Failnet while sitting in front of my laptop, my body heavy like soaked cotton after a long day of labor.
Since early that morning, I had been busy filling in the main bunker I’d opened during the monsoon season. This time, I didn’t seal it entirely with dirt. I figured there was a good chance I’d need to use it again within the next two years or so.
Frankly, survival for me, the Legion faction, and even Kim Daram was uncertain at that point. So instead of fully covering it, I laid down plywood, draped waterproof tarps over it, and topped it with a layer of dirt. Once I’d finished camouflaging it with weeds from the surrounding area, I left the rest to the blazing summer sun.
Whirrrr.
The air conditioner hummed energetically as I sat in the cool bunker, powered on my laptop, and read the news about the upheaval on Failnet.
Apparently, strange codes had appeared next to usernames on the platform. Users, bored and likely hungry, speculated endlessly about the origin and purpose of these codes. Soon, an anonymous user cautiously shared a theory:
ㅇㅇ (D13): Hey, could this be the camp codes? Remember when they set up those base stations at each camp?
The theory turned out to be correct. The codes displayed next to usernames indicated the base station from which the user was accessing Failnet.
For those of us connecting via satellite, like the Viva! Apocalypse! users, the system displayed this:
ㅁㅁ (Unknown): Test.
Unknown. In other words, untraceable.
It meant that no matter how anonymous someone like me or any other user appeared, their origins could no longer remain hidden. In short, the likelihood of another “Eomchang” appearing on Failnet had disappeared forever.
But that wasn’t the only problem.
A user soon posted a new thread:
ㅇㅇ (D13): Code-based regions.txt
Using the codes, they had identified the corresponding base station locations and organized them into a neat list. While their intent might have been innocent, the post was interpreted in a way the author likely didn’t anticipate.
Shortly after, another post appeared:
ㅇㅇ (A18): Code-based hierarchy.txt
This post copied the content of the previous thread but replaced “regions” with “social ranks.”
Although I didn’t know much about refugee camps since I’d only dipped my toes into them, it seemed there were significant disparities between camps in Incheon. A strange conspiracy theory began circulating: while camps seemed equal on the surface, the government had allegedly sorted refugees into categories. The wealthy and capable were placed in certain camps, the mediocre in others, and those deemed worthless were reluctantly housed in the least desirable locations.
There were rebuttals, of course. Some argued that the chaos of Seoul’s fall forced the government to sort people hastily, resulting in inevitable differences between camps. Talking about averages and hierarchies, they claimed, was a ridiculous leap in logic.
I agreed with the latter.
There’s no way the government—struggling to survive itself—would bother with such discrimination. From what I’d observed, the only individuals they cared about were those with potential for Awakened abilities.
But logic often falls to illogical narratives.
Those in relatively well-regarded camps began to act as if their locations inherently made them superior. They pushed their argument relentlessly, and soon the “camp hierarchy theory” spread across all of Incheon.
The final outcome was nothing short of a spectacle:
ㅇㅇ (A18): Code-based hierarchy (Final Edition).txt
A01–A10: RoyaltyA11–A23: Noble familiesB01–B18: AristocratsB19–B33: Yangban (Traditional elite)--- Line of Nobility ---
C01–C14: Middle-classC15–C32: Commoners--- Line of Humanity ---
D~: SlavesE~: ServantsF~: Zombies“...”
Failnet, once a platform where everyone could speak freely and equally under anonymous “ㅇㅇ” usernames, had now devolved into a hierarchy.
형우아빠 (D18): This isn’t right. What difference does it make between camps? I’m heading to Jeju Island anyway.
ㅇㅇ (B11): Sure, beggar. Enjoy your Jeju trip in your dreams.
ㅇㅇ (A22): This hierarchy is spot-on. Our camp has tons of doctors and even celebrities. I was a fund manager in Yeouido.
ㅇㅇ (A23): Our camp gathered many survivors from Gangnam. Seems like the government really did filter and sort us.
ㅇㅇ (E22): What a load of crap. Seriously, what did you eat today? Beef? Is that why you’re acting so arrogant?
ㅇㅇ (A15): E-class reeks. Disgusting.
ㅇㅇ (A02): Yum-yum... filthy beggars... Yum-yum... finally putting this board in order... Yum-yum...
People who once laughed and chatted together were now scrutinizing each other based on the codes next to their usernames. It reminded me of the forum I once visited before the war, where company names beside usernames served as a similar status symbol.
Witnessing this debacle, I immediately reached out to one of John Nae-non’s subordinates.
SKELTON: What’s going on? Failnet is in chaos.
After a short while, a reply came:
171cm54kg13cm: Ah, SKELTON...
SKELTON: (Shocked SKELTON) Wait, your username is...?!
171cm54kg13cm: Yeah, it’s basically my account now. I’m not a fan of lying.
SKELTON: (Deep breath SKELTON) I see... Anyway, what’s happening?
They explained the situation. When their equipment broke during the monsoon season, they were forced to rely on government assistance, effectively bowing to them.
While John Nae-non’s vision for the site was revolutionary, maintaining it required resources—resources that had nearly been depleted during the monsoon. Left with no choice, they compromised, which led to the current pandemonium.
171cm54kg13cm: Also...
I could almost picture the thin, bespectacled man hesitating as he typed, his frail figure vividly forming in my mind. Then, the next message came:
171cm54kg13cm: John Nae-non doesn’t have much time left. I think this month might be the end...
“...”
I closed my eyes and let out a deep sigh. It wasn’t surprising. The concept of death had lingered over John Nae-non from the moment I met him.
But knowing his time was almost up still hit me like a hammer to the head. I had hoped he’d live a little longer, even if he no longer participated in the forums.
SKELTON: I see... 😥
171cm54kg13cm: It’s heartbreaking. Truly...
SKELTON: Why?
171cm54kg13cm: John Nae-non is tormented. Watching the site he built turn into this government-controlled nightmare... Yesterday, he didn’t sleep at all. He just kept staring at the forums, gasping for breath, his eyes filled with regret.
I could only imagine the despair of watching the utopia he traded his life for become tainted by the government’s influence.
“...”
Once again, I felt powerless. There was little I could do to fix this. Not everything could be solved by wielding an axe.
Then, a thought struck me.
“Wait...”
This is John Nae-non we’re talking about. As a long-time admirer, I knew him well. I knew what he liked, what he wanted.
Tap, tap, tap.
SKELTON: (Strategist SKELTON) I’ve got an idea.
