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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 39
Chapter Title: Santa Maria Miracle Aftermath
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#Journal, page 62, Camp Roberts
The morning after returning from Santa Maria. I could see myself on every TV channel. The consistent caption made my face burn. They were calling it the "Santa Maria Miracle." The media, starved for patriotic stories, showered me with all sorts of glowing commentary. The Department of Defense spokesperson even appeared. He stressed that I was an American citizen and announced they were reviewing rewards befitting my heroic deeds.
It was a relief to see the media's stance on the refugee issue turning more favorable.
Lieutenant Capston took the matter very seriously.
"Lieutenant Han Gyeowol. I know you're exceptional. But this time you went too far. How could you even think of charging alone into the middle of a battlefield? If you'd died, what would happen to the people who depend on you?"
I explained it was to save lives, but he wasn't convinced.
"It's a noble sentiment. But think about it rationally. You possess talents the world desperately needs. You have to survive as long as possible. That way, more people will make it because of you. The ones you couldn't save right away? Coldly speaking, they're just a handful."
I told him there are no ordinary people in this world. You can't substitute the one person you failed to save now with others you might rescue later.
The lieutenant shifted to a different concern.
"Are you feeling some sense of responsibility toward the refugees? Thinking that your exploits will improve how the rest are treated? Is that why you're risking yourself like this?"
He'd always been someone I was grateful for. I promised to be more careful next time, and only then did he let me go, though he still looked skeptical.
On my way to the refugee zone, I ran into Captain Markert. I saluted, and he returned it with a sour expression. He was coming from the Chinese enclave. What business could a racist like him have there?
A crowd had gathered in the enclave's central square. Wondering what was up, I saw they were watching a broadcast. They'd pitched a large open-sided tent and hung a white screen beneath it. The projector's beam was sharp, thanks to the dull winter sky.
Military police patrolled the central square frequently. I spotted a familiar soldier right away. When I asked what was going on, he said it was orders from the DoD public affairs office. He eyed me curiously and asked if the footage was real. I confirmed it was. He was thrilled—he'd won a bet.
...A bet?
After he walked off, I watched the screen from a distance. Seeing myself objectified like that felt alien. Onscreen, someone who looked like another person grappled fiercely with five infected variants. As their teeth clacked perilously close, refugees regardless of nationality held their breath. With each one taken down, layers of deep, involuntary gasps rippled through the crowd. Listening to it made my cheeks blaze. It felt more shameful than proud. Why did that military drone have to have such high resolution? That was all I could think.
I tried to slip away before anyone noticed me, but one person had already turned. That sparked murmurs from the rest. The overt hostility from before had lessened. In its place, more eyes were timid or fearful. Amid them, flickers of longing and greed—and occasionally, even worship.
Confronted by those swelling emotions, I wanted to back away. I tried to play it casual. I hoped it didn't look like fleeing.
#Journal, page 63, Camp Roberts
The 「Winter Alliance」 had grown quieter than before. To be precise, only when I was around.
The public footage must have been too shocking. No one looked at me the same way anymore. More people acted awkward around me, and more tried to flatter. Even Park Jinseok wasn't immune. The only ones unchanged were Lee Yura and Director Min Wanki. Director Min just grinned in admiration.
At any rate, one thing was clear: no one dismissed me as a kid anymore.
The shifted atmosphere felt off to me too, but I'd have to endure it. Here's hoping it settled in time.
#Inner Sanctum (1), Camp Roberts
The apocalypse in this world had distinct cycles. Much like ice ages and interglacials repeating, a brutal event was always followed by a quiet spell. It felt like a courtesy, letting you savor the end-times vibe. Naturally, it was also downtime to prep for the next act.
Winter deemed this an interglacial period. He needed to brace for when the wheel of doom started turning again. This was the moment to shore up his foundations and solidify the 「Winter Alliance」's combat capabilities.
That was why he'd gotten the operations officer's approval for a training plan. With Winter's direct superior being the battalion commander, it was a given. The operations officer asked for a formal plan but didn't nitpick. If anything, he bent over backward with accommodations. He issued training gear and combat rations, even greenlit using U.S. facilities for showers and meals. The Santa Maria miracle had clearly left an impression on him too.
Winter poured the experience gained in Santa Maria into 「Instruction」. It was essential for leadership, and he'd trained it plenty. 「Talent Advantage」 amplified the gains, keeping the cost low. Still, the jump from 10th to 11th grade gave him pause. He wanted to conserve resources to max out his combat skills.
The prolonged debate ended the moment he saw Yura. When she heard training was starting, her enthusiasm matched an impressive tension. She was even swinging her right arm and right leg forward together as she walked. Winter nodded and bumped 「Instruction」 up to 11th grade.
He'd selected three times the needed number of reserves for the combat team. He planned to cull the unfit as training progressed. Male-female ratio was even.
Barring the world's most unique entities—players—everyone else operated within normal limits. Training kicked off with PT.
"St-starting off so intense... isn't it too much?"
"Yes, it is."
Winter's casual reply. She shot him a resentful glare but couldn't sustain it, dropping her head. She was panting too hard to speak properly. A 2-mile run (3.2 km) was probably her first. Frustrated, she yanked off her orange-and-yellow vest. Thick beads of sweat trailed along her jawline.
Yura was still in decent shape, though. Several others puked right and left. The rest sprawled out, not budging an inch—face or no face. Men were no different.
Winter's picks for reserves hadn't been top-tier talent from the start.
Sergeant Pierce from 3rd Company, who'd tagged along to offer pointers, marveled at how sensible Winter's orders were. He also seemed mildly surprised by the boy's stamina, even with skill buffs.
Winter hadn't just stood by barking orders. He'd run alongside, overtaking the leaders to lap the parade ground once extra. Seeing that, the sergeant grinned competitively and matched the extra lap.
Yet no team member beat the pair back.
"You're something else, Lieutenant."
"You're impressive for your age too, Sergeant."
Sergeant Pierce burst out laughing, his expression saying, *Well, I'll be*.
Winter checked the viewer messages. For broadcast flow, he should've let it auto-progress, but that would obscure 「Instruction」's effects. Manual mode it was—though the response wasn't bad at all.
Men liked pretty women even in aerobics. Women dug sexy, sweat-drenched guys too. That was the secret to the viewers' satisfaction. When requests rolled in to linger on Yura's figure, Winter felt a sigh coming on.
To top it off, a viewer quest popped up: they wanted to see Yura puke, so torment her more. This time he really sighed and declined the task.
Oblivious to his inner turmoil, the sergeant read the sigh differently.
"Disappointed in them?"
"No, not at all. Just had another thought."
The black man hummed skeptically but didn't press. They shifted to practical matters.
"Running's the foundation, sure—but combat demands anaerobic endurance. Once they adjust, swap 2-milers for shuttles."
"Sounds good."
Winter glanced at his augmented reality UI. The 「Instruction」 and 「Insight」 synergy flagged optimal workloads and rest times per person. Limits included.
"Alright, everyone up."
"Huh? Already? Won't overdoing it backfire?"
"You've rested plenty, by my count."
"Hiiing, little commander... just a bit more..."
One of the women whined. Winter worried it painted him as too harsh for the pacing, but Sergeant Pierce drew his focus. He tapped his cap.
"Lieutenant, when you're wearing this, you gotta be the devil."
Winter wore the same wide-brim instructor's hat. The boy wore a regretful look toward the desperate group.
"That's the word. On your feet, all of you."
"Nooo..."
Whimpers leaked from all over. Mostly women, save a few men. Sergeant Pierce turned devilish for real, rolling them in the dirt till they were filthy.
Yura wasn't the best, but she was the most diligent. When it got brutal, she'd glance at Winter and grit her teeth. He recalled her promise: she'd try not to disappoint. She was living up to it. The mark of a good person.
Lunchtime. He passed out MREs to everyone. Eating these counted as training too—courtesy of the operations officer. Given prior refugee treatment, it spoke volumes about expectations for the volunteer unit.
"Ugh... isn't this super salty?"
A few women griped. It was salty even by American standards, accustomed to bold flavors.
"Gotta replace the salt you sweated out. You'll get used to it."
The exhausted barely managed to eat. Still, they powered through. Food was their fixation.
As rest dragged on, they rummaged for shed gear. Camp Roberts' winter felt like late Korean autumn. The cloudy breeze carried a bite.
Seizing the moment, Sergeant Pierce taught them a cadence. Memorizing it was a chore—even in English. Those with decent fluency snickered at the witty lyrics.
After another afternoon grind, the sergeant made a pitch.
"How about dinner, showers, then gu-bo back to barracks?"
"To show off?"
Winter nailed it, and the dark-skinned sergeant flashed white teeth.
"Sharp eye, Lieutenant. We know the score. Power plays are cutthroat among refugees. Gu-bo's no big deal, but smack in that trash heap? It'll turn heads."
"That why the cadence?"
"Killing two birds. What soldier doesn't know one?"
Dinner was bliss for the reserves. The barracks mess had opened after U.S. use—dingier than before, but regular army chow beat refugee slop in quality. Winter had to rein in their gorging to avoid any tummy troubles.
Hot showers after? The women broke down crying. Ten-minute limit: plenty for men, torture for women. Still, purest joy on every face.
Winter took the suggestion. At dusk, they gu-bo'd through refugee checkpoints. The reserves mumbled the cadence they'd learned.
Hut-two-three-four hut-two-three-four
When my old granny was ninety-one
She did PT just for fun.
When my old granny was ninety-two
She'd stomp your ass if in her view.
When my old granny was ninety-three
She did her PT in a tree!
...
When my old granny hit ninety-seven
She croaked and shot straight up to heaven.
Met Saint Peter at the pearly gate.
Said, "Hey Pete, hope I ain't late."
Old Pete looked her up and down.
"Drop and gimme twenty, you old clown!"
U.S. troops at the checkpoints laughed outright. The reserves must've looked a sight to them. Block after block, slack-jawed refugees gawked.
The reserves seemed to be having fun with it too. Legs screaming, they kept chuckling.
============================ Author's Note ============================
1. No 40,000-year stockpile here. The Blood Raven swiped it.
2. Movies are prime fuel for the inner child.
So many masterpieces.
The Match Girl's Return, Clementine, 7 Light District, Joseon's Beauty Musketeers, and more...
Just watching 'em might nuke the planet with innocence...
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