Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 158.1: Hive (1)

Hiding a House in the Apocalypse-Chapter 158.1: Hive (1)

“How is it?”
With a low hum, an antenna shaped like a hexagram was emitting a signal.
“Hard to say.”
This place was a residential facility housing Regular Awakened.
At Ham Chun-ok’s suggestion, a device had been developed to broadcast Necropolis-like frequencies on a massive scale.
As a hastily assembled setup, its mechanism was simple.
First, a terminal capable of accessing Necropolis—or equipment that could control such terminals in bulk—was prepared. Through these terminals, messages were sent and received en masse, transmitting and receiving the so-called voices of the dead, the Necropolis signal.
Because such a large volume of signal was needed, this process was carried out using macros, not by hand—and macro operations inevitably irritated others, especially other Necropolis users.
To be blunt, this large-scale macro-based signal relay was no different from flooding a message board with hundreds of posts per second using bots.
Even I, Park Gyu, who can post more than twenty messages per second to flood a board, am no match for a macro program. It's like trying to outshine Confucius in his own classroom.
Naturally, to the average domestic Necropolis user, it’s nothing but a nuisance. But I—known as SKELTON in the online world—happen to have a close relationship with Necropolis's creator.
Message from Deadman_working: When entering messages, use the keyword #11221963 to keep the posts hidden from others.
That way, we could avoid backlash from macro spam in advance.
It wasn’t such a bad arrangement for Deadman_working either. Despite creating Necropolis—a network that surpassed human technological limits—he knew almost nothing about his own creation.
Because Necropolis wasn’t the result of deductive reasoning and °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° rigorous proof, but rather a chance discovery—like gunpowder or the compass.
Message from Deadman_working: By the way, it’s astonishing. That the voices of the dead could have a protective effect on those influenced by monsters.
SKELTON: We’ll need more testing. The effect hasn’t been definitively proven yet.
Message from Deadman_working: Just my thought, but maybe it’s a song of support from our neighbors, friends, and family who’ve already departed into the world of the dead, trying to watch over us from beyond.
Message from Deadman_working: I’ll be looking forward to the data. Hopefully it yields satisfying results.
In any case, we had Deadman_working’s approval.
Not that it was a loss for him.
Unlike John Nae-non, he hadn’t built physical servers or maintained costly infrastructure.
At any rate, we were now able to transmit a massive volume of signals into Necropolis freely—without interference and without interfering with others.
“Let’s boost the transmission volume a bit.”
“Yes, understood. I’ll increase it by 1.2x.”
Woo Min-hee had assigned a top-tier engineer to assist with my admittedly absurd plan.
One of the perks of working with a large organization.
Everything you need is readily available, and people are always on standby.
Had I tried to prepare all of this alone, back in my dark bunker, I probably wouldn’t have even gotten it off the ground.
Anyway, since it all started with a very simple idea, the verification method was just as crude.
To be exact, it was stupidly simple.
“How are you feeling?”
Constantly asking Kim Hanna—our volunteer subject—for her impressions was the only verification method in this “Skeleton Wave” project.
Contrary to Woo Min-hee’s concern, once we increased the transmission volume, noticeable changes began to appear.
At first, Kim Hanna had complained of a dull headache and said she didn’t feel any effect at all. But gradually, we could see her face improving.
“Hmm. Well... the headache isn’t completely gone. Actually, I kind of feel a different kind of headache now. But I think it’s definitely better than before...”
“Really?”
“Oh, and also—”
Kim Hanna squinted one eye, as if thinking hard about something.
“I keep getting weird words popping into my head.”
“Weird words?”
“Like... ‘Spellkingche’? ‘Skelton’? I don’t know. Something incomprehensible.”
“Really?”
I immediately called the engineers to re-check the contents of the messages we were uploading en masse through the macros.
Deceased103213(KOR): #11221963 Skelton is the best!
Deceased99321(KOR): #11221963 Skelton is the best!
Deceased83133(KOR): #11221963 Skelton is the best!
...
...
The user IDs were all different, but they were repeating the exact same content.
“What’s this?”
When I asked the engineers, they frowned slightly and replied bluntly.
“It’s the message you approved, sir.”
“Is that so?”
I really have been busy lately.
Too busy to micromanage every single detail.
“Let’s change it to something different.”
“You mean something besides ‘Skelton is the best!’?”
“Yes. Let’s switch it up.”
“What kind of message would you prefer?”
“Something positive and relatable.”
Whether it was thanks to the message content or the now-stable signal throughput, the Skeleton Wave began showing visible results.
“They said it feels much better than before.”
At the center of Woo Min-hee’s office—she had traded her white coat for a gray combat uniform formerly worn by a Ganghwa Hunter—was a small-scale model of the Skeleton Wave device.
“Even I feel a bit better myself.”
Valentine’s sacrifice had not been in vain.
Necropolis held potential.
Perhaps even more potential than we could imagine.
Maybe those large-scale transmissions were affecting somewhere else too.
Kaesong.
From that eroded North Korean city, a distress signal had been received.
The last contact with the Lighthouse had been six months ago.
Even then, due to interference and poor connection, proper communication wasn’t possible.
Back when she was near Paju, Woo Min-hee had regularly sent helicopters and drones to check the Lighthouse’s condition, but unfortunately, they could find no sign of survivors.
Hundreds of children who once kept the Lighthouse lit had vanished without a trace.
Until the Jeju Rift closed, that incident remained the largest recorded loss of Awakened in recent history.
Yet the Lighthouse was a semi-strategic government facility, ambitiously supported by the Jeju government.
I’ve seen it firsthand. That place wasn’t just filled with Awakened children—it had well-armed personnel, ample equipment, and heavy Northern-made fortifications.
The armed forces there must have numbered more than a company.
On top of that, Woo Min-hee’s faction, stationed nearby, could provide helicopter support at any time.
Not just against humans—against large-scale monster attacks, they had the capability to defend and reinforce.
And yet the Lighthouse had gone silent without warning.
“Jeju suspected Jeong Ho-kyung of betrayal.”
Jeong Ho-kyung was apparently a member of the mysterious Jeju Committee.
I don’t recall whether he was a commissioner or a councilor.
Either way, he had been part of the Jeju government, which still causes us trouble to this day. Pressured by internal power struggles, he’d found himself cornered and launched the Kaesong Lighthouse initiative to regain his footing.
For the first few months after the Lighthouse was established, it fulfilled its role.
According to Woo Min-hee, it helped significantly delay the erosion around the Seoul area.
So when communication from the Lighthouse suddenly ceased, it was reasonable for Woo Min-hee and the upper ranks to suspect an internal betrayal.
As I said, the Lighthouse’s structure wasn’t the kind to collapse from a single external shock.
“Sure, soldiers could betray. But we had insurance for that.”
The main duty of the Awakened children stationed at the Lighthouse was to collectively generate pulses that would draw monsters toward them. However, it’s said that among them, there were children secretly planted by the Jeju side for covert missions.
“Even though they couldn’t enter the Big Hole, they could still fight. Some of them had experience dealing with human threats. We mixed those kids in specifically to crush any potential mutiny by the military group.”
So a military rebellion couldn’t fully explain it.
Besides, would soldiers really start a mutiny in a place completely surrounded by erosion, like an isolated island?
Other theories were raised: a cook might have poisoned the food, or perhaps a new monster species—unseen until now—had swept in without giving them any chance to resist.
But none of those were proven.
Communication was cut off without warning, and despite 82 drone recon missions and 10 direct search operations, no trace of survivors was found.
What they did find were rotting corpses laid carefully in a classroom, hands folded neatly together.
It was confirmed that the number of bodies was fewer than the number registered at the Lighthouse. But both the Jeju government and Woo Min-hee had already given up hope—no further recon was sent.
By the time those corpses were discovered, three months had already passed since the final transmission.
Everyone who was going to die was dead. Anyone who’d survived likely died afterward.
And then—suddenly—a signal came from the Lighthouse.
Though the signal didn’t connect, all the communications officers unanimously testified that the source was indeed the Lighthouse.
“So I’m thinking of sending someone.”
Woo Min-hee had changed.
Maybe she felt grateful to me.
Back then, she wouldn’t have told me a thing—she would’ve just dispatched her own people quietly.
If that didn’t work, she’d call me in later, probably with some veiled threat thrown in.
“I just thought you should know in advance.”
It did feel like she trusted me more than before.
“I’ll go.”
“You will?”
Being recognized by Woo Min-hee was encouraging, but that wasn’t why I wanted to go.
We’re on the brink of a full-scale monster offensive.
Even now, I’m absorbing real-time updates, but every new piece of intel only highlights how much I don’t know.
So I want to make use of everything I can.
The possibility that there’s life at the Lighthouse is intriguing—but more than that, I think investigating how that group collapsed and vanished might offer valuable insights for the coming battles.
The Lighthouse had a strong structure, well-trained troops, and Awakened children capable of generating pulses.
If there was some artificial, intelligent design behind its destruction, the same tactic could be used again in the future.
“Yeah. I’m counting on you. I want to see it myself.”
When I offered, Woo Min-hee nodded without much hesitation.
“I’ll assign some people to support you. Be careful.”
And just like that, it was decided.
Since it was urgent, I would deploy with Woo Min-hee’s team only.
North Korea may seem distant due to years of prejudice, but in reality, it’s not far at all.
Kaesong, especially, is so close to Seoul it’s almost within arm’s reach.
Before the peninsula was divided by war, Kaesong was inside the 38th parallel.
A helicopter ride takes one hour.
Actual flight time is barely over 30 minutes.
“We’ve come and gone several times, but it’s been useless.”
Across from me, a weary-faced soldier looked out over the dreary gray landscape below, rifle in hand.
His name was Yuseongju.
He’d served under Woo Min-hee since the Incheon days and now led a reconnaissance unit.
“They all died long ago. Hasn’t it been over a year? Or maybe ten months? Either way—it’s the same. I bet the distress signal was just a mechanical glitch.”
From the start, he’d made it clear he thought this mission was pointless.
I didn’t bother to argue.
This operation would be based on my judgment and experience, regardless of his opinion.
Beside me sat a gaunt man, faint light in his eyes, holding a crucifix and making the sign of the cross.
His name was Park Jong-bok, a Detection-type Awakened with special military status.
He wasn’t part of Yuseongju’s team but had been personally assigned by Woo Min-hee for this mission.
He barely spoke.
I’d tried talking to him a few times, but he only replied in short answers, mostly spending his time reading the Bible or muttering prayers.
There were five combatants in total, but we only exchanged names.
Aside from them, there was one military doctor on the team.
Since the mission might involve rescuing survivors, medical personnel were a natural inclusion.
Maybe it was because I wasn’t a soldier but a Hunter—something foreign to them—or maybe we just weren’t close, but on the way to Kaesong, the only voice I heard was Yuseongju’s grumbling.
I usually believe in forming basic rapport for missions, but forcing connections wasn’t wise either, so I focused on mentally visualizing the design of the “Hive” through my phone.
The more I reviewed the structure, the more I agreed with Woo Min-hee: Kaesong’s Lighthouse wasn’t some fragile group that could be wiped out in one sweep.
Unless there had been a perfectly simultaneous ambush on all personnel inside, it should have been possible for at least some survivors to send out a signal.
Besides, Kaesong isn’t even that far away. A simple intercom or K-Walkie would’ve been enough to reach us.
So it’s no wonder Jeju suspects Jeong Ho-kyung of betrayal.
“Definitely mechanical error. No doubt about it.”
Yuseongju kept complaining.
He clearly didn’t want to be here.
Unfortunately for him, he just gained another reason to hate this mission.
“What’s that?”
There was already a visitor at the helipad.
An American-made medium helicopter.
If my guess was correct, it belonged to the Jeju government.
And there were two of them.

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Chapter 158.1: Hive (1)