How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 7

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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Eruptor Protocol.

A first-person hardcore survival game.

That’s how the game company advertised it.

The player enters a “danger zone,” collects valuable items, avoids attacks from zombies and human raiders, and returns to a safe zone.

Simple enough.

It offered both multiplayer and single-player modes, but there wasn’t much difference between the two.

The game periodically recorded player behavior patterns and used them to create incredibly realistic NPCs.

Sometimes, the NPCs were even more cunning and ruthless than real players.

But it seemed I was alone in this world.

If it were multiplayer, there wouldn’t be a “tutorial village.”

Which meant I was playing a single-player game, surrounded by NPCs that were more human than human.

In the game, players could customize their equipment.

Better armor and weapons meant a higher chance of survival in the danger zones.

If you had crappy weapons, you had to plan carefully to maximize your loot.

And if you died?

You lost everything: all your equipment, all the items you’d collected.

Your character would either turn into a zombie or be left behind in a state too gruesome to even describe.

Then, you had to create a new character and start over.

If you were lucky, you might find your previous character’s stash, allowing you to reclaim some of your lost items.

“…Is this even fun? It sounds incredibly stressful. I don’t get what’s so enjoyable about it.”

That’s what I’d asked my classmate from the university’s investment club when he first introduced me to the game.

“I thought the same thing at first, but then I tried it, and it’s actually quite addictive. It’s like… investing. Or maybe speculating is a better word.”

“Speculating?”

“You know, the thrill of gambling and speculation. The risk of losing everything, the excitement of winning big.”

“So, it’s a game of luck?”

“It’s like the difference between roulette and poker. Roulette is pure luck, but in poker, the player has more control.

You decide how much risk you’re willing to take, how much you’re willing to lose, and how much you want to win.

It’s like… controlled chaos.

This game is more like poker.

Remember how I said you can customize your equipment?
That’s your stake. Better equipment means a higher stake, but also a bigger reward.

But there’s something even better about this game than gambling.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s all virtual. You’re not risking real money. It’s just a game.”

Right. It was just a game.

That’s what it was supposed to be.

I pedaled, searching for a safe place to rest.

Where was I?

I tried to match the scenery with the map in my head.

It was getting dark, and the familiar landmarks were harder to recognize.

That’s when landmarks came in handy.

Large, distinctive objects that were easy to remember.

Like that tall transmission tower, rising above the trees.

That meant I was in the “Transmission Tower Forest.”

It was a large, oval-shaped area, stretching for miles. It would take a day and a half to cross it on foot.

Hills, streams, open fields, dense forests… It was easy to get lost in a place like this, especially for a newbie.

But not here.

As I’d mentioned before, there were rows of 170-foot transmission towers, dwarfing even the tallest trees.

If you were lost, all you had to do was follow the power lines.

It was a surprisingly helpful feature for a game that prided itself on hardcore survival.

But it was also one of the deadliest areas in the game.

Because this was where you learned the real basics.

Resource management and survival.

The Mini Bell village taught you the controls and the interface.

The Transmission Tower Forest taught you how to play the game.

Which meant a lot of people died here.

Sure, you could navigate using the towers and power lines, but those zombies that suddenly popped out from behind trees… they were terrifying.

Newbies would instinctively fire their weapons.

The sound would echo through the forest, giving away their position.

More zombies would come.

And even if you managed to escape, there would be snipers waiting for you.

You know the type. The self-proclaimed “gatekeepers,” determined to teach newbies a lesson.

They’d hit a wall, unable to progress any further, but they still wanted to feel superior, so they preyed on weaker players.

Like those incompetent senior soldiers who’d been hazed themselves and then decided to inflict the same pain on their juniors, regardless of their skills or abilities, justifying their actions with, “That’s how it is in the army.”

Those types usually had either a powerful weapon or a good set of armor.

They’d either mow you down with their superior firepower or taunt you with their impenetrable armor.

I used to enjoy pretending to be a newbie, luring those types into traps and then posting screenshots of their demise on the forums, with titles like “Bug Extermination.”

There were no forums here, of course.

That was a shame.

I finally reached my destination.

A container house.

It had been used as a temporary office and living quarters during the construction of the transmission towers… or so the map said.

But few players ever came here. It was off the beaten path, and there wasn’t much of value here.

But that also made it a good place to rest, to treat injuries, to cook a simple meal.

It wasn’t a place to stay long-term, it was too isolated and difficult to defend, but it was perfect for a short break.

I circled the house a few times, making sure it was safe, then entered, locking the door behind me and barricading it with the bicycle.

The interior was dusty, but the cot was still in good condition.

I brushed off the dust and lay down, coughing a few times.

I stared up at the ceiling.

I felt… optimistic.

What? Optimistic? In this situation?

I chuckled to myself, then coughed again as dust went down the wrong pipe.

But I’d always been like this.

Things rarely lived up to my expectations.

Maybe I set my goals too high, or maybe I overestimated my abilities.

But I’d always managed to avoid the worst-case scenario.

In fact, I often achieved the best results when I was at my lowest point, when I just gave up and went with the flow.

I was incredibly unlucky, but I was also incredibly resilient.

That’s how I saw myself.

Meeting Eruptor Protocol had been a stroke of luck.

I’d enjoyed playing it for years.

Of course, I hadn’t wanted to end up inside the game.

That was definitely bad luck.

But if it hadn’t been for this game…

I wouldn’t have avoided that scam when I was a freshman in college. And I wouldn’t have discovered my talent.

My college entrance exam scores hadn’t been great.

So, I’d decided to retake the exam. The problem was the tuition.

My family’s financial situation had improved, but it wasn’t good enough to afford a cram school.

“I’ll just study on my own. I can take online courses for the subjects I need help with.”

I was considered a weirdo in real life, so I sought out friends online.

Thankfully, there were plenty of people like me, outcasts who found solace in the virtual world.

I worked hard during that awkward period between childhood and adulthood.

I studied constantly, taking online courses and doing practice problems.

I studied while working part-time at a study cafe, I studied while getting banned from online forums for spamming, I studied even after I’d created multiple accounts and driven several forum moderators to quit.

There were times when I wished I had money.

Like when I was struggling to use a free VPN, losing sleep because of the constant disconnections.

If I’d had a little extra cash, I could have afforded a paid VPN.

Maybe my sleep deprivation had affected my concentration, leading to my less-than-stellar college entrance exam scores.

But it wasn’t all bad.

If I’d had the money to afford a paid VPN, I would have been glued to the internet, and I probably wouldn’t have studied as hard.

Anyway, after experiencing the hardships of poverty, I’d decided that “You don’t have to be rich, but you need enough money to cover the essentials.”

With that clear goal in mind, I joined the university’s investment club, a club with a thirty-year history.

The alumni network was extensive, and my wallet was overflowing with business cards from seniors who worked at brokerage firms, insurance companies, and day trading firms.

I still remember Homecoming Day, the day when all the alumni came back to campus.

They sat in a row, dressed in suits, like a panel of interviewers.

The professor beamed at us, and the former club president, a futures and options trader, gave a passionate speech.

“What’s the most important thing you need to start investing?”

“A brokerage account and seed money.”

“That’s right! I can help you open an account right now. But I can’t give you seed money. That’s your money, and I’m just managing it for you.

But seed money isn’t something you save, it’s something you create. Let’s figure out how to create it from the money you have now. Here, fill out these account opening applications.”

But life wasn’t that simple.

Having a brokerage account and money wasn’t enough.

I’d opened an account, but I didn’t have a single penny to invest.

I’d only come to the Homecoming event because they were offering free dinner and a gift certificate to a family restaurant.

“Seriously? You want to be rich, but you don’t even have 500,000 won?”

The senior grumbled, but he gave me a gift certificate anyway.

The other club members got 30,000 won certificates, but mine was for a free drink. I’d earned the equivalent of 4,000 won just by sitting there, so it was a good deal.

“Okay, let’s do a risk tolerance assessment. Did you open the multimedia room, assistant? Is the website up? Good, let’s go.”

The professor herded us like a mother duck, leading us to the multimedia room, where we sat in front of computers and answered a series of questions about our investment preferences.

“Choose one of the five options for each statement. 1) I am not willing to take any risks. Strongly agree: 5, Strongly disagree: 1.”

“…You said you wanted to make a lot of money with a small investment, right?”

“Yes.”

“But your risk tolerance assessment shows that you’re extremely risk-averse? That means you can only invest in savings accounts and bonds. We’re here to share our expertise, you have to be willing to take some risks.”

Was I really that risk-averse? It was as surprising as those personality quizzes I used to take online. But I was also annoyed.

“I joined this club because I wanted to learn how to make a lot of money with a small investment. Are you saying you can’t teach me how to do that?”

The senior, perhaps unwilling to admit that he and his friends were incompetent, just rolled his eyes and didn’t say anything else.

He mumbled something about “risk and reward,” but I wasn’t listening.

They’re even dumber than I am.

I ignored his advice about “high-risk, high-reward investments” and “inverse double leverage” and didn’t buy a single thing.

So, all I got out of the Homecoming event was a free drink at a family restaurant.

A month later, all the seniors who’d invested in those “high-risk, high-reward” products dropped out of school.

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