How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 8

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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And that wasn’t all. The “wonderful seniors” who had been relentlessly texting and calling me suddenly went silent.

The professor left the university, citing “personal reasons.”

A few days later, my phone rang.

It was the police. I thought it was a prank call and hung up after teasing the caller for a bit.

But it turned out to be a real detective.

He sounded so heartbroken that I decided to cooperate.

“Those seniors who graduated… did they ever try to get you to invest in insurance or derivatives?”

“Yes.”

“Did they explain the products properly?”

“No. What’s going on?”

“It was an illegal pyramid scheme. The professor was the mastermind.”

All those companies on the colorful business cards, like a late-night restaurant with multiple phone lines, were actually owned by the professor.

The professor, our very own unlucky Moriarty, was erased from the university’s records, but he would forever remain in our hearts.

A few days later, I received a call from the Student Council.

“I’m the president? Why?”

“You’re the oldest student currently registered as an active member of the club.”

“I don’t want to be president.”

“There’s no one else. No professor is willing to take over. You can always apply to disband the club if you really don’t want to do it.”

That was probably their real intention.

They didn’t want to be the ones to shut down the club, so they were hoping I’d do it for them.

They could then claim that the club had closed due to a lack of student interest.

I wasn’t going to let them get away with that.

“…Oh, and there’s about 300,000 won left in the club’s account. You have to spend it all before you can apply to disband the club.”

Disbanding a club with a thirty-year history didn’t seem so bad.

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

I forgot about the receipts and the commemorative photos.

All I remembered was that I’d be committing embezzlement if I spent the money on myself.

So, I gathered the other first-year students who were either “risk-averse” or “lacking seed money.”

They were all younger than me.

“Let’s have a farewell party.”

“Where should we go? 300,000 won for four people… we could go somewhere fancy.”

I suddenly remembered the gift certificate.

The one with the annoying clause that stated you had to spend at least 10,000 won to get a free drink.

The one that had taught me the importance of reading the fine print.

“I have a gift certificate for a family restaurant. Let’s go there.”

Everyone else was there with their significant others or their families.

The four of us, a gloomy, socially awkward group of guys who only came alive in front of a computer screen, mumbled our orders.

The waitress, dressed in a frilly maid outfit, told us to speak up.

“…The plates cost more than the food. The portions are so small.”

We ate in silence, picking at our food with our forks and knives.

The meal, which had taken twenty minutes to arrive, was gone in five.

We sat there, awkwardly, not wanting to leave but unsure of what to say.

We exchanged meaningless smiles, the silence suffocating.

But there’s always one person who’s willing to break the ice.

“Hey, Mr. President, do you play any games?”

I should have ignored him.

“Drop the formalities. And no, I don’t play games.”

“Seriously? What do you do for fun?”

I didn’t tell him that my hobby was watching cat and dog videos.

That was my secret.

At first, I’d just enjoyed watching those cute creatures rolling around and playing.

But then, the algorithm started recommending training videos, and it turned into a sort of… hobby.

There was a strange sense of satisfaction in watching those animals learn and grow, in seeing how my actions, my clicks and scrolls, could influence their behavior.

It was like being an orchestra conductor, only instead of musicians, I was controlling a pack of adorable, furry creatures.

The difference was that the people on online forums were always angry, while the dogs and cats were always happy.

People got upset when I tried to control them, but animals preferred clear boundaries and consistent reinforcement.

The thought of them panting happily, rolling on their backs, or rubbing against my legs filled me with a sense of contentment.

I’d get a pet someday.

My classmate suddenly shoved his phone in my face.

“…What’s this?”

“Dude, it’s this new game from a startup company. It’s getting amazing reviews. People are saying they might even go public.”

The Korean stock market might have been plagued by the “Korean discount” for foreign investors and mocked as a “perpetual box office” by locals, but it was still a legitimate and reliable market.

Only exceptional companies could go public.

A startup game company going public?

It sounded too good to be true. But I was curious.

“Oh, is this one of those demon-raising games?”

My classmate quickly swiped away the image of a scantily clad female demon and showed me a different image.

It was a dark, unsettling image of a withered human figure, its body contorted in pain, against a bleak backdrop.

“Eruptor Protocol.”

“…Eruptor Protocol?”

“Yeah. Cool, right? It’s registered as a Korean studio, but the developers are all foreigners. Rumor has it that they’re funded by a company that has nothing to do with the gaming industry… Anyway, they’re supposed to be really talented and have a lot of money.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the rest of his explanation.

It wasn’t just because the other three guys were all trying to sound knowledgeable about the game, making me feel excluded and resentful.

It was also because the explanation was too complicated.

That was my first encounter with Eruptor Protocol.

I remember that night, stumbling home to my tiny apartment, filled with a sense of disillusionment.

The city lights, twinkling in the darkness, mocking me with their beauty.

The neon signs, brighter than the stars, assaulting my senses with their vibrant colors.

…If they could do that to me, then I could do it to the world, right?

It wasn’t about good or bad. It was about what was necessary.

People were tools to be used or discarded, not trusted or relied upon.

That harsh truth, which I’d been trying to suppress, suddenly felt… acceptable.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling of loneliness.

So, I downloaded Eruptor Protocol onto my laptop, the game my classmate had told me about.

And I was hooked.

In this world, everyone was an enemy.

Everyone was trying to kill me.

So, I could kill them back.

Use them. Exploit them.

Discard them.

They said games were an escape from reality.

It was true.

At least it was true for me.

The catharsis I experienced in the game allowed me to maintain a facade of normalcy in the real world.

I discovered a hidden talent in the game.

I was good at manipulating people, at setting them against each other, at avoiding danger and maximizing my gains.

I could see their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities, their buttons.

People called it trolling, griefing.

I called it using their own weapons against them.

I would have been ostracized if I’d tried to do this in real life.

But it didn’t matter here. It wasn’t real.

It was virtual.

And most importantly, it was fun.

The developers hadn’t anticipated this kind of play style, so it was still effective.

But now… I wasn’t sure.

Too much had changed.

For starters, there were safe zones… “Human Protection Zones,” according to Hans.

The geopolitical conflicts had been purely cosmetic before, just background information in item descriptions.

That’s how I’d known the ID Hans had sent me was a fake.

The game, which had been about killing or avoiding everything in sight, about surviving alone, now had a story, a narrative.

And that narrative was likely to unfold in ways I couldn’t predict.

I’d played through every time period.

The immediate aftermath of the outbreak.

A week later.

A month later.

A year later.

Ten years later.

I knew how this world would change.

But I’d never played through this specific period, the period when the outbreak was still spreading, when society was on the verge of collapse.

The ending would be the same.

Everyone would die.

This world would end.

But the process, the details… they would be different.

…It was starting to feel a lot like real life.

I finished opening the condensed milk can with my hunting knife.

I’d had a few sips on the way here, so it was half empty.

I couldn’t carry an open can.

I carefully pried open the lid with the knife, avoiding any cuts.

I tilted the can, drinking the thick, sweet milk.

It coated my tongue, a pleasant sensation. The sweetness filled my mouth, a rush of sugar that made me feel… happy.

I pulled the can away from my lips, reluctantly, and pretended to chew the milk.

There was nothing to chew, of course, but I wanted to experience the act of eating.

My stomach growled, demanding more.

I took a sip of water and tilted the can again.

Once the sweetness hit my taste buds, I couldn’t stop.

I drank water between sips, to avoid choking, but it only made the milk taste sweeter.

“I’m hungry.”

I mumbled, then stopped, startled. It wasn’t the sound of my voice that had surprised me.

I’d just consumed half a can of condensed milk, 200 grams out of 400. At 320 calories per 100 grams, that was 640 calories… more than two bowls of rice.

Of course, condensed milk wasn’t rice or bread. It was more like cream.

But it was incredibly sweet and rich.

And yet, my stomach was still growling, demanding more, hungrier than it had ever been.

My mouth was watering so much that my tongue ached.

“There’s nothing left…”

I poured the rest of the water into the empty milk can and shook it, desperate for another taste.

If I hadn’t been worried about cutting my tongue on the sharp edges, I would have licked the can clean.

“Damn it.”

I’d accidentally filled my stomach with water.

I’d finished the 500ml bottle of water, and the condensed milk was gone.

All I had left was a single sausage and a few sips of water.

This wasn’t the time to travel long distances.

I needed to find food and water nearby before I could move on.

Stay in one area, gather enough resources, scout the next area, then move and secure.

That was the basic survival strategy.

If you wandered into an unknown area with a backpack full of loot, you’d just become a walking treasure chest for other scavengers.

This container house wasn’t a permanent base, but it could serve as a temporary storage unit.

It was off the beaten path, a place that most players either didn’t know about or only used for a short break.

The developers, who tracked player behavior patterns to update the game, probably didn’t have much data on this location.

But I couldn’t stay here too long.

A day or two, at most.

Enough time to scout the surrounding area and plan my next move.

I was hungry again.

I stood in front of the mirror, and my suspicions were confirmed.

Something was wrong with my body.

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