How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 1

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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Beginnings are always difficult.

It’s not that I have nothing to say, but rather that I’m overwhelmed by the sheer number of stories, unsure of which one to choose.

If I had to force it, I’d start with, hmm, a “watermelon.” A watermelon smashed to pieces by a hatchet.

…I know what you’re imagining, but let’s just say it’s a watermelon for now. I may be lacking in eloquence, but I’m not rude.

There’s no need to start this long, or perhaps short, story with something unpleasant.

Anyway, so, the watermelon. Is it a problem?

No.

That’s what I want to say. The watermelon isn’t a problem, so you don’t have to worry.

The stench permeating the neighborhood might not be a big deal either.

What can I do about this house with its front door lying on the ground and shattered windows, providing excellent ventilation?

The guests shuffling towards me from afar are also not a problem.

They’re all frowning, probably coming to complain about the unbearable smell.

Thanks to the rural custom of bringing fruit when visiting neighbors, they’re all carrying a watermelon each on their shoulders.

But it will take them at least 5 minutes, or 3 minutes at the very least, to reach the front door.

So, during these 3 minutes, we need to solve one crucial problem.

“Is it better to be a fool or a wise person?”

Yes. This is it. I’ve got it.

This is where the story must begin.

As anyone would, I too had a time of innocence.

A time when I wouldn’t have been able to live with a clear mind if I knew what was to come.

Looking back, I’m amazed at how I managed to walk that tightrope, feeling both pity and pride for my first-grade self.

I was frozen in front of a blank space on a worksheet.

My friends easily wrote things like “rich,” “full of love,” or “healthy and free from pain.”

But I couldn’t.

It was like a notebook I cherished too much to write in, or a toy I was afraid to break, so I kept it hidden in a closet.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to write, but rather that it was too precious.

I simply couldn’t bring myself to write it down.

The teacher approached me. She looked down at me for a moment, then gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

She moved on quickly, but the warmth from her hand lingered, traveling down my arm.

As if possessed, I wrote my answer.

(I wish everyone in the world would be (smart enough to understand each other).

A few days later, the teacher called me to the teacher’s office. She handed me an unopened lollipop and asked,

“I’m curious. What do you think would happen if everyone was smart enough to understand each other?”

“I think they wouldn’t fight.”

“Really? Why?”

“My mom and dad always fight, saying, ‘Why don’t you understand me?’ So, I think if they understood each other, they wouldn’t fight.”

The teacher seemed quite taken aback, but I was just describing my family.

And I was a smart kid, smart enough to know that saying things that made adults uncomfortable could lead to a slap in the face.

Just like when I answered the question of who I wanted to live with by firmly stating, “I want to live alone.”

I was prepared for the worst, but nothing came, no sound, no blow. I glanced at the teacher, and she was smiling.

But it felt like she was about to cry.

“I…”

As if realizing her voice was too low, she cleared her throat.

“I wish everyone in the world would be a fool.”

“Why?”

“Fools only think about what’s right in front of them.

They don’t overthink things, they don’t worry about whether someone is deceiving them. They eat when they’re hungry, cry when they want to cry, get angry when they want to get angry. And when it’s all over, they forget.”

There was a small picture frame on the teacher’s desk. It had been standing upright before, but now it was lying face down.

She fiddled with the corner of the frame, then let it go. She didn’t stand it up or throw it away, just left it lying there.

“That’s why I like foolish, simple people.”

The teacher gently took my hand.

“I’m always here, so come to me whenever you’re having a hard time. Okay? I’ll give you candy.”

She was smiling, but tears were streaming down her face. I was scared. I was afraid that if someone cried here in the teacher’s office, like in my house, someone else would get angry.

So, I did something I hadn’t done since I was six years old. Giving candy to a crying adult was a childhood truth, a guaranteed way to stop the tears.

But why hadn’t I done it since then? Because while it did stop the tears, it also led to scolding. “How dare you mock an adult, you little brat.”

“Ah, maybe it was because I gave it to them without unwrapping it?”

That must be it. My parents always taught me to be respectful to adults. I clumsily unwrapped the lollipop and offered it to her.

“Here you go.”

“I gave it to you. You eat it.”

“I’m giving it back to you.”

I even unwrapped it for you, teacher. My arm hurts.

“…Don’t you want to eat it?”

“No. You look sad.”

“Me?”

Why do adults pretend not to know things that are so obvious? It always frustrated me.

The teacher looked up at the ceiling, blinked a few times, and took the lollipop. Then she hugged me tightly.

She was saying something, but I couldn’t hear her clearly because she was mumbling.

“If only the teacher was my mom, I could hug her every day.”

It felt like a dream, and I was glad it wasn’t.

The teacher didn’t smell of alcohol, cigarettes, or sweat.

Only shampoo.

“You can become a wonderful adult. I believe in you.”

After a long hug, the teacher finally let go of me and, to my surprise, handed me a handful of lollipops.

I ate them all on my way home, afraid my parents would ask where I stole them from.

“Would everyone really be happy if they were fools?”

I couldn’t find the answer, even after I finished all the lollipops.

And time flew by, as if on fast forward.

My family’s situation improved dramatically.

My parents stopped fighting, and there was even laughter and a sense of harmony in the house.

I laughed along, but it all felt strange and unfamiliar.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t a genius.

Just a perceptive and precocious child.

It wasn’t that I didn’t study.

It was just that my mind would go blank whenever I received a test paper.

By the time I snapped out of it, everything I’d memorized and learned had vanished, leaving only a sense of doubt.

Was everything I studied,

everything I knew,

real?

Could I be sure that it was all true?

I’m not trying to say that I was a “wounded inner child” or that I had an “unhealed past.”

That sounds too simplistic and even cowardly, as if I was stumbling through life with my wounds exposed.

I just want to say that I grew up skeptical, like oil and water, unable to mix with anything.

It wasn’t my parents’ fault. They eventually reconciled.

It wasn’t poverty’s fault either. We weren’t rolling in money, but I never lacked anything.

The problem was me.

It was my fault that I couldn’t keep up with my parents, my fault that I didn’t try to heal my wounds.

My life after that… well, it wasn’t ordinary.

The bar for “ordinary” was set so high that it was hard to reach without resorting to imagination.

But I could “act” like a normal person.

I went to a decent university, juggled part-time jobs, internships, and military service while living in dorms and rented rooms. I did everything a normal person would do, more or less.

But there was always a sense of dissonance, a crack in my facade.

Like an actor who had memorized his lines for a great role, only to have the role suddenly changed.

I was mimicking, but it felt like the me that the world saw wasn’t the real me.

Still, I’d managed to live a decent life. My performance wasn’t award-winning, but it wasn’t bad enough to warrant a retake. That’s what I believed, anyway.

…Until I woke up inside the world of a game I’d been playing for years.

A zombie apocalypse, no less.

Perhaps death could be an escape, like waking up from a bad dream.

But it might just end here.

Like the countless endings I’d witnessed, I might become a wandering zombie, trapped in my decaying flesh.

As I sat there, lost in despair, I remembered that brief conversation with my teacher.

Weren’t those neighbors the very fools she had described?

Those people, shuffling towards me, drooling over the scent of “watermelon juice,” oblivious to their twisted ankles and aching backs, driven only by the desire to consume what was right in front of them… weren’t they the true fools, even though they looked human?

But what about me?

I was smarter than them. I knew that my fate would be the same as theirs. I knew how difficult and painful it would be to survive in this wretched world.

I knew I would have to be careful about what I ate and drank, where I slept, and that the life I took for granted yesterday might not be the same today.

I knew the hardships that awaited me.

They didn’t.

I knew they were miserable.

They didn’t even know themselves.

I understood them.

They didn’t understand themselves, or me.

And I couldn’t expect them to, ever.

So, the only question that remained was this:

Should I become like them, a fool living by instinct, oblivious to happiness and sorrow?

Or should I continue to live as a wise person, aware of pain and pleasure, sadness and desire, joy and suffering?

If I wanted to live as a fool, all I had to do was stay put.

I could remain here, without lifting a finger.

But if I chose the path of wisdom, knowing all the pain that awaited me…

I would have to stand up.

I would have to face it.

I would have to consume hardship and endure suffering, even though I knew how it tasted.

The decision, perhaps, could be made with a single flick of my finger.

And so, I ask you for a small favor.

Please, lend me the courage to move my finger.

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