How to Be Mistaken for a Villain in a Zombie Apocalypse – Chapter 2

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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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I once saw an idol group perform live at a university festival.

I was lucky enough to snag a spot right in front of the stage.

They were even prettier in person than on screen, proving that the whole “they look better in real life” thing wasn’t just a myth.

They danced and sang with infectious energy, their sweat glistening under the stage lights, their smiles genuine as they basked in the cheers and singalongs of the students.

The performance was electric, definitely worthy of being captured in those “legendary fancams” that circulated online.

I even managed to record a short video myself, a blurry but energetic testament to the night’s excitement.

But despite the electrifying atmosphere, I felt dizzy. It wasn’t just from singing along or moving to the music.

Something else was off.

It was late, and I couldn’t exactly go to the hospital for a bit of dizziness.

Instead, I stopped by a student club’s makeshift bar, traded money for chores, and drank enough to finally pass out.

The next day, I realized why I’d felt so strange.

The reason was absurdly simple.

I’d been so used to seeing those idols on screen, in carefully edited videos and perfectly curated performances, that seeing them perform live, right in front of me, had been a shock to my system.

The idols I knew existed in 30-second clips, flashing bright smiles and perfectly synchronized dance moves, or in hour-long variety shows, their laughter and banter carefully edited for maximum entertainment.

I was in my room, they were on my screen. Two separate worlds.

But when they suddenly appeared in front of me, performing for two hours straight, not 30 seconds or an hour, close enough that I could almost reach out and touch them… my reality shattered.

“Why is an idol standing right in front of me?”

Of course, I knew idols were real people.

But that was just head knowledge. I hadn’t truly processed them as real people, like the perpetually late members of my study group or the landlord who always seemed to be wearing those unflattering jeans.

It made sense, in a way. Idols were supposed to be larger than life, existing somewhere between reality and fantasy.

My dizziness was just a physical manifestation of the cognitive dissonance I was experiencing.

Zombies were the opposite.

They were terrifying precisely because they blurred the line between fantasy and reality.

The more realistic they seemed, the more unsettling they became.

And of course, everyone knew zombies didn’t exist.

That was common sense.

We clung to that common sense, even as we indulged in the thrill of watching those gruesome, realistic depictions on screen, whispering, “Wow, that looks so real.” We willingly suspended our disbelief, reveling in the fear.

But now, that common sense had been shattered, like the skull of that zombie I’d just smashed with a rusty hatchet, and I’d fallen headfirst into the abyss of fiction.

I was trapped inside a game I used to love, a game where the goal was to survive as long as possible in a zombie-infested world, a world where humans were just as dangerous as the undead.

Or, to put it another way, it was a “well-dying simulator,” a game where death was inevitable, and the only real challenge was to experience it in the most entertaining way possible.

Welcome to Eruptor Protocol.

“This can’t be happening.”

My head throbbed, a dull ache that refused to subside.

My senses screamed, “This is real! It’s really happening!” but my brain refused to process the information.

It was like a boss who only approved documents right before quitting time, stubbornly refusing to do its job.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand the situation.

I was terrified of what would happen if I actually accepted it.

“When will common sense win?”

A wave of nausea hit me, and I collapsed onto a chair. I took a deep breath and scanned the kitchen, trying to regain my composure.

“See? I was right.”

Playing cards. Chess. Board games. Poker… Every game started with learning the rules.

How to win, how to lose, what moves were allowed.

This house… this was where you learned the rules.

Basic controls. How to pick up weapons.

The laws of the game.

How to attack.

Whenever you started a new game, you always began in this kitchen.

The tutorial window popped up, guiding me through the basic movements: forward, backward, left, right.

Next, I was supposed to pick up the rusty hatchet and throw it at the zombie in the living room.

No matter what character you created, the trigger was set so that the zombie would die in one hit.

It was a tutorial, after all.

So, even though the only time I’d ever held a hatchet was when I was cleaning out the army storage unit, I managed to throw it with deadly accuracy, smashing the zombie’s skull.

It was as instinctive as making my bed, even though I was still half asleep.

Everything was exactly as I remembered it.

“Why me?”

What had I done? What had I done to deserve this? I racked my brain, but I couldn’t remember anything unusual.

I’d come home from my night shift, as usual. I was too tired to do anything productive, but too restless to just go to bed, so I’d fired up the game for the first time in a week.

Work, job applications, interviews… I barely had time to breathe, let alone play games.

“Ah.”

There had been a major update.

A week ago. I’d been happy to see the developers finally doing their job, but the update was so massive that it took forever to install.

The patch notes were so long and detailed that I’d given up trying to read them.

I’d decided to look on the bright side.

Since the update had been out for a while, there were already a bunch of user-created mods available.

I’d downloaded a few that looked interesting.

Most of them were difficulty mods, things like changing the zombie behavior patterns, but there were also some that added new quests.

“This mod will probably conflict with that one… and this one looks like it’ll make things more interesting…” Some were updated versions of mods I’d used before, but most were completely new.

By the time I finished installing everything, it was almost one in the morning.

Somehow, I’d managed to avoid any mod conflicts.

“I’ll try it out tomorrow, after I finish my errands.”

I’d gone to bed, excited to see what the new update had to offer.

And now, I’d just smashed a zombie’s skull with a rusty hatchet.

It played out exactly as it did in the tutorial.

The massive man, with a hatchet embedded in his skull, let out a gurgling groan and collapsed.

The sound wasn’t a thud, but more of a splat.

He was morbidly obese. The floorboards splintered under his weight, and the impact shook the walls and ceiling, sending dust raining down.

“Maybe you should have laid off the donuts,” I muttered, shaking my head in disbelief.

Creak. Creak! The familiar sound of my new neighbors.

The tutorial window probably popped up with a helpful tip: “Zombies can hear most sounds, but they usually ignore them.

However, they will react to unusual sounds, such as gunshots, screams, or helicopters.”

Of course, the “usually ignore them” part was a lie designed to lure in newbies. I’d never met an indifferent zombie.

Especially not when the sound was accompanied by the scent of… well, let’s just say it wasn’t Chanel No. 5.

Thump…

That was the sound of a zombie pushing against the wooden fence.

Soon, the fence would either break, or the zombie would figure out how to climb over it, or it would accidentally stumble through the gate.

It was all playing out exactly as it had in my countless playthroughs.

No matter how many updates or mods I installed, this part never changed. Which meant there was still hope.

The truth was, if you followed the tutorial instructions, you were guaranteed to die.

You learned the controls, killed the zombie with the hatchet, leisurely explored the house, gathered supplies, and then… you stepped out into the living room, only to find yourself surrounded by six zombies.

Your carefully crafted character, with its meticulously chosen name and customized appearance, would be torn to shreds, and the tutorial window would pop up with a cheerful message: “See? Always make sure the area is secure before looting! Don’t forget that in your next life!” It was funny now, a sort of “newbie initiation,” but the first time I’d seen it, I’d been horrified.

But after experiencing the same scenario dozens of times, and watching countless walkthrough videos, I knew better.

At least in this tutorial house, the events were always the same.

If I played my cards right, I could survive.

“Okay.”

I had about ten minutes before those zombies broke through the door.

I needed to loot this house in six minutes, tops.

Four minutes should be enough to set up my defenses.

First, I checked the water and electricity.

If both were working, it meant the basic infrastructure was still functioning.

I turned on the faucet, but only a few drops of water came out.

I lifted the drain stopper.

The pipes were still damp, and there was no foul odor, which meant the water had only been shut off recently.

The gas wasn’t really a concern.

This was a small, rural town. They used LPG tanks. I turned the knob on the stove, and gas hissed out.

But it wouldn’t ignite.

The stove in the tutorial house was a combination unit, with an electric oven.

The ignition wouldn’t work without electricity. No spark meant no power.

I left the gas on.

Next, the refrigerator.

The motor wasn’t running.

No power here either.

But there was still a faint chill inside, which meant the power outage was recent.

Maybe it was just this house, or this town.

Maybe the power was still on in the city.

But then…

“…What?”

There was a problem.

“This can’t be right.”

It was empty.

The refrigerator and freezer were both completely empty.

There was supposed to be a plastic water bottle in there.

Just like the scripted hatchet throw, this was part of the tutorial, teaching you to “open containers and collect items”.

There was always something to drink in the fridge.

But now, there was nothing.

This had never happened before.

It wasn’t in the bug reports.

Maybe the installation had glitched, and all the items had disappeared…?

As I was contemplating this horrifying possibility, the morning sun streamed through the living room window, illuminating the rusty, bloodstained hatchet.

“No. If there was a real problem, the hatchet wouldn’t be here either. There has to be something. There has to be…”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.

I quickly checked the cupboards.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

Wait.

A can of condensed milk.

Not exactly the nutritious, thirst-quenching beverage I’d been hoping for.

This was milk that had been boiled down and sweetened, more like cream than milk.

It would only make me thirstier.

The label even said it had added sugar. Maybe it would be okay if I diluted it with water or milk, or even put it on shaved ice, but eating it straight…

No, I couldn’t even open it.

“Where’s the can opener?”

There were no chopsticks, no spoons, no forks, not even a simple paring knife.

I checked all the cupboards in the kitchen.

I searched the bedroom and bathroom.

The bathroom door had already fallen off its hinges, revealing a pile of trash.

The only thing I found was a backpack, the kind a middle schooler might carry.

It was bright pink, with a Barbie doll printed on it.

It was in good condition, but the only things inside were two candy wrappers.

The doll’s cheerful smile was unsettling, and I could understand why someone had left it behind.

There was only one place left to check.

Under the TV stand in the living room.

I’d saved it for last because it was close to the zombie’s body.

Thump… Thump…!

That was the sound of zombies pushing against the wooden door.

They’d been drawn by the scent emanating from the house.

Unlike before, their movements were deliberate, forceful.

They’d found their prey.

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