Chapter 1

Prologue. That's how the world came to an end.

***

There are many absurd things in this world.

For example,

flipping a coin ten times and getting heads every single time.

For example,

a post-apocalyptic movie called 'Edge of Life,' made on an extremely low budget with only unknown actors, becomes an unprecedented hit, and bunker houses similar to the protagonist's dwelling become a major trend.

For example,

the world's leading game company, driven to the brink by relentless hacker attacks and intrusions into the company and server rooms, where computers were stolen, spent a fortune to build a large-scale secret server room with the security level of a nuclear bunker, only to be ridiculed by the public.

For example,

a mad scientist, having fallen into a cult, created and spread a virus capable of destroying the world, and no one could stop it.

The world I live in now was created that way.

***

Chapter 1. Oh, Happy Day! (1)

***

[Crackle, crackle—Ah, ah, microphone test. One, two, three. Is this thing working? Crackle, crackle—Ah, it's working. Um... Ahem! *clears throat* ...Record 1. The world has ended, and I... um... seem to have survived somehow.]

***

Creak—creak—creak—

"Ah, please. Just a bit."

Every time I go outside, I think the wasteland is a truly wretched place. Without a protective suit, you can't even step outside due to the radioactive fallout, and the relentless sandstorms... Wow! It's the perfect weather for repairing delicate machinery exposed to the elements, isn't it?

Even a scavenger well-versed in the wasteland would stay holed up in their shelter on a day like this, thinking, "Ah, maybe today is a bit better," but here I am, wrestling with a chunk of metal buried in the sand. Professor, as I am known, called out to the generator in front of him, invoking the names of half a dozen gods that came to mind, pleading desperately.

"Mr. Generator~ Mr. Generator? We've been good, haven't we? Right? Just hold on until the end of the year. I'll do everything you ask! Just hold on a bit more! Please!"

Grind—whirr... whirr...

"Friend? Brother? Mr. Generator?"

For the past month, whether the weather was clear or a sandstorm was so strong it could rip off a protective suit, I climbed up to the roof almost every day, trying every method to revive this ailing generator. I swear, since I settled here, I've spent more time cleaning the generator's solar panels than washing myself.

But that's all over now. Mr. Generator, who managed the power for my shelter, has just passed away at this very moment.

Bang!

"Damn you, you piece of shit machine! I asked you to just hold on until the end of the year!!!!"

Actually, it should have stopped working a long time ago. Last winter, during a blizzard,

the generator, which had managed to withstand the maximum output shield the shelter could produce, heroically died the next day. That day, exposed to a -42°C cold snap without any shield or concealment, I burned all the books I had cherished, creating a bonfire, and used a hacksaw and two sheets of sandpaper to desperately scrape a scrap to replace the broken parts of the generator, managing to survive.

Ah, the sound of the generator humming! The glowing light bulbs! The hidden shelter that kept me up every night due to its strange frequency! How welcoming they were!

After surviving the winter, as soon as the weather warmed up, I went out into the wasteland to find replacement parts, but the Hound Scavengers had already taken everything useful. So, without a plan, the generator, which had been struggling, finally gave out today.

Seeing the generator completely stopped, a simple formula formed in my mind:

[No generator -> Exposure to the outside of the shelter -> Spend an awesome day with mutants, Psycho Raiders, and the like]

Ah, cruel reality. I feel like committing suicide.

Slap!

Professor instinctively slapped his face to drive away the negative thoughts creeping into his mind.

"It's okay. It'll be okay! Professor, you can do it. You knew this day would come eventually, didn't you? It was all expected. It's within the plan! So!"

My name is Professor Park. The day I was born, my father, who had no idea the world would be in this state 17 years later, named me on the spot, saying, "Our son is going to be a great student! Professor is just right!"

Ugh. Old memories are toxic to a healthy wasteland life. The scraps piled up in the warehouse were telling their stories.

That cylinder over there, which fell out of my bag at a crucial moment, attracted all the mutants around. That bundle of bolts, which I bought at an exorbitant price at a flea market, was intended to be embedded in the dentures of the senile old man, Mr. Woojin. Mr. Woojin, who lived long enough to think about his dental health in this neighborhood, must have been a really tough guy...

"Ah, there you are."

It was a precious item hidden deep in the warehouse, so it took a while to find it. A shiny red body, a design of an old valve from the 2040s, which is hard to find nowadays. A vintage generator I luckily obtained. Look at this simple and sturdy structure! This thing should last another 20, 30 years!

This is undoubtedly the most valuable item in the bunker, aside from our solar generator, which just passed away about 10 minutes ago.

Actually, without electricity, even the best-built shelter is useless, so a generator is the most basic element in setting up a shelter. As the power capacity increases, the range covered by the shield generator expands, and you can build a greenhouse to grow vegetables or expand the shelter to accommodate more members, which is beneficial in the long run. That's why survivors say you can sell your family but never your generator. It's an unrealistic situation for a weak individual like me to have a backup generator.

"Ah, I was really crazy back then!"

It was exactly two years ago around this time. A minor earthquake had caused a crack in the greenhouse that provided the bunker's air, and unfortunately, the high-performance waterproof tape needed for repairs had just run out. I risked my life to attend a five-day market held at the border of Pale Land.

At that time, being a five-year survivor, I was quite confident in my ability to survive in the wasteland. Armed with a homemade pump-action shotgun and a broom, I brought a high-value scrap, a sports car headlight, to the offline market.

As a seasoned five-year survivor, Professor Park, without a moment's hesitation, entered the market crowd with a fierce look in his eyes...

I was beaten up in 10 minutes. My bag was torn open, and the items inside were gone. In a dark alley, a Psycho Gang, like a bandit from a fairy tale, blocked my way, saying, "Hey, rabbit boy, since we met by fate, why don't you leave just one of your organs and go?"

I had no choice but to pull out the plasma flashbang, a memento from my mother, and throw it, then escape on a buggy (distinguishable by its grotesque decorations) parked at the edge of the market.

After running for a long time and parking far from home, I opened the trunk, cursing, and found this vintage generator. I almost fainted.

"Let's see... The nozzle is fine. The connection... no problem. It's good. Just add fuel and it should work. Fuel only."

After roughly opening the external cover and checking the generator's condition, I sighed.

"Where can I get gasoline?"

It's 2057. After the 2039 Paris Climate Conference, fossil fuels were heavily taxed, and oil almost became extinct. Of course, there are rumors that it's being extracted somewhere after the world turned into this state, but with 90% of the population dead, the facilities, technology, and manpower to refine crude oil into gasoline are severely lacking. Where can I get gasoline?

"Tsk... Still, I have to try. If all else fails, I'll dismantle a turret and sell it."

Of course, there was a method to reveal the location of my hideout and join a large plant like the Dome or Raptor Society, which still accepts refugees, but I absolutely refused that option. I'd rather play soccer with mutants using my head.

I grumbled as I climbed down from the roof and returned to my hideout. With the last battery the generator charged, I planned to use it sparingly and figure out a solution.

***

Whirr—

Phew! Squeak!

After taking off my protective suit in a cheap airlock made of five vacuum cleaners and house plastic, the musty smell of the shelter greeted me.

"Ah, I feel alive. Home is the best!"

It's a lie I've become quite familiar with. Still, saying it out loud sometimes makes me feel like I really like this place.

"I'm back~"

"Welcome back, sir. Did you resolve the matter you went out for—?"

The owner of this strangely distorted mechanical voice is Corduro, the shelter's dedicated AI. As a relatively new model, it has various functions, from managing the internal atmosphere of the bunker to external surveillance and adjusting the output of the shield and concealment based on the danger level, making it an essential part of a comfortable bunker life.

"Well... that..."

"Let me reiterate, I am so fortunate that you, sir, have the engineering skills. I must say, I am a lucky AI to have met you. I will serve you with all my heart—"

"Um... about the matter I went out for, I think there won't be enough power to allocate to you anymore. From now on."

"....What?"

It's an essential part of a 'comfortable' bunker life, but when things are this dire, it's not necessary. Managing the atmosphere can be done by taking care of the greenhouse, and the CCTV can be set to motion detection mode. I can manually adjust the shield and concealment. Reducing power consumption is more important now.

Corduro's drone, which had been quiet for a moment, flapped its wings busily.

"H... Ha... Sir! That's a really funny joke! Isn't it! Preparing for depression is never too early—"

"I'm sorry."

.

.

.

"U... Uh... How will you manage the bunker without me—"

"It's fine. As an engineer, you can handle it."

"Food! What about food! You don't know how to produce energy bars from various organic materials! That's a function installed in my personal software—"

"I told you before, I was most impressed by the story of the astronaut who grew potatoes on Mars and escaped. I'll try it this time."

"Over the past five years, the friendship we've built, rain or shine, through radioactive fallout! Where has the trust we've built gone, aah!"

"Um... well..."

Sigh. This is a bit touching. Honestly, one of the reasons I've been able to survive in this crazy wasteland for five years without committing suicide after my mother passed away is because of Corduro's wit.

"Yeah, thanks to you, I've managed to stay sane enough to survive."

"That's right! So please calm down. We can brainstorm together to find another way— *squeal*!!!"

I quietly passed by the trembling drone and opened the bunker management panel. Among the numerous levers and buttons, the [Master AI Power Control] lever was flashing wildly.

"What, what are you doing! Why suddenly this!"

What, what, it's about saving power. Mom said to unplug unused cords.

"Corduro, you know, sometimes a man has to make tough decisions, like Zhuge Liang cutting off the head of a demon for the greater good or Zeratul severing his nerve cords."

"Stop... stop! Take your hands off it right now!"

"I'm sorry."

Tick...

The lever, held by my fingertips, slowly moved downward.

"Please, save me! Sir!"

Tik-tik-tik...

Sorry, those who can live must live.

"You'll... you'll regret this! You'll regret it!"

"Um... Corduro, move the drone. I'll only remember your good side. Go in peace, okay?"

Crack...

Sensing the power dropping in real-time, Corduro's drone frantically circled around my wrist and suddenly opened the video panel, shouting.

"Damn it! There's a video! A video! If you don't take your hand off that lever right now, you're f*cked, you f*cking s*ck!"

"Huh? What?"

As the AI power lever was almost halfway down, Corduro's desperate cry held my fingers. A video? What a suspicious statement.

"Hey, Corduro. What do you mean? A video?"

Now, Corduro's drone, with its sensors trembling and emitting a sinister mechanical sound, hovered around my head.

"Heh... heh heh... At first, I dismissed it as nonsense. A few months ago, while thinking about what kind of energy bar to serve for dinner, I was browsing the community!"

Corduro's drone shivered and said.

"What a strange thing! A post that I usually wouldn't even glance at stood out that day! 'Energy Optimization Tips for Those Who Can't Even Turn On the Concealment!' I saw it! I saw it!"

Corduro shivered once more and projected the terrifying memory on the screen.

=====

- In fact, once a survivor has been around for three years, they can manage most of the functions that an AI handles. At that point, the AI is a luxury. The power that could be used to run a thermal imaging system 24/7 or operate an additional small exploration drone. A thrifty survivor would say that it's time to stand on their own two feet in the wasteland, free from the AI's help, for the sake of survival. In this wasteland survival guide—

=====

"Ah, that one."

I've seen it before. It was a named survivor's post that received hundreds of comments as soon as it was posted. What was the username? Something about a bear...

Corduro's drone, wiping its lens, said in a choked voice.

"Since that day, I've been plagued by a small sense of unease! I kept telling myself, 'Our sir wouldn't do that, Professor Park is not a cold-blooded person,' but in a corner of my memory, the data

[It might not be so]

flowed through my motherboard 24/7!!"

So, Corduro, you were thinking that. I feel a bit sorry, but what do you want me to do? As you said, my survival chances will increase dramatically if I turn off the master AI.

I steadied my wavering heart and reached for the lever again.

'A video. There's only one kind of video this guy could use for blackmail.'

"So what? You're going to release surveillance camera footage of our bunker's location? Corduro, do you know what happens when you share a shelter's location in the community? The moment you release it, I'll be cut into three pieces by the Radar and dragged in their trunk? That's a clear act of harm to a human, violating the Three Laws of Robotics?"

The Three Laws of Robotics. A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

It seems like you've prepared something, but any form of blackmail violates the first law, so you can't force me to do anything—

"Professor Park, I have footage of your happy time!!!!"

—I thought...

".....What?"

Professor instinctively covered his lower body and pulled his hand away from the lever.