31. Gun and Blood. (1)

[Level up.]

Huh.

About ten in the cafe.

Thanks to them, I leveled up.

I allocated a point to Strength, making it 56, and moved to the next house.

Human beasts have a unique breathing sound.

Like growling, like scraping their throats.

When I listen carefully, no sounds come from the house.

Even the windows are quiet.

Two such houses passed by.

The next house that appeared.

An American-style house with a garden.

It had a parking lot and possibly a backyard pool.

Living here wouldn’t be so bad.

But the house doesn’t look like it belongs to an ordinary soldier.

Maybe a military doctor or officer?

I assume it was a cozy home.

But not much to see.

I approached the window with my hand on the hilt of my sword. The curtains were closed, so I couldn’t see inside.

…I hope there’s no mother holding a baby.

Mother is one thing, but the baby is still repulsive.

I sighed deeply and crouched down, slowly walking past the window.

Weeeeee-

Krrrrr-krrrrr-

Noises are heard.

Strange sounds mixed in.

As I approached the main gate, the ceiling light flickered and turned on.

Must be a motion sensor.

If I came at night, I’d be clearly visible.

I turned the doorknob.

…Locked.

Of course.

I checked around to ensure no one was there and gripped the doorknob tightly.

And turned it.

Crunch-crunch! Crack!

The knob broke, and the door swung open.

“Graaah!”

[Auto-cast: Acceleration]

A woman with one eye missing.

A blonde, beautiful woman.

She was wearing an apron, probably cooking.

I immediately drew my sword and stabbed her forehead.

Thud.

“–Ahh!”

Crash!

The door swung open violently, and the white woman’s corpse collapsed.

I looked down at the body for a moment and took a deep breath.

Then entered the house.

Beep-beep-beep-

Some leaking sound.

…Burning smell.

I gripped the sword tightly and walked carefully toward the source of the sound.

Growling sounds?

The beeping is distracting.

The sound was coming from the kitchen.

I checked left and right and peeked inside.

A kettle was making loud noises.

Gas stove…

Or induction.

The kettle was completely burnt.

Blackened.

I turned off the induction and looked at the kettle.

It had been cooking furiously for a month.

The plastic handle had melted into a mush.

Fortunately, the house didn’t catch fire.

Cough, it’s making me cough.

I looked at the soot-covered kitchen for a moment and slightly opened the window before turning around.

The first-floor rooms were empty.

The bathroom too, quite clean and comfortable.

Indeed, a nice house.

I went upstairs.

Four rooms.

I slightly pushed the door near the stairs.

It opened quietly.

A girl in a Kitty pajama was lying down.

Her feet pointed toward me.

No bloodstains.

Krrrrr-krrrrr-

I sighed deeply, raised my sword, and approached the girl quietly.

Without making a sound.

I aimed the sword at her head.

And thrust.

Thud.

As I pulled it out, blood gushed out, “Poot.”

The carpet where the girl lay turned red.

She must have been five years old.

“…Tsk.”

…Damn it.

I punched the door frame.

Killing thousands hasn’t made me immune; killing a child still feels dirty.

Gritting my teeth, I opened the next door.

…A bathroom.

And next.

A door with many scratches.

Scratched and torn, with bloodstains.

I carefully opened it.

A bedroom.

A large bed, wardrobe, closet, nothing much.

But a corpse lying down.

A corpse in military uniform.

A Latin American soldier.

Clearly a corpse.

The back of his head was brutally pierced, and the carpet was soaked with darkened blood.

Next to his pale hand was a raised pistol.

When the apocalypse came, the child turned.

The child bit the mother’s face, and the husband, returning home, fled to the bedroom.

Unable to harm his family, he locked himself in and committed suicide.

I picked up the pistol.

Heavy.

The magazine was full.

Whoosh-

Faint smoke rose from the pistol, indicating it had been used and damaged but was now restored.

A box of wet wipes on the bedside table.

I wiped the blood off the pistol with a wet wipe and reinserted the magazine.

Click.

…At least one pistol.

Like in the military, but I’m not into guns, so I don’t know the model.

Placed the pistol in the utility pocket of the Adidas backpack and moved to the last room.

Opened the door.

A storage room.

…Or not?

Various boxes.

And a baby crib.

A dresser.

Walls with cute drawings.

…Ah.

They planned to have another child.

…Damn it.

Wishing I hadn’t known.

The house itself shows what kind of people lived here.

Even the main bedroom and bathroom had the child’s doodles framed.

…It must have been a warm home.

“…Huh.”

I rummaged through the nursery, which was to be the new baby’s room.

A small wardrobe.

Nothing much.

A dresser.

On top, a toolbox was carelessly left.

Opened the drawer.

Baby clothes, socks, shoes, neatly arranged.

…Stocked up on diapers, even before the baby arrived.

…Was the mother pregnant?

“…Tsk.”

I shook my head and looked at the stacked boxes.

Probably nothing much.

Opened one.

Old clothes.

Second box.

Heavy.

Wrapped in tape all around.

What is it?

Using one of the arrows, I cut the tape.

Opened it.

Inside were two wooden boxes.

And a leather strap on the side.

…Oh.

This leather strap…

I picked up the leather strap and placed it aside, then hurriedly opened the wooden box.

Click.

Inside were two pistols.

Or…

What is this?

Too big for a pistol, too small for a rifle.

…A submachine gun.

Crazy?!

Even if it’s U.S. military, how could they have this in their home? Two of them?

Having guns like this at home?

…Wait.

Did other houses have guns too?

Quickly dismissing the thought, I looked at the submachine gun.

Very bulky.

Like a square metal tube with a long metal pipe for a handle.

A curved metal piece at the end, like a gunstock.

What is this?

I searched for the submachine gun on my phone.

…It’s an American Ingram M10.

Like the one Neo used in the elevator fight in Matrix.

I took out the gun and examined it.

Quite light.

Or maybe it feels that way because of the Strength skill.

In my hand, it feels like a matchbox.

But…

Firing 18 rounds per second, two SMGs.

“…Huh.”

Amazing.

How did they bring such guns to Korea? Even for a soldier, personally?

Earlier, I saw military uniforms; he was an officer, but officers can’t have this, right?

Moreover, it’s not from an armory but personal storage.

I examined the Ingram with both hands.

…This is U.S. class.

…I like it.

If it were the ROK military or another unit, getting such an Ingram would be tough.

Even if the ROK military uses SMGs, a compact Ingram like this would be hard to find domestically.

I examined the Ingram.

I wish the stock could be removed.

Can it be detached?

Took tools from the toolbox on the dresser and tried to remove the stock connector.

Then the phone rang.

Zzt-zzt-

It was Special Forces leader Seong-gyu-hyeok.

Oh, annoying.

“Yes.”

“Are you okay? You’ve been inside for a while.”

“Oh, I’m fine. I told you it would take time. Walking around and using the sword made me tired. I’ll rest a bit and come out.”

“Okay, got it.”

Hung up and removed the stock from the Ingram.

After removing both, it’s…

…So satisfying.

Really.

And the leather strap found earlier.

A belt with leather straps.

Short.

Not a waist belt.

The leather strap had a thick leather strip in the middle.

…I guessed what it was from the start.

I tightly wrapped the leather strap around my thigh.

And placed the Ingram in the leather holster.

…This is it.

Did the same for the other thigh, wrapping the strap and placing the second Ingram.

Now, two submachine guns on my thighs.

…My arsenal has grown.

“…Phew…”

My heart is racing.

The wooden box that held the Ingrams.

Quite thick.

There’s a lower compartment.

Lifting the Ingram compartment, a white note appeared.

[Dear My Son.]

A letter.

…To my son?

…From his father?

Not the father.

Whoever wrote this, I don’t know, but in a country like South Korea, with such strict gun regulations, sending such fearsome U.S.-made submachine guns is truly a thank you.

Bowed deeply and tossed the letter aside.

Lower compartment.

Neatly placed in navy memory foam were large Ingram magazines, six of them.

About 30 cm long, clumsy magazines.

Impossible to tell how many rounds they hold.

Father’s love, worrying about his son’s safety…

I’ll take good care of them.

I knelt down and neatly organized the six rounds of the father’s love.

There was another small box below.

Smaller than the gun box.

Opened it.

Inside were small boxes.

With pictures on the outside.

And writing.

45ACP

And bullet drawings.

…Ingram ammunition.

Opened a small box…

Bullets… so small.

Packed in dozens of boxes…

Ahh…

This is what “father’s warm love” means.

I deeply felt the father’s affection, unknown to me, and with a grateful heart, I took off my Adidas bag.

U.S. military, hooray…