Ch.2Chapter 1. Human Unprotected Zone (1)

# Chapter 1. Human Non-Protected Zone

I once watched an idol performance from the front row at a university festival.

They were much prettier than what I’d seen on monitors and smartphone screens. The saying that “real people look better than on screen” wasn’t wrong after all. They ran around energetically on stage despite sweating profusely, and I could clearly see how happy they were from the students’ cheers and group singing.

While it might not have been “legendary fancam” material, the short video clips circulated widely enough that they wouldn’t be hard to find. The stage atmosphere was that good.

Yet I felt dizzy. It wasn’t just from singing along excitedly like everyone else, or from swaying my body to the rhythm.

But it was late, and I couldn’t go to the hospital just because I felt nauseous. Instead, I visited a club booth, got alcohol instead of medicine, and could only fall into deep sleep after helping with cleanup in lieu of paying.

I realized why I’d been dizzy the next day. The reason was absurd.

I had still been thinking of them as people who existed only on screens, and seeing them dancing right in front of me had shocked me.

The idols I knew either smiled brightly in 30-second video clips or laughed and enjoyed themselves for an entire hour. Me in my room. Them on the screen.

But when they suddenly performed in front of my eyes, not for 30 seconds or an hour but for two whole hours—when they were so close that just fifteen more steps would have let me hold their hands—my common sense was shaken.

‘Why is an idol standing right in front of me?’

Of course, I know idols are people too.

But that’s just something I “know” intellectually. It doesn’t mean I accepted them as “real people”—like that study group member who’s always late or the slovenly landlord who walks around in unsightly jeans.

In fact, that’s normal. Idols stand with one foot in reality while filling the other with fantasy. I just experienced the gap between fantasy and reality as a headache.

The opposite of zombies.

Zombies are the reverse. When they step from fantasy into reality, people say things like “it’s creepy” or “it feels so real.”

Moreover, it’s common sense that zombies don’t exist in the real world. That common sense is so strong that we deliberately hang on the edge of fiction, seeking the thrill of saying “wow, it looks so real.” We’re essentially choosing to be deceived.

But that common sense died—like that zombie whose head burst open after being hit with a worn-out axe—and I fell straight into the abyss of fiction.

That’s how I fell into the game I normally enjoyed playing. A game where, amid a spreading zombie virus, people kill each other, and the ultimate goal is to survive as long as possible by overcoming mistakes.

In other words, a game called “Erysichthon Protocol,” nicknamed a “well-dying simulator” where death is inevitable, so it’s not about “how well you live” but “experiencing how well you die.”

“How is this possible?”

My head throbs irritatingly.

All my sensory organs are telling me, “Hey, this is real. No doubt about it!” but my brain refuses to accept it. It’s avoiding its duty, like a boss who only approves documents right before closing time.

It’s not that it doesn’t understand the situation; it’s terrified of what might happen if it accepts reality.

“When will common sense win?”

Feeling nauseous, I collapse into a chair. I take the opportunity to examine every corner of the kitchen.

‘See? I’m right.’

Hwatu cards. Janggi chess. Board games. Poker… All games start with “learning the rules.” How to win, when you lose, what actions to take.

This house is where you learn the rules. Basic controls. How to pick up weapons. Game mechanics. Attack methods. That’s why when you install the game and press “New Game,” you always start in this kitchen.

The help window that pops up first teaches you how to move in all four directions.

The next step is picking up an old hand axe and throwing it at the zombie in the living room, but no matter what character you create, the trigger is set so that—thunk, thud—it dies in one hit. It’s just a tutorial, after all.

That’s why even I, who had only handled an axe while cleaning military warehouses, managed to precisely smash a zombie’s head with a throwing axe. As skillfully as folding a blanket while still half-asleep.

No matter how I look at it, there’s no doubt.

“Why me?”

What did I do? What happened? No matter how far back I search my memories, nothing comes up.

As usual, I came back to my apartment after finishing my night shift job. I was too tired to do anything substantial but didn’t want to just go to sleep, so I turned on the game for the first time in a week. I’d been too busy submitting job applications and preparing for interviews to even play one round.

“Ah.”

There had been a major update, from a week ago. I was pleased that the developer was finally delivering value for money, but the file size was so large that installation would take quite some time. So many changes were being made that I gave up reading through them all.

Well, I decided to think positively. Since some time had passed since the update, various user-created mods had been uploaded. I installed everything that looked interesting.

Most were difficulty enhancers like zombie pattern changes, but some added their own quests. “This mod might conflict with the one I just installed, and this one looks like it would make things more fun…” Some were updated versions of ones I knew before, but most were new to me.

By the time I finished installing everything, it was nearly 1 AM. Somehow, there were no conflicts between the mods.

‘I’ll try it out after finishing my errands tomorrow.’

That’s all—I just went to sleep with high expectations.

And just now, I threw an old hand axe and smashed a zombie’s head.

* * * * *

It was exactly as I’d seen in the tutorial. The large man with an axe embedded in his head made a “kuk, kuuu” sound before falling backward.

Instead of a thud, there was a rumbling crash. The man was truly obese. The wooden floor shattered, and the impact shook the walls and roof enough to send old dust raining down.

“You should lose some weight.”

The absurdity of the situation made me mutter to myself. Creak. CREAK! A familiar sound. The neighbor zombies.

By now, the tutorial help text would probably say: “Zombies hear most sounds but generally ignore them. However, they respond to unusual noises like gunshots, screams, helicopter sounds, etc.”

Of course, “generally ignore them” is just bait for beginners. I’ve never seen an indifferent zombie. Especially when sound mixes with scent.

Thud…

That’s the sound of a zombie pushing against a wooden fence with its body. Soon enough, the fence will collapse, or the zombie will learn to climb over it, or by coincidence, it will push the door wide open.

It’s exactly like the dozens of playthroughs I’ve done before. No matter how many version updates or mods I install, this never changes. If so, there’s still a way.

In fact, if you follow the tutorial instructions, you will definitely die.

Learn the character controls, throw the axe to kill the zombie, leisurely walk around the house collecting items and enter the living room—and suddenly you’ll be surrounded by six zombies.

Your precious character, carefully named and customized, will be torn apart alive by zombies, and the help window will say, “You get it, right? Always secure the area before searching for equipment! Don’t forget in your next life.” It’s infuriating. Now people laugh it off as a “newbie initiation,” but the initial displeasure was indescribable.

But after experiencing the same situation dozens of times and even watching strategy videos, things are completely different now. At least for the tutorial house, since everything happens the same way, you can survive if you handle it properly.

“Alright.”

It’ll take about 10 minutes for those zombies to cross the threshold. I need to search through everything in this house within 6 minutes. Dealing with them will take about 4 minutes, which should be enough.

First, I check the water and electricity. If both are still supplied, it means minimal social systems are still operating.

I turned the faucet, but only a drop or two of water came out. Lifting the drain pipe, I see it’s still moist and doesn’t smell bad, suggesting the supply hasn’t been cut off for long.

There’s not much to check with the gas. This is a small rural village that uses LPG gas tanks. When I turn the gas stove knob, gas hisses out. But no flame ignites.

The tutorial house’s gas range is an all-in-one oven type that requires electricity for the ignition plug to work. Since there’s no spark, this house has lost power. I left the gas on for now.

Next is the refrigerator. No motor sound. That means the power is out. But there’s still a faint coolness, suggesting the electricity hasn’t been cut off for long.

Perhaps only this house or village lost power, while the city nearby might still have it.

But.

“…Huh?”

There’s a problem.

“This can’t be right?”

Nothing. Nothing in the freezer or refrigerator. There should be a plastic water bottle here.

Just like how I was forced to throw the axe to kill the zombie, this place is supposed to teach you “to open furniture and collect items inside,” so there should definitely be a drink in here.

But now, there’s nothing. This has never happened before. There was nothing like this in the bug reports either. Could it be that the installation went wrong and all items disappeared…?

As I’m imagining this terrible scenario, the morning sunlight illuminates the living room. The rusty, broken axe blade still looks eerie.

‘No. If there was a real problem, that axe wouldn’t be there either. There must be something. Definitely…’

I calm myself down. I quickly open the cabinets. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Found something.

Just one can of condensed milk.

Don’t think of “condensed milk” as nutritious milk that moistens your throat. This is milk that’s been heated, reduced, and canned. It’s closer to cream, and drinking it straight would make you thirstier.

According to the packaging, they even added sugar while reducing it. It might be okay with water, milk, or even shaved ice when you need energy, but eating it as is…

No, more importantly, I can’t even open it.

“They should at least give me a can opener.”

No chopsticks, spoons, forks, not even a common fruit knife.

I opened all the cabinets in the kitchen area. I look around the room and bathroom. The door here has already fallen off, revealing the interior clearly, but all that’s inside is a pile of garbage.

Only the torn, drooping wallpaper flutters mockingly. Still, I did find one thing: a backpack that a middle schooler might carry. It’s a character product with a deep pink color and Barbie doll print.

It’s in good condition, with only two candy wrappers inside. The doll’s smiling face is strangely unsettling, which might explain why no one took it.

Now there’s only one place left: under the TV stand in the living room. I left it for last because it’s quite close to the zombie corpse.

Thud… THUD!

That’s the sound of pushing against a wooden door. Zombies that came out wondering about the thudding sound and vibration are now responding to the scent spreading from this house. Unlike before, their movements are precise and fierce.

They’ve found their prey.