Chapter 22

Chapter 22
To me, he felt like a warm and caring father, but Commander Heyden was undeniably a dictator who controlled this zone through armed might. Not that I had any room to complain, seeing as I had deliberately chosen the illegitimate-son path precisely to leverage that power. Even so, if the Commander went around casually eliminating my slaves—or rather, my talent—like this, we were going to run into a major issue. He had no inkling that the Second Apocalypse was approaching, so naturally, he failed to grasp how valuable every skilled individual truly was. I needed a strategy in place before he wiped out every promising recruit I possessed.

For the time being, however, we had arrived at the research institute to examine the combat rations, which meant dealing with the director first.

“You requested my presence?”

The aging research director stood before us, featuring white hair combed sharply backward and long legs that swung with every step. Although stress had drained color from his face, he was a robust man with nothing fragile about him. This marked the first time I was laying eyes on this NPC up close. He carried no deep backstory or grand ambitions, serving as a textbook minor NPC who demanded zero caution. Meursault had typically interacted with him regarding supply management, but I had never personally set foot inside the institute. While playing the game, it had never crossed my mind that I might need to cultivate something like wall-grain pills.

“This is unexpected. Director Meursault, of all people, paying a visit.”

As an NPC completely devoid of any hidden agenda, his reaction to our sudden appearance remained delightfully shallow.

“Nothing complicated. Would you mind showing the young master our combat rations?”

“The young master?”

“Yes. The young master has developed an interest in combat rations.”

“Combat rations…? The young master has?”

That brief exchange was all it took. The director’s face lit up with an intense, feverish excitement as he plunged right into a lecture concerning how critical food supplies truly were.

“Finally, a commander who actually appreciates the significance of food provisioning! Our institute boasts exceptional freeze-drying technology, yet research into combat rations has consistently lagged behind, always treated as an afterthought under the excuse that they only matter during suppression campaigns!”

Oh-ho. Heyden, the previous commander, and everyone before them had been entirely obsessed with weaponry and combat gear, completely ignoring combat rations. Perfect. If the technology had stalled not due to a lack of capability, but purely out of apathy, then a modest injection of my attention could easily propel combat-ration development forward at full speed.

Then, the director uttered something that genuinely piqued my curiosity.

“It has barely been a hundred years since the food crisis immediately following the Apocalypse… We have no way of knowing when we might encounter a similar catastrophe once more. We must remain prepared!”

“Prepare for the Apocalypse?”

The moment I responded, Meursault leaned closer, murmuring softly against my ear.

“The elders who survived the aftermath of the Apocalypse frequently speak in such a manner, convinced it will happen again… They represent the final remaining doomsday believers of this era. That very compulsion to prepare ahead of time is what ultimately secured his position as director of the Zone Security Research Institute.”

Ah. So the lingering trauma of the Apocalypse left him firmly convinced of its eventual return. The Second Apocalypse was indeed coming back, yet people perpetually despised hearing bleak truths. If I had walked around proclaiming the impending arrival of the Second Apocalypse, society would have dismissed me as a delusional lunatic, precisely like this director. Which meant my path forward was clear: feign empathy toward a PTSD-afflicted old man and manipulate him into manufacturing heavy-duty wall-grain pills—or rather, advanced combat rations.

“I do not believe the director is mistaken.”

“Young master?”

Meursault cast a deeply skeptical gaze in my direction. He was fully aware that I was not some obedient little boy who blindly deferred to his elders. Yet, since I had not spoken for Meursault’s benefit, it hardly mattered.

“Until quite recently, I resided in the Slums.”

I pulled the Slums card perhaps a bit too frequently, but it never failed to hit its mark, and possessing a ten-year-old physique only amplified the impact.

“Food shortages… they were never some distant, abstract concept to me. Therefore, if preparing now ensures that no one suffers from starvation in the future, as you suggest… then I shall support your efforts, Director.”

“Young master…”

A mixture of profound pity and pride filled the director’s expression as he stared at me.

“Ah—no, this simply will not do. You came here out of curiosity regarding the combat rations, correct? I shall have them prepared immediately!”

With the director suddenly showing such eager cooperation, we did not have to wait long before something resembling hard jerky was neatly arranged across a metal tray before us. Combat rations in this universe resembled palm-sized hardtack, except they were crafted from monster meat rather than flour, rendering them significantly denser and tougher than standard rations.

“These are known as dry-meat. Would you care to sample one?”

While I would have preferred to inflict a minor injury on myself first to observe the system effects, I could hardly engage in self-harm right in front of the director, and Meursault’s presence alone complicated matters. Consequently, I simply brought a piece of dry-meat up to my lips. It instantly dissolved into blue particles right at my mouth, absorbing into my body before I could even register a flavor. Any player hailing from a Safe Zone, however, would recognize the flavor profile description for dry-meat better than anyone else, prompting me to recite the exact game script that always triggered upon consumption.

“Vile. It tastes like army boots that haven’t been washed in years.”

Both Meursault and the director froze, staring at me in total astonishment.

“Why the shock?”

They exchanged glances, each silently trying to shift the burden of explanation onto the other, until Meursault finally let out a sigh and spoke.

“That remarks sounds like the sort of thing soldiers who have endured brutal hardships on the frontline would say. I am uncertain if you realize this, but army boots are similarly manufactured from monster hide—meaning that when rations are exhausted during a military campaign, troops resort to consuming their own footwear. For a young master who has never set foot on a battlefield to articulate such a sentiment like a battle-hardened veteran… it naturally took both of us by surprise.”

Upon finishing, Meursault regarded me with an expression closely resembling profound sympathy.

“…Why are you looking at me that way?”

“You must have suffered through severe hunger prior to arriving at the manor. That would logically account for your deep preoccupation with meals.”

Fair enough. I had demanded dinner gatherings featuring children my age, even gone hunting to guarantee there was adequate food, and subsequently inquired about combat rations. Naturally, he would arrive at that exact conclusion. It was far better for him to construct a convenient misunderstanding than to suspect why I suddenly cared about combat rations in the first place. Fine. I would lean fully into that narrative.

“I hear that half of the children who attended the recent party are going to be deployed on upcoming suppression campaigns. I simply do not want those kids going hungry out there.”

“You need not fret. Even on the battlefield, we do not allow children to starve.”

“Indeed! Young master! Please rest easy. By the time of the next campaign, I will engineer combat rations that every child can consume with genuine enjoyment!”

“Truly? Then I can safely leave this matter in your capable hands, Director. Furthermore, I would prefer them to be smaller and lighter than their current state, as children cannot carry heavy loads.”

“Smaller… and lighter?”

“Ah… would that prove too difficult…?”

“No, no!! Leave everything to me!”

I offered the boastful director a content smile, after which Meursault and I concluded our tour. I was still inwardly relishing the acquisition of such a compliant tool when, inside the vehicle driving back to the Commander’s estate, Meursault broke the silence in his characteristically unhurried tone.

“I had been pondering why you specifically summoned that young soldier—Darling Outsider—into your private quarters…”

Hearing that name, I glanced over at him. He met my gaze steadily and pressed on.

“Did you interrogate the boy regarding military life? Are you perhaps… worried that the children might face mistreatment? Is that the true reason you organized those monthly dining events to monitor their physical condition?”

So Meursault was well aware that I had pulled Darling Outsider aside separately following the meal. I had called the boy in without notifying Meursault precisely to discover who was tracking my daily activities and the extent of their reach. He did not even bother concealing the fact that he possessed information I had never disclosed to him. Well, just as I had positioned Taejeong inside the manor, Meursault and the other officers undoubtedly had their own informants stationed everywhere.

“People who will one day become soldiers! That description was not merely a casual phrase after all.”

“Until now, you believed otherwise?”

“You remain merely a ten-year-old child.”

Reflecting on it, possessing a ten-year-old body offered certain perks, yet it simultaneously locked me out of countless opportunities. If nobody took my statements seriously, how on earth was I supposed to convince people to prepare for the Second Apocalypse within the span of ten years?

As if attempting to pacify that internal anxiety, Meursault continued.

“I have consistently maintained that every human being aside from Lady Daphne is an absolute fool…”

…Does “every human being” happen to include the Commander as well?

“…yet the prospect of you eventually stepping into the role of my superior does not seem entirely disagreeable.”

Having said that, Meursault shifted his attention toward the window, and I chose not to press the issue further. Come to think of it, there was still zero reaction forthcoming from the other officers. I had intentionally made a public display of taking down a mid-sized monster to capture everyone’s attention, yet neither the pro-Commander faction nor the pro-Daphne faction had made a move toward me. That outcome was unexpected. Of course, the explanation might simply lie in Meursault’s relentless surveillance. With the Commander’s most trusted aide watching my every move with hawk-like vigilance, nobody with even a basic sense of self-preservation would dare approach.

Yet, meeting the late Batom’s son face-to-face had taught me a valuable lesson. I needed to understand the officers’ true perspectives regarding myself so I could filter out the ones worth recruiting from the ones worth discarding. The fundamental hurdle was that they were all collectively pretending, almost by unspoken agreement, to harbor zero interest in me, most likely due to Meursault’s intimidating presence.

Well, I suppose nobody was eager to catch the eye of a lunatic who casually put a bullet straight through his superior officer’s forehead, either. There was simply no alternative left. If they refused to approach me of their own accord, I would simply have to take the initiative and go to them.