One week had passed…
In a world where everything had collapsed and every moral law had crumbled into dust, seven days might seem like nothing more than a short breath for those hiding behind locked doors, waiting to die in despair. But for the fifty-plus ants of Mega Mall Seoul, those seven days were literal hell on earth—sweat, tears, and blood paid in full to earn the right to open their eyes to another sunrise and a single loaf of warm bread.
The reinforced concrete wall—four meters high and half a meter thick—now stood complete, encircling the vast parking plaza and main entrances. Its surface was rough and cold to the touch. It was brutal, solid, and crowned with three layers of razor wire. This was no longer a fragile barricade of wrecked cars. It had been forged from premium materials summoned by Kang Shi-hun and human labor driven by fear and the raw instinct to survive.
Yet those seven days had been anything but smooth.
[Flashback – The Seven Days of Fortress Construction]
Construction began before dawn and ended only when the spotlights had to be switched on. The ants' daily routine was pure brutality. Hands that once held pens, typed on keyboards, or cradled coffee cups were now covered in blisters, peeled skin, and bruises from gripping shovels and hauling thousands of concrete blocks.
"Pour the concrete! Don't stop! If it sets before you pour it into the formwork, I'll shove your head into the mixer instead of gravel!"
That familiar bark came from Clone Number One. The butler in the black suit sat comfortably on a folding chair atop a pickup truck, shaded by an umbrella. His sadistic smile and cutting words acted like an invisible whip that drove every worker to move like madmen.
Uncle Hwang—the former engineer now head foreman—bore the heaviest burden. He had to sketch structural plans from memory, calculate load-bearing capacity, and oversee the tying of rebar to the boss's exact standards. Shi-hun had made it clear: "If even one centimeter of the wall cracks, the foreman pays with his own lifespan." So Uncle Hwang screamed himself hoarse every single day.
The mall's internal ecosystem had begun to function. Soyeon, the former nurse, treated workers who collapsed from heatstroke, muscle tears, or metal cuts, using medicine and supplies summoned by the boss. In return, their merit points were deducted as medical fees. Ji-ah and Yu-jin handled ration distribution, handing out French bread and pure water according to each person's daily points. Anyone who slacked or failed to finish their quota went to bed hungry.
And of course, the roar of diesel generators, the hiss of welding torches, and the smell of human sweat always attracted uninvited guests.
On the afternoon of the third day, thick fog carried over a hundred stray zombies straight to the construction site. They had smelled fresh meat and the noise of living humans.
"Z-zombies! Run!" Two male workers mixing concrete turned deathly pale, dropped their trowels, and prepared to flee into the mall.
"Anyone who stops mixing concrete… I will shove their head into the mixer instead of gravel."
The soft yet ice-cold voice rang out from above. Clone Number One sat cross-legged on his folding chair atop the pickup truck, shaded by an umbrella. A paper cup of hot Americano (summoned for 0.01 days) steamed in his left hand. His right hand rested a suppressed Glock 19 loosely on his lap. His sadistic eyes watched the approaching horde as if it were an amusing circus show.
"Clear that trash. Don't let them step on the boss's wet concrete," Number One ordered calmly, sipping his coffee.
"Form a defensive line! Spear-men in front! Blades in the second row!"
Su-jin, the woman in the fitted black pantsuit, shouted like a true field commander. She charged first. Her carbon-steel machete flashed once—severing the lead zombie's head. Black blood sprayed across the concrete.
"Watch the left flank!" Ji-ah yelled from the rear, driving a sharpened iron pipe straight into a zombie's eye socket.
Min-ah used her small, agile frame to slide under a fat zombie's claws, then stabbed both tactical knives into its knee and the back of its neck with surgical precision.
Yu-jin—her cracked ribs finally healing from the boss's healing spray—swung a makeshift nailed wooden sword, cracking skulls with sharp, efficient strikes.
When the four female leaders fought without hesitation, the rest of the ants found their courage. They swung the weapons the boss had provided and hacked into the rotting tide.
But in the chaos…
One "Runner" zombie—its leg muscles mutated for terrifying speed—burst through Su-jin's line. It leaped over a crate of tools, jaws wide open to tear out a worker's throat.
The terrified worker closed his eyes and screamed, ready to die.
Crack!
A neat coin-sized hole appeared in the center of the Runner's forehead. The 9mm round punched straight through and blew out the back of its skull. The body lost control and slid across the concrete, stopping just inches from the worker's feet.
Number One blew smoke from the barrel of his suppressed Glock. He never even left his chair. "I told you… don't interrupt the boss's concrete mixing. Get back to work."
The skirmish ended in less than fifteen minutes. The corpses were dragged to the rear disposal pit, blood was hosed away, and construction resumed amid heavy breathing.
Meanwhile, deep in the quiet third-floor suite, Kang Shi-hun sat cross-legged reading the "Project Pandora" documents he had brought from the university. A blue system window floated beside him. His lifespan ticked upward, one silent point at a time.
[Ally eliminated enemy with system-provided weapon: +1 day]
[Ally eliminated enemy with system-provided weapon: +1 day]
[Ally eliminated enemy with system-provided weapon: +1 day]
Shi-hun glanced at the rising numbers. He lifted a glass of premium whiskey (summoned from the shop) and took a slow sip. His pitch-black eyes gleamed.
This was the true definition of "passive income" in the apocalypse. Every weapon he had paid lifespan to buy for his ants was a blood vessel leading straight back to him. Every drop of enemy blood spilled by those weapons was converted into life and capital for the King of Ash—without him lifting a finger or dirtying his suit.
[Back to the Present – Day Seven]
Kang Shi-hun stood with his hands clasped behind his back in his flawless black bespoke suit, gazing at his masterpiece. He walked slowly along the freshly set reinforced concrete wall, running his palm over the rough, cold surface.
"Perfect structure. The rebar and Portland cement are fused flawlessly. Strong enough to stop a truck at full speed," he murmured with satisfaction. His pitch-black eyes swept over the line of exhausted but reverent workers standing at attention.
"You all did well," Shi-hun said simply. That single sentence was enough to make Uncle Hwang and several men smile with relief, as if they had been pardoned by a god.
Yet his gaze did not stop at the wall. He lifted his eyes to the top of the building. The large plastic neon sign on the roof—some letters already broken and missing—still showed fragments of the old name.
[MEGA ALL S OUL]
"That name is too pretty, too weak, and too pathetic for this era," Shi-hun said coldly. "Since this is my fortress, my kingdom, the name must reflect the power and the only thing we truly sell here…"
He turned to Uncle Hwang. "Uncle Hwang, take your strongest men and the construction crew. Climb up and rip down that pathetic sign. Replace it. I want a massive red neon sign that cuts through the fog for kilometers."
Uncle Hwang flinched, face paling. "Ch-change the sign, boss? It's extremely high up—seven stories! We have no crane or tall scaffolding. If the wind blows hard and someone falls…"
Shi-hun's eyes flicked toward him—cold, without mercy. "I will give you ropes, full-body safety harnesses, and military-grade climbing gear. If you or your men fall and die… it simply means you were useless in my domain. Get it done. That is an order."
When the king spoke, it was law. No one dared refuse.
More than ten men climbed to the roof, risking their lives on ropes and safety harnesses summoned by the boss. They dangled over the sheer drop while freezing wind whipped their bodies back and forth.
"Hold the lines tight! Brace your feet against the wall! Pass the welding torch!" Uncle Hwang shouted over the gale.
They pried off the old plastic letters one by one, letting them crash and shatter on the ground below. Then they assembled the new steel frame and installed the fresh red neon tubes—perfectly sized and wired to the main generator. The work was dangerous and took until nightfall. Many hands bled and legs shook from fear of heights, but no one stopped. Clone Number One stood below, smiling up at them the entire time.
At last, in the pitch-black night and thickening fog, Uncle Hwang connected the final cable.
"It's done, boss! Shall I flip the breaker switch?" he shouted down, voice hoarse.
Shi-hun stood in the parking plaza with his hands behind his back and gave a small nod.
Crack… WHOOOOSH!
Electricity surged. Suddenly the colossal neon sign on the roof blazed to life. Its blood-red glow pierced the fog, turning the gray mist into a sea of crimson. The letters burned sharp and menacing against the ruined city.
[THE GUN SHOP]
Every survivor tilted their heads upward. The blood-red light felt like the eyes of the Grim Reaper staring down at Seoul. It proudly declared who ruled this territory.
Shi-hun looked at the name of his kingdom. A cold smile curved his lips.
"Excellent… Now the world will know exactly what merchandise we prepare for our guests."
At the same moment, roughly two kilometers away on the highway leading into Seoul…
A modified armored Humvee crawled through the darkness and thick fog, headlights sweeping over a few zombies flattened into the asphalt.
Inside were four tough men and one woman in tattered military camouflage stained with dried blood and gunpowder. They were not ordinary scavengers. Their weapon handling and alert eyes marked them as trained survivors—former special forces who had escaped the fall of their evacuation camp.
"We're almost out of fuel, Sergeant," the young driver—Tae-sik—said tensely. "Supplies are down to two cans of fish and half a bottle of water… If we don't find safe shelter tonight, we'll freeze on the roadside or become a midnight buffet for those things."
The middle-aged man with a long scar at the corner of his left eyebrow—Sergeant Choi—gritted his teeth. "Keep driving, Tae-sik… This city is one giant graveyard, but there has to be somewhere… some rat hole still hoarding supplies. We just need to find it and take it."
Suddenly the woman in the back seat—Hee-jin, the unit's sniper—pointed at the windshield, eyes widening.
"Sergeant! Look—up ahead through the fog!"
Everyone leaned forward, staring into the darkness. What they saw made their breath catch.
In the distance, cutting through the black night and swirling mist, a massive red neon sign burned bright like a lighthouse in a sea of blood. The letters were sharp, aggressive, and impossible to miss.
[THE GUN SHOP]
"A gun shop…? Bullshit," Tae-sik muttered in disbelief. "Who the hell lights up a neon sign that big in a city full of zombies? Are they suicidal?"
Sergeant Choi narrowed his eyes. The weariness in his gaze turned into dangerous greed. "No one is stupid enough to light up a beacon like that… unless they're extremely confident they have the 'goods,' the heavy weapons, and enough supplies to handle anything that comes knocking."
He racked the slide on his K2 assault rifle. The metallic click echoed inside the vehicle.
"Change course. Head for that red light," Sergeant Choi ordered, voice cold. "We're going to find out… whether this so-called Gun Shop has enough bullets and food to welcome customers like us."
The armored Humvee turned sharply and drove straight toward the blood-red beacon of death.
Shi-hun's arrogant neon advertisement had worked faster than expected.
And the first group of "customers"—armed, hungry, and ready to kill—was already on its way to the fortress gates.