Since dealing with gunpowder was inherently dangerous, I used it as an excuse to clear the workspace of people.

All I had done was attach metal plates and wood together, nail things in place and weld some parts—though the desk was now cluttered with tools.

‘I can't just say all this came from a few steel plates.’

It was like a makeshift crafting kit, where something could be pulled out whenever needed.

It wasn't the most realistic setup, but that didn't matter right now.

I had to make bullets.

"Ugh!?"

The moment I thought about making them, my body moved involuntarily.

‘So this is why the fatigue builds up so quickly.’

My aching arms were forced to move and exert strength.

The steel scissors snipped away, cutting out scrap metal pieces.

But how was I supposed to make bullets with this?

From what I knew, crafting even a single bullet required various materials and complex processes.

Yet, even as I questioned it, my body continued working.

Click, click, click. Creak, creak.

Plastic was cut into circular pieces and piled onto the desk.

Sharp metal fragments stacked up alongside them.

And then…

"Is this it?"

Gunpowder sat on the desk with its lid open.

The other prepared materials were the same, all laid out before me.

I picked up a red shotgun shell from the desk.

Nothing else similar had been assembled.

Was there still more to do?

"Ah… right. Paper."

That was all I needed to finish making shotgun shells—assuming I had spent shells available.

If not, I had to craft them myself and at this stage, the only shell casings I could make were…

Creak.

A lot of unnecessary paper was needed. A whole lot.

So I opened the door to ask for some.

"Are you done?"

Curtis suddenly poked his head in.

"...That startled me. No, I need more materials."

"What kind?"

"Paper."

"...Paper? Like from books?"

"Yes, any kind will do."

"You're making shotgun shells, aren't you?"

"That's right."

His skeptical eyes lingered, but without a word, he tapped me on the shoulder and led the way.

In the room we arrived at, Sarah was sitting beside a lantern, recording something in a stack of papers.

"This room is filled with documents. From what I skimmed, they seem to be records of supplies being transported here and there."

"…Perfect."

"Sarah, which pile is unnecessary?"

"The right one."

"Take it, we were going to use it as kindling anyway. If you need it, go ahead."

I gathered the knee-high stack of papers.

…My arms.

"What are you planning to do with that?"

"Make bullets."

"...Excuse me?"

It was only natural for her to be confused.

Even I wasn’t sure how this was happening.

But in the game, crafting shotgun shells with paper was a valid method.

Of course, the shells couldn't be reused, but they still functioned.

"Well, alchemy can turn poisons into antidotes, so making bullets from paper isn’t that far-fetched."

Curtis laughed and clapped me on the back before pointing at Sarah’s notebook.

"What’s all this?"

"A bunch of incomprehensible codenames. Like moving 'Yuri' from D-4 to D-67…"

While they examined the notes, I returned to the workshop with my bundle of papers.

Honestly, I had no idea how this was working anymore.

Yet my hands moved again.

With a ruler and pencil, I drew lines across the paper.

In the extra space, I used a compass to sketch small donut-shaped circles.

And then, for who knows how long, I kept cutting the same shapes over and over.

"…Huh."

Stacking the circular cutouts, they began forming the base of something.

Three rectangular sheets were wrapped around a shotgun shell and glued together.

As I reached into the drawer for more glue, cylindrical forms took shape.

Then, attaching the cylinders to the circular bases…

"...Shell casings."

Before I knew it, a pile of stiff paper shell casings had formed.

They were damp and sticky from the glue, but the first ones had already hardened.

Tap.

Even a flick with my finger didn't dent them.

Then my hands moved again.

Layering the prepared materials and assembling them.

Time passed.

"..."

A hundred rounds sat before me—only the material differed from real bullets.

"...Wow."

Would they even fire?

…They should, right?

With shaking hands, I loaded a round into my pump-action shotgun.

It chambered smoothly.

No snags.

I stepped outside.

A short walk away, zombies were rattling the barricade.

"Ah, Hyunwoo."

"James."

"…I was just thinking it might be time to start shooting."

The barricade creaked under the pressure.

So it was taking damage.

Well, the method for breaking a helmet with 200 durability was to hit it 200 times, after all.

"Should I shoot?"

"I'm here to test something."

"Test… what exactly?"

I cautiously pumped the shotgun and ejected the unfired round.

"This."

"…You actually made it?"

"For now, yes."

"How?"

I didn’t bother answering.

Because I didn’t know either.

My body just moved and crafted them, there was no way I could teach that.

Clack.

I reloaded the shell and aimed forward.

James glanced between the gun and me, then stepped back.

"…Fire when ready."

A deep breath.

I steadied my finger on the trigger and pressed down.

Bang.

Fragments scattered, pelting a zombie’s face.

"O-Oh."

Its brain was gone and its eye sockets were hollowed out.

I pumped the shotgun again, ejecting the spent paper shell casing.

It didn’t look reusable.

"It works."

"It actually works?"

We spoke at the same time.

James stared at me in a daze before raising his hand.

"…Hurry up."

I stared blankly at my trembling hand.

What was I supposed to do… Ah, wait.

Smack.

I placed my hand against James’s thick one.

A high five.

"James!"

Ignoring the sound of crushed corpses underfoot, I turned my head.

Sarah and Curtis came running toward us, armed with a pistol and a double-barrel shotgun.

I waved at them.

"Are you hurt?"

"No and more importantly."

I handed Curtis a bullet I had made and his eyes widened.

"Try shooting it."

"...You made this? This is paper."

"Yes."

"Uh…"

Hesitant hands reached for the gun.

He removed the preloaded rounds and replaced them with my stark white ones.

The fit was perfect and his hands stopped shaking.

Bang.

With a single shot, the bullet tore through the heads of two zombies standing side by side.

Bang.

This time, the shot shredded their faces but didn’t put them down completely, leaving them covered in gruesome wounds.

"Show me the other rounds."

I handed him more bullets and without warning, Curtis took a knife and sliced open the top of one.

Before I could stop him, its contents spilled onto the ground.

Everything except the gunpowder.

"You stuffed them at random. You know how to make bullets, but not how they function."

"Huh?"

"I’m not saying you did it wrong. Listen."

Curtis pointed at the spilled contents of the bullet.

"This is something like a slug round."

The sharp metal shards glinted under the flashlight.

"These are meant to cause a lot of surface wounds, they won’t kill. They’ll make someone bleed and suffer instead. Honestly, the person hit might die more from infection or blood loss than the bullet itself."

"...I see."

"Do you have any bolts?"

I rummaged in my pocket and pulled one out, handing it over.

Curtis screwed two nuts onto the bolt.

"This will act as a makeshift slug. It won’t have the accuracy of a real bullet, but at close range, it should be enough to smash heads."

"...Ah."

"How many of these bullets did you make?"

"I fired three, and you dismantled two, so… about 95 left."

"...Ninety-five."

"Ninety-five."

The three of them fell silent, blinking at me.

Curtis checked his watch and turned back to me.

"Make 50 slugs like I just described and another 30 of the injury-causing rounds. Can you do that?"

"What about the ones I already made?"

"Don’t discard them. I’ll use them to test on those things over there."

"Ah, alright."

So I could make improvised slugs, too.

Most of the time, NPCs gathered bullets from various places, so I hadn’t needed to craft many. When I did, it was usually for hostage situations.

But now I knew.

"By the way, what time is it?"

"It’s been about two hours since we had a late lunch. Three o’clock."

Making 100 rounds in two hours…

Not bad at all.

"...First medicine, now bullets."

James stroked his scruffy beard.

He picked up a paper shell casing from the ground.

"This was made from the paper I was reading? That’s insane…"

Sarah, standing beside her father, stared at the casing before turning her gaze to the corpses piled against the barricade.

With so many bodies blocking the way, the zombies hesitated.

A black worm squirmed in the shattered head of one but soon went still.

"Someone who barely knows how to load, aim and fire a shotgun is making bullets out of paper, scrap and gunpowder…"

Curtis picked up a torn shell casing filled with gunpowder and clenched it in his fist.

"He doesn’t look like a redneck who’d know about guns."

"Get too close to them and you’ll start hearing ‘ching-chong’ real quick."

Sarah chuckled.

"You used to call him a ‘yellow monkey,’ didn’t you?"

"He is yellow, but I won’t call him a monkey anymore. He’s probably smarter than us."

James let out a deep sigh and stared at the barricade.

In a world where order had collapsed, guns were always the most reliable answer.

More accurately, guns and bullets.

Even if a gun was well-maintained, bullets would always run out.

They had been lucky to find a few crates of ammo, but supplies were dwindling…

"By the way, we ran into a giant gorilla with steel covering its head."

"Were you dreaming?"

"No, it was real. It crushed a person with its head and had arms like they were pumped full of steroids."

"Bigger than mine?"

"You didn’t take steroids. Those thugs stumbling around the gym hitting on Sarah did—never mind, that’s not important."

As he cleared his throat and reached for his water bottle, faint sounds leaked through the mostly closed door.

The rustling of paper being cut.

Bolts dropping to the floor.

Nuts clattering…

Clatter.

"Ah, I spilled it."

Sarah’s eyebrows twitched as she listened in.

James coughed again as he swallowed his drink.

Curtis, leaning against the wall, wiped his nose.

"So, what happened to this mutant gorilla?"

"Hyunwoo killed it."

"How?"

"Shot its legs, set it on fire, bashed its head against a wall and kept shooting until it died."

"…I almost regret calling him a monkey."

"And the cult of red-skinned people turned out to be real, too."

The three exchanged glances.

They had survived in the bunker for what felt like both a short and long time.

After the nuclear blasts, fallout spread everywhere. They had reached the bunker entrance later than the city dwellers and entered even later.

Still.

This yellow-skinned, black-haired, black-eyed man seemed to know everything.

Behind that innocent face…

What was really there?

"Do we have any choice but to trust him?"

"…Probably not."

"Wait, wait, wait."

Sarah waved her hands between the stiff-faced father and grandfather.

"He saved my life, remember?"

"That’s true."

"And yet this is how you’re treating him?"

"Yes."

Their voices overlapped.

"People change in war, Sarah."

"Even kids throw Molotovs at tanks and fire rocket launchers while shouting ‘Heil Hitler.’"

Her father’s rough hand gently brushed her cheek.

"I thought I knew everything I needed, but compared to Hyunwoo, we know nothing. That worries me."

"He just seemed like a good person when he treated my wounds. Is trusting people really such a mistake?"

Her grandfather’s wrinkled hand gripped her shoulder firmly.

"Trusting isn’t wrong, but choosing to trust when you know people deceive is foolish."

"Everything he’s said so far has been true."

"But can you be sure everything he says will be true?"

"If he wanted to kill us, knocking me out would’ve been the best time. He could’ve fed us to the spiders and been done with it."

"Or he could’ve been using us to fight the church."

"The enemy of my enemy is my ally, didn’t you tell me about Italian resistance fighters?"

"Sarah."

In a world without laws or government, the questions never ended.

The three of them sighed.

"Promise me one thing."

"What?"

"If Hyunwoo ever does someth—"

"He’s too busy making bullets to care, he hasn’t even eaten."

"Still."

"You said the same thing ‘outside.’"

Zombie growls rumbled low.

The sounds of crafting continued from the workshop.

"We still have food, right?"

"Yeah."

"I’ll take some in, I need to see how he’s making that many bullets in two hours."