Apocalypse Gachapon

“Hey Jack, your big moose is becoming as ordinary as your name.”

A voice made Jack, who was feeding his war beast, turn his head with a frown. He saw Adron swaying toward him, his dreadlocks bouncing, followed by a tall, snow-white, mutated moose that strutted proudly through the camp just like its owner.

“You shameless bastard, get the hell away from me!”

Jack cursed and continued feeding his mount. Moose, being one of the few herbivorous lifeforms left in the apocalypse, were picky eaters—only mutated plants above level four could satisfy them.

What Jack held in his hand was a mutated plant called Black Fern Sedge. This particular one was level four; its demon crystal had already been extracted, leaving about five pounds of leaves and stems.

It might seem like a lot, but for a mutated moose weighing over a ton—sometimes close to two—it was barely a drop in the bucket.

Yes, Jack’s mutated moose was starving.

In North America, in Alaska, this wasn’t unusual.

This place was different from the other continents. There were large, disciplined, and powerful organizations here, but there was also a deeply ingrained culture—a mercenary culture.

Mercenary groups and solo mercenaries further divided this culture into two branches.

Perhaps it was the locals’ inherent love for freedom that made them resistant to authority and orders.

Here, freedom might truly rank higher than love—or even life itself.

The prevalence of mercenary culture had fostered a habitual employer-employee dynamic between people and organizations. When factions had tasks, they’d hire mercenaries to assist or simply post rewards for mercenaries to complete independently.

Once something became a custom, it persisted until it was no longer viable.

In North America, the mercenary system hadn’t yet reached its end. Despite its flaws, it remained a mainstream phenomenon. But the law of survival of the fittest still applied.

Jack was someone who felt this deeply.

He had once been a mercenary fighter. Since he hated negotiating with clients, the group’s fixed salary had suited him just fine.

But in an era where strength ruled all, his slow evolution on a steady paycheck became a liability.

After a few missions where he suspected he was being used as cannon fodder, Jack quit in anger and became a freelance mercenary. To land more jobs, he spent his savings on a level-three mutated moose, becoming a famous Moose Cavalryman in Alaska.

But freelancing meant finding his own jobs and haggling with employers—neither of which were Jack’s strengths. Often, for equally dangerous missions, his pay was lower than others’. Over time, he earned even less than he had in the mercenary group.

If it were just him, he might’ve managed. But now he had a mutated moose to feed. As a five-star evolved, Jack often skipped meals to afford high-quality feed for his battle beast.

The problem was twofold:

In the northern wilderness, mutated plants were scarce, and moose were picky, making feed exorbitantly expensive.

The damned thing ate so much. The daily food bill was crushing. Forget saving for a six-star evolution potion—some days, he could barely afford meals for himself and his moose.

Mutated moose had a unique trait: when underfed, they didn’t weaken to uselessness. Instead, they downgraded, losing strength but remaining functional.

Jack’s moose had once reached level four—until malnutrition forced it back to level three.

Hence, Adron’s taunt: “Your moose is as ordinary as your name.”

The two had once been comrades in the same mercenary group, with Adron as Jack’s squad leader. Those “cannon fodder” assignments? Adron was almost certainly involved.

Naturally, they weren’t on friendly terms.

This time, a major faction had issued a lucrative call for mercenaries in Alaska. No one knew the exact mission, only that it was dangerous.

But the pay was three times the usual rate. They weren’t just hiring groups—they wanted freelance mercenaries above four stars. That was how Jack and Adron ended up in the same camp.

“Jack, you’re skilled, and you’re still a Moose Cavalryman. Want to come back? I could—”

Adron’s words were cut off as a blinding light erupted behind him, forcing everyone in the camp to shield their eyes. When the glare dimmed, all heads turned toward the source.

Seconds later, a shout echoed through the camp:

“Assemble! Assemble! We move out in thirty minutes—destination, Denali Mountain!”

………………………………

“How many did you catch?”

A muscular Black woman plopped down beside a gray-haired white woman, their stark contrast in appearance offset by equally striking, sharp features.

“Not bad.”

The gray-haired woman gestured to the ground beside her, where four grotesque fish—each frozen solid—were impaled on metal spikes. Their razor-sharp teeth were still bared in death.

“You got a Canvas Carp too? We’re eating well tonight.”

Canvas Carp meat was tender. Sliced into two-millimeter strips and seared for seconds on a hot griddle, then sprinkled with salt and crushed chili, it was unforgettable.

“That’s barely enough for you alone.”

They both laughed, but the mirth faded quickly.

“Ella… are you sure about this intel? We can’t afford another failure.”

The Black woman’s voice was low, heavy.

The gray-haired woman’s fishing rod, glowing faintly green, twitched but steadied. Ripples spread across the hole in the icy lake.

“I spent two days and nights with that disgusting bastard for this info. If it’s fake, he’ll regret it.” Read full story at novlfire.net

She turned to her companion. “You’ll back me up, right, Jiana?”

The Black woman laughed and slung an arm around her. “Damn right. We’ll cut something off him—show him what the Amazon Camp is made of!”