"It's an interesting mix," I murmur, observing the crowd.
Among the visitors, there is a palpable sense of desperation but also a flicker of hope as they approach the lorries, eager to barter or simply curious.
Joon-ho adjusts his binoculars, scanning the faces and attire of the people converging on the square. "Look at the groups forming queues," he points out. "You can tell they come from different communities. Some have uniforms or matching insignias—likely remnants of structured groups or militias. Others seem to be families or lone wanderers."
I nod, taking in the diverse crowd. It is clear that the traders have attracted a wide array of visitors, offering a rare glimpse into the region's current demographics. "This could give us an idea of how fragmented the area is, how many are struggling for survival versus those who have managed some semblance of organisation."
We watch as transactions take place, noting the varying levels of goods exchanged. Some trade food, others ammunition, and a few even produce small pouches of gold or jewellery, the remnants of a bygone era's wealth.
"See that group over there?" Joon-ho gestures subtly towards a contingent with mismatched but well-maintained gear, their demeanour disciplined yet weary. "They might be from one of the more established settlements. They have a system, a hierarchy. We should keep an eye on them; they could be allies or threats down the line."
I acknowledge his insight with a nod. "And those individuals, the ones in civilian clothes, scavenging for anything they can get—they represent the majority, I reckon. People just trying to make it through another day."
As the day wears on, we catalogue the various groups and individuals, building a mental map of the local power structure and population. This knowledge could prove invaluable for understanding regional dynamics, potential allies, or adversaries.
"I didn't realise how many were still out here," I say, the revelation weighing heavily on my mind. "It changes things, knowing we're not as isolated as I thought. There's strength in numbers, but also new challenges, potential conflicts."
Joon-ho nods, his face reflecting a similar mix of surprise and contemplation. "The different groups... it's like a makeshift society forming right in front of us. Some follow military discipline, others band together by necessity. It's a microcosm of what the world must be like now, fractured yet clinging to some form of order."
"I'm going down there," I tell Joon-ho, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "Keep an eye out, and if anything seems off, give me a signal."
He nods, understanding the gravity of my decision. "Be careful," he says, the concern evident in his eyes.
I make my way down from our vantage point, sticking to the shadows and avoiding any unnecessary attention. As I draw closer to the square, the murmur of haggling and the clinking of goods changing hands grow louder, blending into a symphony of post-apocalyptic commerce.
The traders' lorries are even more imposing up close, their decorations not just flamboyant but almost defiant in their extravagance—a stark contrast to the world's prevailing bleakness. I watch as people exchange what little they have for the promise of something better, something more enduring.
Approaching one of the lorries, I feign interest in the items on display, my eyes scanning the goods while I listen to the exchanges between the traders and their customers. The traders themselves are guarded yet polite, their eyes sharp, missing nothing that transpires around them.
As I engage one of the traders in conversation, feigning interest in some medical supplies, I probe gently for information, trying to discern their origins, their leadership, and their intentions. The trader is circumspect, revealing little, but the mere act of trading, the normalcy of it amidst chaos, speaks volumes about their organisation and ambition.
"Gold is preferred," the trader mentions offhandedly, echoing the priorities I remember from my past lives. "But we're willing to barter for anything of value."
I nod, pretending to mull over this information, my mind racing. The emphasis on gold, the structured nature of their operation—it all aligns with the patterns I've seen before. Yet, as I stand there, a part of me wonders whether we're witnessing the rise of a new order or the mere repetition of past follies.
Seizing the opportunity, I reach into my bag and pull out a small container of antibiotics, knowing their value in a world where medical supplies are as precious as gold. The trader's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of genuine interest cutting through the practised neutrality of his demeanour.
"These are hard to come by," I say, holding the container with a steady hand. "I'm willing to trade, but I'm not looking for goods."
The trader leans in, curiosity piqued. "What are you looking for, then?" he asks, his voice a careful blend of suspicion and intrigue.
"Information," I state firmly, locking eyes with him. "I want to know about any existing government or military forces still in operation. Have they established any kind of order, any safe zones?"
The trader hesitates, weighing his options. After a brief moment of contemplation, he gestures for me to follow him to a quieter corner of the square, away from prying ears. Once we're sufficiently isolated, he speaks in a low, cautious tone.
"There's talk of a temporary government set up in Busan," he reveals, his eyes scanning our surroundings to ensure our conversation remains confidential. "They've managed to secure a portion of the city, establish some semblance of order. There's military presence there, yes, but how much power they truly wield is up for debate."
My heart pounds with a mix of apprehension and vindication. This information confirms my suspicions and hints at a possible haven, a centre of stability in the chaos. "Is it safe to approach?" I press, eager to learn more.
"The road to Busan is fraught with danger," the trader warns. "Bandits, infected zones, and remnants of hostile factions. But if you're determined, it might be worth the risk. The government is offering refuge, resources, even attempting to rebuild. For a price, of course."
I nod, processing the information, the significance of this revelation shaping my thoughts.
"Before we conclude our trade," I begin, adopting a casual tone to mask the intensity of my curiosity, "I have one more question for you."
The trader nods, his expression guarded yet expectant, sensing perhaps that this exchange is about more than mere goods or information.
"There have been rumours," I continue, watching his face for any flicker of recognition, "of groups, organised and armed, moving through the area with a specific purpose—clearing out the infected. Have you heard anything about this? Encountered any such groups in your travels?"
For a moment, the trader's eyes narrow, and I sense him sifting through his memories, evaluating what he knows—or what he's willing to share. Then, with a slight shake of his head, he responds, his voice tinged with a hint of caution.
"We come across all sorts of stories in our line of work," he says carefully. "Tales of heroes and villains, survivors banding together or turning on each other. But as for a group dedicated to clearing the infected... I can't say we've encountered them or heard anything concrete. These lands are vast, and while we travel extensively, we're but a few in the grand scheme of things."
His answer, delivered with a measured sincerity, leaves me pondering. It's possible he truly knows nothing, that such groups operate in secrecy or outside the traders' usual routes. Or perhaps he's withholding, wary of revealing too much to a stranger.
"Thank you," I reply, concealing my disappointment. "Your insights are valuable, nonetheless."