NTN 01

Chapter 01

Collective Marriage

The activity center on Level 495, Section C had a dull green-gray exterior scrawled with all kinds of graffiti.

Seven or so girls stepped inside, their faces tinged with excitement, anticipation, or nervousness.

Their clothing was simple—navy, black, white, or green—and plain in style. But each of them, in the freshness of youth, was strikingly beautiful in her own way.

All eyes were fixed on the single display screen that served the entire floor. The girl standing at the front finally murmured, unable to hold back:

“I wonder what kind of husband the company will assign me.”

“Personality’s what matters,” replied the girl beside her, biting her lower lip. She wore a green top and navy pants.

As second-generation citizens in a world where gene-enhancement drugs were common, they didn’t worry about their future husbands’ looks or height—those were guaranteed to be at least above average.

“Don’t forget,” the first girl added, glancing at the others, “collective marriage includes not only people our age but also widowers. Some of them never had gene treatments as embryos and could be fifty or older, with plenty of defects.”

Their corporation enforced strict rules to ensure enough newborns:

Anyone who reaches twenty years of age, graduates from a higher-education institute, or lacks a chosen partner must accept a company-assigned collective marriage. Refusal brings punishment from the Order Supervision Department: first-time offenders lose energy rations and contribution points; repeat offenders are expelled and left to survive—or perish—in Ashland.

Similarly, anyone under sixty who lost a spouse and remained childless three years later was forced into the collective-marriage pool.

“Setting those cases aside,” another girl joked, “don’t we all hope our future husbands come from an M-class household?”

Inside the company there were three ranks.

• D-class: workers from D1 to D9.

• M-class: managers, from M1 section chiefs to M3 board members and senior scientists.

• Big Boss: a single mysterious woman known only by that title—no letter codes, nothing else.

The girl in green and navy made a face.
“Have you ever heard of an ordinary person being matched with someone from the 346th to 349th floors?”

Those levels were reserved for M-class managers: abundant energy supply, apartments ten times the size of a regular worker’s, their own elevators and systems for water, air, drainage, even schooling. Their children rarely mixed with those of ordinary employees—except at the single university on Level 350.

Ordinary kids had to pass exams to work or attend university. Managerial children didn’t.

Naturally, everyone dreamed of becoming a manager or marrying into that circle.
As for the Big Boss, common workers never even glimpsed her face; they heard her voice only during the New Year or in times of major crisis. Few dared to hope of catching her notice.

The girl in front laughed.
“See? I keep telling you—date while you’re still in school. Look at Jin Gabi: her husband got assigned to the Materials Department the moment they graduated. He’s obviously from a powerful family!”

“Jo Yeoreum, that’s rich coming from you. Why didn’t you date?” another teased.

“You must be new here,” Jo Yeoreum said with a grin. “Talking big is what I’m best at.”

Laughter rippled through the group. Then the green-clad girl asked curiously,
“Yeoreum, do you know what grade Gabi’s husband’s family is? You’re pretty close to her.”

Yeoreum glanced around and lowered her voice.
“I heard he’s the chief of the Safety Department’s operations unit.”

“Wow…” The girls gasped in admiration.

Just then, a group of young men entered the activity center. The two groups eyed each other briefly, then looked away, embarrassed. No one knew whether their future spouse was standing across from them.

One man—about 175 centimeters tall, hair cropped short—took in the old tables and benches scattered around. Nervously, he whispered to the companion beside him:
“Seong Geon-woo, what do you think my assigned wife will look like?”

His friend was taller—around 185 centimeters—with straight brows and bright brown eyes. His sharp features were half hidden by slightly tousled black hair. Dressed in a deep-navy suit that strained around his muscular arms, he exuded an easy masculinity.

“It’s better to ask after you’re assigned,” Geon-woo replied evenly.

“Ha, surely my luck won’t be that bad! This time there are only two more men than women,” the shorter man said with a laugh, but his expression soon clouded.
“What if she doesn’t like me? Even with gene treatment I’m only 175 centimeters, not especially handsome, grades just average…”

“That’s not what matters,” Geon-woo said seriously. “What matters is your name.”

“My name? Yong Yeo-hong? What about it? It combines my father’s surname Yong and a character from my mother’s name—meaningful and nice, right?”

He muttered, puzzled.
“Anyway, collective marriage doesn’t care about height or looks. Rumor says they just screen out blood relatives and assign partners randomly. But—what if my feminine-sounding name makes them think I’m a woman and pair me with a husband? What then?”

Geon-woo gave him a once-over and said dryly,
“Artificial womb, nerve reconstruction, transplanted reproductive organs—problem solved.”

Yeo-hong laughed awkwardly.
“Ha ha, as if! The company doesn’t make mistakes like that. All my records say male. You’re the weird one, Geon-woo. Most people would talk about filing an appeal against a bad match.”

Before Geon-woo could reply, Yeo-hong pressed on.
“So why is my name so important?”

“A name represents a person’s fate,” Geon-woo said calmly. “Your partner’s random assignment depends on that fate.”

Yeo-hong narrowed his eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t have anything constructive to say.” Then he asked,
“What about you? What kind of wife do you want?”

“I don’t need one,” Geon-woo said, lifting his chin slightly.
“The company’s resources are strained, and humanity in Ashland still faces disaster—famine, infections, mutations, people turning into beasts. How could I think about marriage?”

Yeo-hong chuckled in disbelief.
“Your jokes are getting better.”

But Geon-woo’s face stayed serious.
“I already applied to forgo the collective marriage.”

“Seriously? The company would never approve that! Ha—almost had me for a second.” Yeo-hong exhaled in relief.

At that moment, Jin Hyun-oh, the elder overseeing the Level 495 activity center, stepped to the screen’s control pad. His hair was streaked with gray, his gait slightly unsteady. Once a Safety Department operative and long-time D7 team leader, he’d retired from field work and moved up to D8 administration to manage the center.

Geon-woo and Yeo-hong had always been curious about his past and often came by to ask questions, but Hyun-oh strictly followed confidentiality rules. Like most ordinary workers—born, educated, employed, and aged entirely within the underground complex—he had never seen the true sky and spoke only of widely known facts.

“All right, let’s begin,” Hyun-oh said.

He pressed a button on the control pad. The screen flickered and began to glow faintly.

Everyone—Yeo-hong, Jo Yeoreum, and the others—gasped and held their breath as they waited for the pairings.

They didn’t need to worry about missing their own names as the results scrolled past; each activity center displayed only the matches for its own floor.

END