Chapter 302
Chapter 302
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (7)
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After shoving the thought of my friend turning into a money-devouring monster to the back of my mind, the next day I enjoyed a pleasant tea time with the lord of Kalashan and his daughters.
“...Baron. I must have misheard you. Are we really talking about crossing the Great Desert right now?”
“Hahaha. You must be someone who’s never experienced the desert. Yes, that’s correct, Saint. You cross the eastern Great Desert by ship.”
The baron, who seemed quite pleased with our conversation from last night’s tea time, brought up my request before the pork had even cooled at breakfast.
“The sands of the Great Desert are as soft as silk and as hot as lava. If you try going by horse and carriage, you’ll hear the sizzle of heated horseshoes against hooves. For small caravans of ten or fewer, they tame a unique creature called the desert scarab beetle for travel. Anything larger, and they use sandships that glide across the dunes.”
“Desert scarab beetles and sandships...”
I’d vaguely pictured camels when thinking of a desert, so the baron’s explanation of transport came as quite a surprise.
From what he described, the desert here was far—*far*—hotter than I’d imagined, an absolute hellscape utterly unfit for flesh-and-blood creatures to tread. Especially the radiant heat from the sun-baked sands—it could cook your eyeballs just looking down at the ground.
To counter this, they tamed desert scarab beetles, which layered multiple air pockets inside their bodies and spread vast wings to shade and cool themselves while walking. Or they sailed ships that rode the wind across the sands like flowing water.
“Your sainthood aside, desert scarab beetles require special training and magical treatments that clash with holy power, so a cleric like yourself couldn’t ride one. The Great Desert is also full of dangerous creatures, making ships superior in comfort, speed, and safety. We’ll provide the ship and crew—your group just needs to sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“Hmm. I misjudged you as a materialistic sort at first glance, Baron. I should apologize now. This is exceedingly kind and gracious of you.”
“Hahaha! Nonsense! Sir Daflyn of the Selmeier family is a fine knight whose name is known even in Teldrat, isn’t he? It would besmirch Kalashan’s reputation to skimp on hospitality for such an upstanding young scion from a fine house.”
“Haha. I never dreamed a small connection from the Empire would reach all the way to Teldrat. I hope today’s bond leads to laughter shared with others.”
It seemed the letter I’d written for him during the shift from tea time to alcohol time had really won him over. Well, the knights from Stormhill were young members of a fairly renowned order. They were the ones who’d carried the Saintess’s soul as the ‘Guardians of the Saintess of Mercy’ and etched their names at the top. With so many capital orders shattered by the recent upheaval, border knights had ample chance to rise to the center. I’d introduced him to some promising talents, after all.
We got transport across the desert, supplies, and twenty-odd crewmen.
The baron got a letter of introduction personally signed by the Saint of Light—rumored Empress Maker and a figure near founding merit of the Empire.
‘Not a bad deal at all. If the baron or his three daughters had been fools, they might’ve pushed for more, but they didn’t cross that line. Sharp, good at reading the room—a fine noble. No regrets on my end for making the intro.’
Satisfied smiles played on the lips of the baron toasting cheers and the Professor raising his glass in return.
*Zing—!*
Sailing the desert. Honestly, I couldn’t hide my excitement.
****
“Latura. May radiance light the baron’s path ahead.”
“Hahaha. May all your endeavors succeed as well, Saint! Latura!”
After bidding the baron farewell with thanks, the Professor led the group following the steward to where the ship awaited.
Riding the baron’s carriage through the vast Kalashan territory, the exotic scenery—different from Lordric’s—gradually shifted to hot winds laced with the scent of sand.
*Whoosh!*
At the territory’s edge, passing through thin yet tall walls for a fortress gate, the Professor squinted against the sudden blaze of light.
Emerging from the walls’ shadow brought scorching sun, blistering desert heat, and an endless, writhing expanse of red sands like a living thing.
“The name Great Desert isn’t just for show...”
“To think land could be this parched. It feels... strangely off...”
“Ugh... Hot.”
*Crunch, crunch—*
Overwhelmed by the heat and vastness, the Professor, Ottman, and Notum stood stunned, while Idrasil pulled out her sketchbook to draw the group facing the desert. Watching our awe, the steward produced white robes—one for each of us.
“A moment. Staring with the naked eye too long can damage your vision. These are more useful in the desert than standard traveler robes—please change into them.”
“Mmm. Much obliged.”
The Professor changed from his travel clothes into the steward’s offered garb, drinking in the rippling desert vista.
It was uncanny. Kalashan territory was cool enough for bumper wheat harvests, yet just beyond lay this furnace of a wasteland. Even high walls casting shade didn’t make it natural.
“Does that wall hold some mighty magic? Or is the whole territory blessed with abundance...?”
“Both. The walls bear the blessing of the west wind, and the land has been sanctified by priests of plenty. But most folk here, myself included, believe it’s because Kalashan escaped an ancient god’s wrath.”
“A god’s... wrath?”
‘This feels like key info.’
[From what we’ve seen so far?]
The Professor perked up at the steward’s offhand remark, asking for more details. Sadly, the steward didn’t know much.
“It’s no grand tale—just a bit of oral lore. They say the Great Desert was scorched by a long-vanished god’s fury in an age before history’s records. No one knows why or how, but locals believe this spot right before Kalashan was the edge of that wrath’s domain.”
“A god’s wrath...”
Note that down. Come to think of it, they called the desert natives ‘ancient humans’ or something. Might be connected.
“What you’re seeing now, Saint, isn’t the true Great Desert—just land thickly blanketed by wind-blown sands. It’s neither this flat nor mild enough to shrug off as ‘hot.’ Cross those distant high dunes yonder, and you’ll behold the desert’s real face.”
“That’ll be something. Expectations all around.”
“Remember: the desert is beautiful, but it rarely grants the chance to savor that beauty. We’ve arrived while chatting. Carriages can’t go farther—you’ll need to walk from here. This way.”
The steward, experienced at guiding desert newbies, draped turban-mantle combos over the dazed Ottman and Idrasil’s heads and adroitly fitted a near-tent-sized cloak over Notum.
*Thud.*
“Whoa there.”
“Spare shoes are aboard. If you must walk the sands, don’t stride—glide like on a shallow frozen river.”
Stepping from the carriage, unfamiliar sensations and hot sand invading shoes hit our legs.
I’d figured a desert like a real-world wasteland, but no.
‘The sand’s lighter, slipperier.’
Coarser grains? Looser packed?
Wasteland sand sank a bit then compacted to support your foot. Here, far less so.
Only Idrasil, used to nimbly navigating fragile branches, walked the sands easily; the other three waddled, adapting to the yielding grains.
Following a half-buried path led to a half-buried workshop.
“Two—three! Pull!”
“Pullleeeeeee!!!!”
*Creak! Grriiind!*
“Who the hell tied the shade cloth so tight?! Which moron loaded extra cargo?!”
*Thud thud!*
*Whack!*
Sounds of wooden mallets on timber, thick tarred ropes yanked by bellowing men, casual violence flying.
I’d imagined windsurfing-scale for a ‘ship,’ but this... way off.
“Please convey my deepest gratitude to the lord.”
The steward bowed deeply in reply.
A ship. A massive wooden vessel.
While Idrasil, arriving first, surveyed the workshop atop a sandstone hill, Ottman and Notum’s reactions climbing slowly matched mine.
“A... ship.”
“Indeed. The kind we know.”
“In a place without a drop of water, ‘ship’—I thought maybe a similar-sounding word... But it’s literally a ship.”
“Looks a bit different from regular ones here and there, but yes. We’re really sailing on a proper ship.”
Ottman gawked up at the sudden shade and its source: a hulking timber structure.
Towering sandstone hill, ski-slope-like dunes below. Atop it, the ship fluttered the Radiant Church’s flag amid rough men shouting.
A broad, hefty vessel with three large sails.
“Allow me to introduce: Kalashan’s pride, the mighty ship that embraces the wind to sail the sands. The *Dry Oasis*.”
Incredibly, the baron had provided a genuine Age of Sail galleon for our desert crossing.
****
“Ugh! So you’re the Saint of Light boarding our ship?”
After the steward’s final words and departure, a man who’d been shouting atop the deck earlier descended, as if waiting.
“Eh, greetings anyway. Deck master Gallard here. Just to warn ya, don’t let the captain yap about ship stuff like he knows it all—I’ll preempt that.”
“No, wait...”
“The Great Desert ain’t like your solid ground or real oceans. Fall in water, you swim out; fall in desert sand, your skin peels off like a lightly boiled lizard. We sail sands between villages without disembarking—like the sea.”
“Wait, hold on...”
“Desert ‘monsters’ are all house-sized, so battles erupt on deck anytime. Get it? Narrow space, limited resources, constant fights crossing burning sands—that’s sandship life. Desert ships have stricter rules than ocean ones. If some clueless rich fool pays up and starts ‘listen to me, peasants/nobles’ crap, you’ll end up as anonymous sand grains...”
“Exactly! The Saint ain’t this old coot—it’s that big lug over there!”
“...What?”
Ottman spotted the sailor growling at him making the same mistake as everyone else and jabbed a finger at the true target.
“Gahhh!!”
“Oh, he’s hoisting! Bix! Rope! Sails upppp!”
*Flutter—creeeak!*
“Whoa! Sails up in one go!”
“Wahaha! Hey, flatlander! Serious about crewing? Better than thirty louts!”
Right after the steward left, the man who’d approached the ship with sparkling eyes single-handedly raised a repaired sail and hung it on the mast.
Chiseled muscles, scars rougher than any sailor’s, already tussling with crew in the sand.
“...A cleric?”
*Nod nod.*
The deck master, inwardly approving of the outsider deeply inhaling sand-laced wind unlike a newbie, struggled with the old man’s explanation.
In his forty years born and bred on desert ships, clerics were either creepy or frail sermon-spouters unable to lift a spoon.
“Hurry it up! Sailors this sluggish? Sun climbs, heat worsens—let’s shove off before!”
“Kahaha! Born sailor!”
“Cargo’s loaded—go fetch your high-and-mighty!”
“I’m the highest here, punk!”
“Kuhahaha! Jokes on point too! Right! On ship, best worker and drinker’s king! Kahahaha!”
Strong, fit, boisterous cleric. Not just any—a famed holy figure even these sailors knew by name.
“A saint more sailor than sailors, a talking troll, an elf in bladegrass-less sands. Your crew... what the hell are you doing out here?”
“Erm... Saving the world, looks like. For now.”
Gallard, seeing such oddballs first in forty years, recalled their explainer was a mage—universally shunned everywhere.
A mage looking most normal. World’s gone mad.
*Pat pat.*
“I get it. I truly do— that bewildered heart.”
“Uh... Mr. Mage, forgive my ignorance of faiths, but...”
“Don’t ask, don’t judge. They’ll drag in more unknowns we can’t grasp. Don’t understand—just adapt.”
Patting the confused sailor’s face while reminiscing, Ottman felt a twinge of pride in his own adaptation and pulled a grayish potion from his pouch.
“You’ll know when the time comes. If booze runs dry, drink this.”
Ottman clapped the deck master’s shoulder knowingly as the man dazedly took the potion, then brushed past toward the ship.
“All aboard! Noon wind max—before it’s gone!”
Today’s launch prep, thought till sunset, was done. Gallard swallowed anxiety and dashed shipward.
“Cast off!”
At the captain’s order, mooring lines snapped; the *Dry Oasis* slid down the dune, gaining speed on the slope.
*Whiiiir! Flutter!*
Three sails unfurled on cue, catching desert wind to surge forward.
As the ship set off and the captain sought the VIP guest amid route checks...
“That’s it! Knew it!”
“Told ya—not just strong, sharp too! Hey, ogre! Pass that rope, come meet us!”
“Bodyguard knight? Not holy... Merc? Merc vibe. Anyway, we’ll see you awhile—greetings! Drink? Bald cactus brew, desert exclusive...”
“Sailor blood in ya! Knew from eyes unflinching in sandstorm! That sand-in-lungs thrill-lover face! Hey, post-escort gig? Sail with us!”
Already the crew’s darling with ‘Ogre’ nickname, the Professor fielded their hearty greetings and recruitment pitches below deck.
In grueling sand-sailing—daily toil, blazing sun, giant desert beasts—the more sturdy hands like the Professor, the better survival odds. That was it.
****