Chapter 303
Chapter 303
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (8)
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Splashhh—thud! Splashhh—thud!
The sound of the boat slicing through sand as it bumped into a small dune.
“Sail—hooo! Swing her into the wind!”
“Aye aye! Lifting the boat’s armpits!”
“Any of you slimy bastards chasing shade, I’ll personally hang you from the prow myself!”
The patter of feet running along the gunwales and the helmsman’s calls. The boatswain’s voice berating the crew amid the sweltering heat that felt like it could topple you over.
Under the scorching sun, the two helmsmen squinted and sweated buckets as they cranked the wheel with all their might, turning the massive rudder fins at the stern.
The boat banked hard into the wind, and sand grains leaped up in its wake, spraying over the gunwales like waves.
“Argh! Hot!”
“Damn it! Told the wife if she came back with sand in her hair one more time, no more sleeping together!”
“Uhahahak! If you hate sand marks, you shouldn’t marry a navigator!”
“Ease off the boat a bit! Please!”
“Ease off and it ain’t a sand boat no more!”
The crew’s screams as hot sand dumped over them. Sand whipped up by the wind.
Amid the sailors’ curses echoing across the gunwales and the gritty, parched air filling his lungs....
“Ah, this is nice.”
It almost felt like a real vacation.
---------
- Jokasss: ....Nice? That?
- Take a Look: What the hell?
- Professor: You wouldn’t get it. Mmm~ Wasteland scent~
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Yeah. That raspy feeling in his throat with every breath. Dust smell, even a touch of motion sickness!
Ignoring the chat room buzzing with “The madman’s not even hiding his madness anymore—,” Professor took in the vast desert stretching before him and the boat’s motion.
It was spot-on wasteland vibes. Constant sandstorms in the wasteland, no waves here but ripples in the wind forming on small dunes, the boat jolting with each thump—pure emergency stops and starts like wasteland vehicles in combat maneuvers. The crew’s bellowing even sounded like savage scavengers at first glance.
...It was crazy talk, but he loved every bit of this atmosphere.
Just recently, he’d talked with Dana about how he wanted to get out but couldn’t, so for someone realizing that, this vibe was pure healing.
He never thought he’d miss the wasteland. Over eighty percent of his memories there were pure agony, and the rest weren’t exactly blissful.
But.
It had been way too long since he’d entered GG.
People talked about some 38th District incident where he’d gone out and back, but as far as his senses went, that never happened.
Last he remembered logging out and back in was camping at the Blue Line Elf village entrance, around early autumn when the winds first turned chilly.
From autumn to winter, and now into spring—he’d been trapped in GG all that time.
“Coming! It’s coming!!!”
“Harpooners to stations! Anyone who misses a single shot gets strung up on the prow as boat luck till you wither and die! Galak! Aktik! Get ready to drop anchor!”
“Ooh, showtime.”
In that sense, Professor was thoroughly enjoying this unexpected vacation during the journey.
Great vibe~
Fwooooosh—!
Boom!
Plenty to watch, too.
Just as the crew barely finished prepping, the fast-approaching sandstorm quieted. A brief silence shattered as an explosion engulfed the starboard side below, something bursting through the swollen sand and slamming into the boat.
“Fire! Launch the harpoons!!!!”
Thung! Thung-thung! Thung!
“Anchor! She’s dragging! Anchor, what are you waiting for! Drop it now!!!”
The second such sight today. A sort of initiation rite... or so they treated it: a sand shark.
The burly helmsman wrenched the boat aside with arm-popping force, letting the shark’s massive jaws just graze the gunwale. The harpooners seized the moment, firing ballistae to drive stake-sized spears into its flank.
The thick ropes tied to the spears went taut, and just in time, the anchor plunged into a sandbar, halting the boat as the thrashing shark tried to drag it.
Tadadak!
The crew, who’d been waiting for this, raced along the ropes, leaped onto the sand shark’s back, and expertly slit the massive creature’s throat.
“Krrgh. Quite the spectacle. No wonder they said they didn’t need help from guests—they’ve got the skills.”
“Hmm. Undoubtedly highly seasoned sailors. And now I see the boat’s built perfectly to counter these things. But... shouldn’t you help out? You seemed friendly with the crew earlier....”
“Nah, suddenly they don’t want me to. Something happened. Anyway, captain said rest, so I rest. Can’t disobey the captain on his own ship, guest or not. There’s order here.”
The boat steadied after shaking like an earthquake, and as the crew raised bloodied spears and swords in cheers, Professor turned to Ottman, who looked thoroughly pleased beside him.
“Honestly didn’t expect you to enjoy the desert this much, Ottman. Thought the environment would dry you out like a shriveled jellyfish hanging under the prow.”
“I steeled myself for that... but I feel more energetic than back in the Empire. Bizarre. Truly bizarre....”
“Well, good’s good. Speaking of, isn’t the sea your core magical imagery, Ottman? That... what was it?”
“Right. Ever since I first encountered the sea as a young man, I’ve been hooked, can’t escape even now. So my mage name’s River Mage, but my imagery’s all sea-linked, turning me into a freakish sea mage.”
“Huh? River Mage? You had that?”
“Didn’t I mention it in Tobrun? It’s just a fancy title for mages anyway.”
[Oh, right. Yeah, when we first met, he introduced himself that way in Tobrun.]
Hyde dredged up the memory, and it rang a faint bell. He was always going on about the sea, my lover~ so Professor assumed it was a sea-related title. Guess it wasn’t originally.
“Hmm, anyway. They call this the Great Desert, but the environment we’re facing now ain’t much different from the sea, so maybe that... uh... feeling? Magical imagery thing? Otherwise, no way you’d be this spry.”
“Somehow different... Hmm. No idea. Either way, it’s a magically unique experience.”
Beyond just fine, Ottman looked a decade younger, full of vigor. He’d just come from tending to Idrasil and Notum, who’d collapsed below deck. Hmm... weird. In this bone-dry Great Desert with not a drop of moisture for water magic, a water mage to his core like Ottman was thriving. Even sturdy Notum and unflappable Idrasil were seasick and delirious.
“What’s that in your hand? Trash?”
“Dried puke. Never thought I’d see an elf and troll barfing up a storm together.”
“Hmm... fair. An elf in this grassless wasteland is weirder. Forest troll goes without saying. Not good. That bad seasick, dehydration’ll hit fast. Water’s rationed per person, right? Hmm... if there was even a hint of humid air, I could gather some moisture....”
“No worries on dehydration. I returned it all.”
“....Pardon?”
Returned it? What?
Puzzled by Ottman’s words, Professor glanced at the bucket he held.
Half-digested breakfast—dried to a crisp. Dried?
“No, Ottman. You didn’t.”
“Hmm... no choice, right? Even a 5th-circle water mage has to go all-out here just to gather a handful. Gotta use any moisture available.”
“....Keep it secret from the kids.”
Realizing the horrific “care” Ottman had given under nursing pretense, Professor snatched the bucket lest anyone see and scattered the contents into the desert.
“Mm. Looks like we’re almost there. Shall we head down?”
“Yeah. Captain said stay back and rest, but watching them toil feels awkward. Plus, stuff I wanna check personally.”
“Check...”
“As always, anything suspicious.”
New region that looked peaceful at a glance, crawling with monsters way above Lordric North level—bound to be issues.
Plenty of shady intel from the desert entrance alone; couldn’t just play around.
Professor and Ottman stepped out from the rudder fin’s shade into the suffocating sunlight.
****
Every breath felt like inhaling smoke from a fire as he descended to the deck. By now, the crew had hauled the sand shark aboard and were draining its blood.
“Sa-Saint!”
“Eek! Oh dear, where’s the booze... spit!”
“Urk, don’t push! If there’s booze, gimme a few drops. Oh man... spit!”
A far cry from their first meeting’s easy camaraderie, hoisting him up like an old drinking buddy. Professor eyed the crew parting left and right suspiciously as he walked toward the suspended shark.
“Fine hunt, Captain.”
“Ah, the Saint. Thanks. Good weather today— these bastards are swarming.”
“Sounds like good news?”
“It is. Crew works hard, but its blood’s drinkable. Meat dries well, and as a hot-sand swimmer, its hide blocks heat superbly. Nothing wasted.”
Captain Harat Avery, experienced with noble passengers, greeted him politely yet with the same unease as the crew.
‘...Uncanny expression. Crew and captain alike.’
No hostility, but heavy aversion. Some even looked apologetic.
Less like they wanted to fight him, more like it was just natural. Especially the odd gestures. As he approached, they backed off, dipped fingers in booze to smear foreheads, stomped in place three times, then spat.
If fighting, they’d glance at hip swords, not do that clownish ritual.
‘...Ritual? Superstition? Sailor-like... Did the Church of Light ever mess with the desert?’
The change hit after departure, when the captain sought guests and yelled “Saint!” It was nearby, so aimed at crew below deck playing with him, including some.
‘No signals or whispers caught. So natural reaction, aversion so ingrained in sailors....’
First odd behavior, he’d demanded explanation, but a shout from the mainmast spotting the shark delayed it.
‘Rested enough. Time to work.’
From experience, this tied to some event or info.
“Don’t seem like enemies... but do sailors here hate clerics?”
“Hmm.”
The direct hit creased the captain’s brow.
“...You noticed.”
“Well, not threatening or anything. Makes sense some hate ‘em. Not everyone trusts Lo Haram. So, which church? Mercy’s reconciled dramatically lately—no real foes for Light. Courage? Wisdom? Or... sacrificing in Great Desert corners to summon demons?”
Emphasizing the last with serious eyes, the captain looked more troubled and spoke.
“Ugh... misunderstanding. We’ve nothing to do with—”
“But you act like you can’t say unrelated. Who hates clerics without reason besides evil cults? If more, I wanna know.”
“Saint... you exceed our wildest imaginings from the start... and temperament too.”
Tension rising, crew edged back, hands inching to swords and harpoons. Shark blood drying on gunwales, moisture gleaming at Ottman’s feet a bit away.
“...Not pursuing evil. Nor serving other churches, nor grudge against your god.”
“Then...?”
“Fuuu. Frankly, obvious how a cleric’d take it, so I dodged...”
Calming crew with a hand, captain reluctantly spoke, as if distasteful.
“The desert... has taboos. Like sailors saying women aboard’s bad luck, kids bring kraken with milk scent—desert has its laws.”
“Laws...”
“Ahem... Saying this means no sailing awhile after, but we know how Light treats heretics. No choice. Listen once: in desert... tangling with clerics is grave taboo.”
“H-He said it!” “Damn, thanks for everything, Captain! Next voyage, I’m on another boat!”
Murmurs rippled.
Trivial to Professor, but crew recoiled like seeing child-eating beasts.
“That’s... it? Just Great Desert tradition? Don’t befriend clerics? Who started it, when?”
“When desert sands were giant rocks. Ancient as man can count, passed mouth to mouth. Outsiders can’t grasp—don’t underestimate. Taboo-breakers... suffer horrific misfortune.”
As captain delved into taboos, crew fled below deck. Stomping sounds—doing that ritual.
“This desert kingdom atones under old gods’ wrath—traveling with foreign god’s seed flees sin, betrays Him... may gentlest death claim the betrayer...”
“Captain...”
“St-Stop! No prayers for me! Any divine power here brings taboo judgment on all aboard! I-I haven’t touched it yet, still hope—please... no divine power....”
Stoic effort crumbling; from naming taboo, captain trembled in fear.
Holy taboo: avoid all clerics, regardless of church.
Taboo: don’t speak it.
No curse or black magic vibe a cleric could sense, oral tradition predating 3rd World history—Great Desert rule.
‘Old god. Butler mentioned sun god. Captain’s taboo master: old god. Rejecting inner lands’ holy power, ancient god; desert kingdom atoning to ancient god....’
Sailors superstitious, sure. But crew fleeing shark after captain’s word? Not mere superstition.
.
.
.
.
Clap!
Professor clapped to lighten mood, shook head resignedly at captain.
“Fine. No divine power, as you say.”
“R-Really? They say sharing god’s power’s like breathing for foreign seeds—especially highest like you....”
“As Lo Haram’s tool, I swear by His name: Saint Professor vows no divine power in Great Desert, for any reason.”
[Not like you can anyway?]
‘Gotta, or captain’ll cry.’
Swearing by god’s name, captain finally relaxed, slumping on deck stairs.
“Ca-Captain!”
“Avery! You, for us....!”
“River, Kaiam. Thanks all these years. End this voyage, you first mate’ll helm....”
“Sniff! Knew it—that baron bug called guests ‘honored’! Told you no guests this time!”
“No choice. Last voyage failed—if no guests now, sell boat, all homeless. Ends with me, voyage safe. Only way all happy.”
“Waaah! Captain!”
Hearing oath, crew rushed back from below, hugging captain, smearing booze on his forehead.
Ottman, prepped for fight, gaped bewildered.
“What’d you say to crumble that sturdy captain? Why the crew acting up?”
“Uh... nothing much. Talking to me in desert kills you. Some ancient forgotten god sends ‘gentlest death.’”
Ottman pondered, paled, dry old fingers sealing his mouth. Meanwhile, Professor mulled thick intel pouring like sweet potato vines from Teldrat here.
Old god. Or sun god.
Odd desert environment.
Taboo. Cleric aversion. And....
Sniff sniff sniff.
“Hmm... anyone hands touched by sand shark blood?”
“...”
“Eep....”
“No answer? I’ll blast divine power visible across Great Desert—”
“M-Me!”
“Me too! Precious drink, minimized flow but some splashed....”
“Okay, you two. Freeze.”
Professor nicked finger for blood, flicked drops at them.
“If fever or numb toes-up, come immediately.”
“...Foreign god’s curse?”
As two, touched unknowingly by cleric blood, wailed about taboo mark, terrified sailor’s question got Professor’s frown.
“Not curse—treatment.”
“Treatment? Drank shark blood on voyages, fine always....”
“Was. Won’t be now.”
Faint but nauseatingly sweet in shark blood.
Aroma energizing just by smell—Professor grinned brightly at fearful crew.
“Looks like a very, very fun voyage. No, sailing.”
That scent—from Empire to Lordric fronts, showed no activity.
Mutation Blood’s blood scent.
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