Chapter 304
Chapter 304
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (9)
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Puk. Pssh! Slash—
“Quicksand?”
“That’s what they call it. The softest death. Sinking sand that pursues from behind... The executor of taboos is a judge no one living atop this sand can escape. The desert itself. Anyone who sets foot in this desert can’t evade the pursuit of the quicksand. Unless they’re already outside the desert, if they break a taboo inside it, there’s only one way to survive. Live your whole life on solid rock. If you break a taboo and walk on the sand, at some point the quicksand will catch your ankle and drag you into the depths. That’s why I’ve heard there’s a massive rock somewhere in the desert where taboo-breakers gather. Of course, now I’m in the position of having to head there myself...”
Slash. Shhh—thud.
“Quicksand. Quicksand... That thing can move? If you break a taboo, it knows and chases after that person?”
“The desert is a place in constant motion by nature. Not even a single grain of sand stays still. If the entire desert moves like that, why would the quicksand be any different?”
“...Then isn’t this ship in danger right now too? I don’t know the scale, but if it’s that much of a judge, this barely-floating ship seems like it could sink any moment.”
“It’s fine for now. I’ve heard the pursuit of taboos starts from outside the desert and chases inward. That’s why we haven’t turned the ship around. If this voyage drags on longer than expected and we can visually confirm the quicksand’s pursuit... Then I’ll have to jump off the ship. Otherwise, everyone here will sink into the sand along with it.”
“Hmm. I see...”
The Professor paused his disassembly of the sand shark, sheathing his knife momentarily as he pondered the captain’s explanation of the taboo’s pursuer.
First, the tone. It felt less like something he’d witnessed firsthand and more like hearsay—“they say it’s like this.”
It didn’t sound like a description from the captain’s own experience, but rather relaying what someone else had told him.
In fact, the custom of shunning priests felt oddly out of place. In these parched lands, it wouldn’t be strange if people not only revered priests but kidnapped and imprisoned them out of desperation. Yet here was a taboo against getting involved with them.
Think about it. We encountered two house-sized sand sharks just one day after entering the desert. The ship I’m on, the Dry Oasis, was specially built to handle situations like this from the start, and the crew aren’t ordinary hands either, so we got through without much damage. But if this happens every day? The locals here wouldn’t just brush past those monsters a couple times without injury. And if injured? Can they even treat it properly? Do these barren lands produce enough medicinal herbs to cover all those casualties?
That’s why desperate regions usually welcome priests—the ultimate cure-all—with open arms. No matter how much the village elders scream, “Don’t tangle with the seeds of outer gods; you’ll be cursed—,” when your parents or siblings are dying from a rotting broken leg right in front of you, after a lifetime of burying the dead that way... People live in the present reality. So a taboo passed down only by word of mouth should fade with time.
However—
“Ugh... I think I need a smaller knife. Hey~ anyone got a dagger~?”
“Eek! Th-the saint made eye contact!”
“Gellam, get out there quick, you idiot! You’ve already touched the outer god’s blood, so you’re taboo bait anyway!”
“N-no! J-just one drop of blood doesn’t count as taboo...!”
Twirl. Rustle. Hack—spit!
...Watching that scene made it clear the taboo hadn’t faded with time—it had burrowed deep into their bones.
An inconvenient ancient taboo that should have withered away by now. Its survival meant some kind of reinforcement. It wasn’t just words; there were events proving it as fact.
In other words, the captain hadn’t seen it himself. But someone had observed taboo-breakers being pursued by the quicksand. And frequently enough to keep the taboo vivid over long ages.
‘...So it’s not just superstition. Moving quicksand. A force that reacts on an environmental scale to specific targets and taboo acts...’
Damn. The Empire at least had a subtle burning vibe from the start, but this desert was outright screaming “something monstrous lurks here~” right off the bat.
“The great desert and taboos. Ancient kingdoms destroyed by the wrath of old gods, ancient humans. Quite the saga.”
I’ve got enough 3rd-world experience now to have seen this coming. From entrance-level monsters bursting out to an extreme environment that turns a misstep into sand-fried human, I’d long expected this place to be tuned for late-game specs. Blame past-Professor for falling hook, line, and sinker for Laxasha’s temptation.
But Mutants are involved here. Those guys who’d gone quiet in the Empire—what were they up to? And now they’re suddenly showing their tails in the desert...
Clunk.
The Professor set his blood-and-fat-coated scimitar on the railing, tilting his head at the decently disassembled sand shark.
The unmistakable scent of Mutant blood. As expected from plague-like bastards, the 3rd-world’s main antagonists had reached the great desert.
‘But is this really the Queen’s creation?’
The Mutant blood scent was definite, but way too faint.
At first, he’d charged in thinking “jackpot” from the long-familiar smell. But for something starved that long, the reaction was barely “Huh? Mutant scent?” Which was odd. At that level, it was practically nonexistent.
Considering how he’d half-NPC’d via Data Soul backup, getting closer to GG’s world and more sensitive to magic and such, it meant the sand shark’s blood truly contained only trace infection factors.
And sure enough, the first one he’d caught was a clean sand shark sans Mutant scent. To figure out what this weird one—licked once by a Mutant, seemingly—was, he’d hung both on the ship’s hooks and started dissecting them himself.
If it was Queen-made, it’d be patched with advantages from other creatures. So there had to be differences somewhere.
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- Jokasss: Hey, there. That pouch. It’s where the swim bladder should be... A water sac?
- Professor: Seems like it... Oh, it burst. Actual water. About 50 liters? The crew’ll love it. Tried a piece of the meat too—fatty and umami-packed.
- Jokasss: Even with air-pocketed sand, swimming at that speed means all muscle, so of course it’s chewy. Then... That below must be the liver. Slip in underneath... Yep. Let’s slice into the liver. From the creature’s perspective, Mutant infection factors are like germs, so if we’re talking concentration, they’d pool in the liver.
- Professor: Hmm... Yeah. The faint Mutant whiff just got stronger. Not just talk, huh? Who knew I’d owe you one in my life. Sushi chef before the war?
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He hadn’t thought much at the start. If it was a Queen-spawned Mutant, it’d be Frankensteined with perks from various critters, and a true Mutant would differ clearly from a regular sand shark. No external differences visible, so check internals.
But Jokasss started backseat-directing from the knife-work, and damn if it wasn’t all spot-on.
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- Jokasss: I’m a byproducts handler now. From rodent stews to things so grotesque you question if they’re alive, I gut every mutant variant corner-to-corner, figuring what’s useful, what’s valuable, how Mutation Smiths use and sell it. Now even first-timers, I get a feel: “Around here, do this.” Proper profession. Even got a certification exam lately, like Audit Division agents.
- Professor: Ooh, pass?
- Jokasss: I’m on the exam board, asshole. A pioneer, sorta.
- Take a Look: Hot job now, sure. Used to be “suicide hopefuls only” danger pay, illegal black market grind. Pioneer? Nah, lucky bum who stumbled into it when paths were blocked.
- Jokasss: ┐(－”－)┌
- Jokasss: Anyway, expert eyes here: no anatomical oddities. Not a gene-spliced Mutant, high chance.
- Professor: True, blood too dilute for Queen’s new breed. Crew exposed showed no symptoms. Would’ve mutated eventually if left.
- Jokasss: Second one had more gut junk than first—ate something pre-ship strike. That was Mutant; surviving factors were corroding the shark mid-digestion. My take.
- Jokasss: So, still firmly sand shark category.
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Unexpected aid yielded solid evidence.
No full desert Mutant infestation to worry about. Low-grades might raise flags, but this was just a wild desert critter that ate 8-9th-grade environmental Mutes.
Of course, first monster on desert arrival being a coincidental Mutant-muncher isn’t grounds for optimism. Need more samples for certainty, but for now: Mutes moderately settled in desert fringes.
If northern permafrost is Mute force 100, desert... Excluding heavy-combat blood-thick ones, even low-resource gatherers roam... 30? Too pessimistic? 20? 15?
‘Come to think, Mutes quiet in Empire. Named casualties, but Queen not idle—Lordric western front still pushed gradually.’
Confirmed Nameds so far: Edeorna, Palkatus, Bazur. Bazur dead or season-out worst-case.
Edeorna... Recovery ongoing, estimated.
Palkatus. That tenacious, obsessive workaholic bastard wouldn’t sit after seeing wounded kin. Must’ve pulled something.
Queen, resource-strapped early, elite-focused, wouldn’t birth just three Nameds. With time/resources now? Five, six minimum.
...Troops missing. No matter the math, a huge chunk vanished.
‘Seemed Mutants aimed to seize Lordric, base for swift eastern 3-nation conquest. Lordric gasping, all-in defense... Then suddenly breathing room. Unnaturally eased.’
Means troops diverted elsewhere. Queen pumping extras via evil god altar wouldn’t slack otherwise. Circumstantially, excluding eastern-central fringe Lordric-neighbors and central-west Empire: only desert vacant. Harsh environs forgotten by inland folk.
Fact: Mutants diverted to desert.
Now, new question.
Why?
Why come?
As I headed west Empire-ward, Mutants went opposite: east great desert. With parasite Mutes spying human society, they knew my course. Me westbound, they pounced east like waiting. Avoided friction—meaning friction would derail delicate plans.
Just expanding turf/production via mass Chamber Maids?
Doubtful. Chamber Maids vital, Queen-direct produce regardless resources, but they devour mana/terrain/organics indiscriminately, spawning Mutes, devastating regions. What more to suck from already-wasted desert? Better stab eastern 3-nations elsewhere for forest scraps.
Conclusion: Not mere resources—another goal.
‘Ughhh... Roll, brain, roll... What bullshit’s Palkatus plotting... My clone-Mute’d think like me...’
Head gonna explode.
‘Hey, Hide. Clues so far?’
[Lemme see... Twisting thoughts like that. Hold on...]
Initial flood of clues from opening chaos—Hide grumbled, sorting took time.
Cooling head, shark-slicing, Hide’s organized thoughts surfaced one by one.
One: Saint-Professor, repeated Mutant plan saboteur.
True. Turan to Lordric to Storm Hills. Whenever big move, I popped up ruining it. Even Wild Cards used, still routed—fact.
Two: Palkatus, my info-based Mutant. Thinks like me, head-spinning like now. Direct beatdown carved fear of “Professor” into bones—no underestimation. Thus, my west play, their far-east invest: consciously avoiding me.
I.e., seeking uninterrupted chance. Binary: Empire route meant desert penalty. Damn game.
Three: Suuuper key. Diverted enough to loosen near-conquered Lordric’s noose, waited out strong foe’s absence—must be critical. What? What is it? What’d Palkatus find in desert?
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Lost in thought, idly working, at bone-only shark, knife-tapping Professor’s brow furrowed sharply.
“No way... That grand whatever in the desert?”
Recall: Empire proved god-altar-like power stealable via special process.
If Mutants target whatever made desert thus, moves quicksand?
.
.
.
.
Not impossible. Maybe simpler than Empire. “Old god” level forgotten. In here, blind faith = god power; that’s fallen god.
And newbie or not, Mutant Queen’s hale true evil god. Both gods, no rank gap, power edge clear.
Above all, prosperity-linked evil god Queen originally...
‘Specialized in devouring/reproducing.’
Perfect fit for such work.
Scrape, splat—crunch crunch!
“Ah.”
Too deep in thought. Snapped to: shark filleted, scraping bones.
Pondering, pre-entity-confirm anxiety crept.
Feels later the deeper dug...
.
.
.
.
“Hmm... Captain. How long to target?”
“Dunno. Stars you taught point direction only, not exact spot. That teller—big shot in desert?”
“Uh... Probably? Said group head?”
“Then even less sure. Great desert no peace; folks don’t reveal positions lightly. They’ll find us en route, likely.”
“Ugh...”
“Can’t move desert by scooping sand. You’re taboo incarnate, but feet in desert—adapt to its laws. Patience prime virtue. You look rushed; calm. Not one sand grain still; if meant, time comes.”
“Patience... Patience...”
Explosive to a dying-busy man, but captain risked taboo-death for crew—couldn’t dismiss.
Professor tamped itchy mind, roughly gathered two mangled sand shark corpses.
Infection-blood fully absorbed last drop; meat/skins safe.
“Whew. Before sun spoils it all, let’s eat.”
Nothing doable now? Bottling frustration.
Professor shoved piling anxiety aside, filled chest with anticipation for sand shark—sashimi-steak midpoint.
Results: crumbly yukhoe-like. Tasty raw; strung, lightly sand-baked hot: mind-blowing unique aroma/flavor.
Taboo-shrunk crew loosened at long-post-voyage delicacy; captain, knowing unrest bred accidents, freely poured hoarded booze, nuking their reason.
Yum food + booze. Cooling dusk temp + saint acting un-priest-like.
Ultimately, Professor arm-wrestled drunk crew to dust, earning “No stuffy priest that one!”
Amid laughs/drunks, extra crow’s-nest crew scanned for quicksand beyond monsters.
Under star-spill sky, shadow watching ship-cutting desert night gauged prow-stars via fingers, quietly melted into dark.
****
Voyage life. Day 4.
“Saint. Know it’s tough as outer-god servant—”
“Ay, got it! Prayer ban! Holy power ban! Don’t refuse village rites! That all?”
“Break that, we all taboo-bringers, beaten dead. Basics. Next, oasis laws...”
Yeah. Village. Day 3 desert-entry: arrived livable spot in wastes.
Post-first-night. Next 3 days: 3 sand sharks, ship-twice sandworm, 15 near-screamy familiar desert scorpions.
Sand-bog-explode zones: skin-peeled sand-buried.
Half-sand-sunk(!) moving reefs crashed: fiery sand flooded hold; crew + shark-skins suicide-plugged.
Leading sand-substitute skin-wearer, crew warmed to human-Professor over saint. Bosun: “‘Sand-scarred now, looks desert folk.’”
Suicide-dove sand to probe float-mystery; rope-burn near-death. Chat called extreme hardcorer maso. Learned desert sands air-layered everywhere—quicksand spawn-ready. Any madness? “Great desert~” Adapted-ish.
And. Of 20 captured scorpions, 7 showed first-day sand shark symptoms.
Low-Mute eaten, infection-corroding.
Skin-blackening like mine, finally change hit.
Boom—
Oasis-near? Density-shift sand prow-crash; ship halted magically. 3-day constant halted—nausea instead.
“Shire’s big oasis hub, crowds. Please, low-profile—”
“Grooo... Land... Laaaand...”
“Tree... Bare few leaves, but that green... Aaah, mother tree... Uuugh!”
“...Ahem! Low-profile, please.”
Captain’s final plea as hold-corpses Notum/Idrasil zombie-crawled, flung onto fancy palms.
Troll/elf-swinging tree below. Shade-resting folk frowned; purple-veil eyes-only woman neared hang-spot—captain facepalmed.
Purple: noble mark. Light-scatter silk: sun-block thin breathable pricey; prim gait: educated oasis elite-lady.
Her hurrying to tree-hangers, captain thought arrival offended locals—ordered crew quick-supply, prep-sail.
Till confirming her target Professor, not异族 duo.
“Can’t touch precious trees? Common outside by dozens, but oasis few shade/fruit/waymark for wanderers?”
“Aigoo, yes. Sorry. First voyage...?”
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.
.
.
Huh?
...Wait. That speech—familiar.
.
.
.
.
?
??
!
!!
Swish—
“How’ve you been?”
“!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’
Before Professor shocked at approaching voice, silent woman’s hand delved his clothes, tracing clavicle.
Sharp sting: curse tattoo surfacing scar-skin. Altered from before, still red mark.
“Th, ah—”
“Patience desert virtue; endless wait natural for desert woman. But your fame tickles ears, shaking chaste heart. Don’t blame wait shallow?”
Other hand veil-lift, eye-smile froze Professor solid.
“Ah, Ana—”
“Shh. Bright day, calling lover’s secret name loud before others shames woman?”
Laxasha. True name, Anaya Tam Shandea. Sudden as first meet, still flustering him.
“...Who might it be?”
“Uh, Laxasha...?”
“Who, while I away... Stole our lord’s heart slyly?”
Crescent Laxasha eyes sharpened. Nails sharp as gaze trailed clavicle carotid, stroking glad lover’s body up.
Her curse tattoo on Professor: one purpose.
Sadly for her, curse fulfilled it faithfully.
****