Chapter 308
Chapter 308
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (13)
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“Hmm. A ship going back and forth between Dry Oasis Karashan territory and the desert. If you're traveling from the interior, your purpose must be trade?”
“That's right. I have a slight acquaintance with the lord there. I brought some odds and ends along with a few people from the interior.”
“Errands from the interior... You're living quite boldly. Let me just verify the passengers for a moment.”
“Go right ahead.”
Before we reached our destination, the people who came aboard from the ship blocking ours started a very thorough inspection. They checked the cargo, the crew, the ship's remaining lifespan, and the usual routes in the captain's navigation log, then grilled him relentlessly about why we'd taken an unfamiliar path to get here. The captain, clearly used to this sort of thing, answered without missing a beat.
“Good. No problems. That's the end of the surface check.... How much peddling did you plan? Coming from the interior, you must have smuggled in a fair amount.”
“I plan to wrap up this voyage early. Here's the manifest. Arrowheads, spear tips, harpoons, and some unrefined iron—not the best quality.”
“Heh heh heh heh. I thought so. I spotted it the moment the ship was suspiciously half-sunk into the sand, didn't I? We'll buy everything here, plus that slave over there.”
“Slave?”
“Yeah. Don't need the big-eared girl—just that sturdy-looking troll and that guy there. I've used one or two slaves on ships in my time, but I've never seen one as built as him.”
The guard bared his yellow teeth in a grin and pointed right at me.
A desert navigator who spent more time in the sun than most.
His skin was as deeply tanned as a watchtower lookout—the most exposed position of all—
A scarred man with bronze skin, clad only in threadbare underwear that barely contained his bursting muscles.
...Objectively speaking, if there'd been a mirror in front of me, even I would've thought I looked like a robust slave being whipped and labored under the blazing sun.
“...I don't really buy and sell people.”
“Ah, so he's not for sale—just a ship slave? Come on, sell him to us instead? We're short-handed these days, and a sturdy slave like that would be welcomed with open arms in more than one or two places. I'll pay twenty percent over my valuation.”
“Ahem. No deal.”
“Thirty percent.”
“Hey, we've handed over everything—open the way—”
“Damn it! Fifty percent! One-and-a-half times the price, I said! You know my situation! The bosses are hounding us to fill headcounts somehow if we can't train elites! I've dragged aboard every bastard who can stand on deck! That guy's worth five men at least—double! Double the offer! That's plenty—just hand him over and go!”
Thanks to their dogged persistence—some circumstances on their end, apparently—the Professor finally shoved the mercenary badge in their faces, and only then did the guards clear the path. Even as they did, they kept prying: Why'd you come? Is this your hometown? How long you staying? It looked like once we were inside, they'd try convincing or even kidnapping us straight into the army.
“Military supplies? Doesn't the country manage refined iron, arrowheads, spear tips, and armor?”
“Teldrat's a rich nation, but the territories bordering the desert are especially flush. If you think that wealth comes purely from top-quality wheat, you're a fool.”
“...Smuggling?”
“The desert's a place where fighting never stops—demand's endless.”
“These kinds of deals happen often?”
“All the time. Of course, the ones blocking the road usually kick up a fuss to haggle down the price. It's rare for them to say, 'We'll pay whatever—just give us everything.'”
“They're definitely ramping up for war.”
I'd caught a glimpse of one reason Teldrat was so wealthy. Fight monsters where there are no people; fight each other over places where people can live. Metal resources aren't exactly abundant in the desert, so most military supplies are imported—and that's where small but prosperous Teldrat comes in.
This oasis might taste like blood.
“We need to dock soon. Got a place in mind? We've unloaded everything, so we need to collect payment and pick up spices and luxuries.”
“We've got a separate rendezvous point. We'll have to wander a bit, but it's better than moving as a group.”
“Good that you know. Guards during times like this have their eyes peeled for any catch to drag in.”
And that jail wouldn't have iron bars—it'd be conscript barracks.
A common sight in a city at war. Travel together, and they'll spot outsiders acting suspiciously in a group, drag you in for investigation. Everyone's got dirt, so they'll grab you for forced labor or conscription.
Just from the vibe, the Professor buttoned his clothes tight and threw on white desert robes—like a turban fused with a cloak.
“If nothing happens, hurry back to the ship. We're planning to stay aboard instead of taking city lodging.”
“Got it. See you later.”
“Hmm. If it looks like you're about to die, make sure it's recognizable from here. If you die, we can leave without violating the taboo.”
“You're overflowing with affection.”
...What interesting people. Telling me they'd ditch guilt-free if I died—which conversely meant they'd keep the ship prepped and wait until they heard I was gone.
Considering the weariness of long voyages, that was a huge sacrifice. Surely they didn't dream of lounging in cool inns drowning in booze? They'd only heard my bit about getting tangled in a 'Twelve Steps regional dispute,' figured it was dangerous, and accommodated anyway.
'We rode the same ship. Horses might've made the word, but we sailors know how to use 'em right!'
'The desert's always got something knocking from outside! Monsters, local bosses, bandits—you name it. Can't scatter like grains of sand, so we stick tight. Ride the same ship? You're family first off. Don't like ya? Cousin who gambled the family fortune to hell. Do like ya? Brother or sister level. Distance varies, but you're inside the family line—even in death.'
'Ughhh—'
'Hm? You... like a cousin back home after twenty years no word? Grown all handsome, no clue what he does. About that level. Don't treat regular guests like that, but we hauled ropes and shoveled sand together, so this feels right~ Heh heh heh heh! Not all upsides? We might get snagged 'cause of you—you might too 'cause of us!'
'Saladin, Saladin? You listening? Still alive?'
'Don't... make me... talk...'
'Heh heh heh heh! Can't do that! Staring at the desert from the crow's nest gets boring, y'know? Already spending more time up here 'cause who knows when the taboo catches up to whatever saint you are. Need a chat buddy! Don't stress! Down there—scrubbing the deck like his life depends on it. New guy two years back, fat pig who colluded with scum to sell our ship! Crew scraped change, grabbed swords, rampaged—got her back... but now can't refuse hauling taboo bait like you. Still took him aboard again. Gets clocked in the skull daily—back of his head's balding—but he's still crew. That's how we roll. Heh heh heh heh!'
'Ah, captain said keep it quiet. Pretend you didn't hear!'
'Ughhhh—'
Naruka, was it? The crow's nest sailor who'd talked me half to death. While I dangled from the mast getting a brutal sun-tanning, he'd yapped nonstop—and I'd learned plenty about desert ships.
Desert sailors stick together till the ship sinks and the last man dies. Just like people gather around oases to form villages, they cluster around the ship—it's their village, their family. Not everyone sails every trip due to personal stuff, but the ones left behind set out water every night and pray for the voyage's safety. Tight as can be.
'Desert folk seem extra vicious and cruel 'cause they go extreme protecting their inner circle—their community. Outsiders? Barely human to 'em.'
Gratefully, after a few days of whispering behind my back, they'd let me dip a toe into that bizarre communal fence.
“So, when I die, I'll yell loud enough to shake the city—then you bolt without looking back?”
“...If it comes to that, do it.”
“Do what?”
“Pray, divine power. It'll kick up a storm big enough to shock you—plenty of time to slip away.”
Promising to flee together if I survived—even risking taboo violation. How could I not like these people?
Watching them bustle to dock, the Professor thought: if the taboo got them in trouble, he'd have to haul the ship out of the desert himself, by force if needed.
'Might as well convert 'em while I'm at it.'
A truly saintly notion.
****
Twelve Footsteps Oasis—also called the Giant's Twelve Strides—was a place of oases lined up in orderly fashion, as if a giant had strolled through.
Roughly half a day's travel between each oasis. A chain like this meant an underground aquifer running through the desert. One close enough to the surface to spawn multiple oases in a row—
“Thanks to the sand holding ample moisture, you can actually 'walk' between oases? Kaulradi conquered this rare overland route in the desert, wove organic internal supply lines across the twelve oases, and rose as the desert's top dog?”
...Just as she said: smooth resource flow between regions let that Kaulradi bastard amass a fortune, which he used to expand his power.
History, background, growth engines, and terrain of the mission area. Excellent. Vital knowledge—like rain in drought to a desert noob like me.
Good. All good. But...
“Heh heh heh heh.”
“Uh... Rakshasha? Really... this is right? As a renowned strategist and brainiac, my take: no way an insane plan like this succeeds—”
“It will. Deep down, you know it's solid. Even the guards said as much, right? Trust me. You'll be treated like the finest 'slave.'”
Why was that precious intel scribbled across a stack of parchments labeled 'High-Class Slave Essentials'?
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- Deer Drug Please : lolololololololol
- Take a Look : Desert no.1 boss's clout lolololol can't even compare to interior folk lololololol
- Heung An Mandu : Saint this saint that— that's interior crap lololol here you're prime fit-strong slave no.1 lololol
- Professor : All shut the fuck up before I block you and kill the stream.
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[Hey, shellhead. Me talking—not as a female body, but as Rakshasha the human? I'm seriously starting to like her for real.]
'You shut it too, you bastard.'
Meeting Rakshasha was simple. Strolling the exotic sights of the oasis village near the city—'Third Stride,' they called it—pickpockets latched onto our obvious rookie crew. Instead of my wallet, a boy slipped me a note and vanished, dodging pursuing guards in seconds. Following the covert directions led to a building marked faintly with the Moon Shadow sigil. Rakshasha—who'd arrived ahead on a faster ship—finished appraising my new look with a shrill cheer.
It fit too well. So perfectly, it expanded our options.
That's when Rakshasha and the Moon Shadow crew started scheming with me in the starring role.
Namely: sell me to Kaulradi as a slave.
The trigger? The royal-blood siblings she served—desert's heart, Narea Septut and Kamalaho Septut—were confined right next to Kaulradi's stronghold.
“Confined? Surely, though powerless, they're seen as the desert's most precious—”
“Right—so in this dangerous time, they had to be kept 'safe' in his residence, guarded by Kaulradi's warriors. Fine rooms, splendid meals and treatment... but silk bonds don't make it freedom, do they? Refusing the escort would've been like announcing we'd abandon the place—no choice but to let them go.”
Rakshasha bit her lip in uncharacteristic frustration, then flashed a radiant smile at me.
“But we didn't just sit idle? We planned to make an opening and borrow your power to extract them... but now there's a far better way?”
“...Which is selling me as a slave?”
No matter how much it didn't fly here, I was a national hero—the one and only saint.
The Professor sighed bitterly at his reflection: body oiled to a bodybuilder sheen, draped in ragged slave rags, hair slicked back and hardened solid.
No way could he pray now. If Ro Haram glimpsed even a fragment and spread it to Norman the archbishop or Gregorianus-types, you'd see furious holy knights charging the desert howling for a crusade.
Rakshasha's delicate hands slicked his hair back with care, pondering which gold hoop earring suited a slave warrior while kneading his stunned shoulders.
“Don't picture slaves like outsiders do? Desert slaves aren't disposable interior trash—they're loyalty-spelled, kept closer than the most devoted retainer, the final bulwark? Empires have royal guard knights; deserts have warrior slave legions armed with enforced loyalty?”
“Combat slaves... kept that close?”
“Yes! Dozens of assassination attempts daily—rulers can't trust anyone! That's why they made them: brain-spelled so they can't betray no matter what—warrior slaves? They never betray their master, and aside from that, no downsides—so they marry, get top treatment, live like family? Plenty of elite warriors even swear oaths for the slave brand, reborn as their true master's limbs?”
Rather than risk betrayal from the untrustworthy, desert lords spell-block the possibility and shield themselves with slave warrior legions.
An old tradition—now, collecting prime warrior slaves is the fashionable hobby for desert overlords, to excess. Kaulradi was especially obsessed, which was perfect.
“Now, shall we sketch the picture? Interior folk hawk all sorts to the desert: weapons, food, precious metals, people. Enter the mysterious old mage—beloved water mage, one desert folk crave—leading an elf and troll even top overlords rarely see. This enigmatic elder peddles slaves via his homemade brainwashing magic; proof? A docile talking troll and a desert-impossible elf. Credible, right? This trusted mage-slaver Otman came to the desert for magic research, and to secure comfy labs, he'll gift the mightiest host Kaulradi his masterpiece: slave Saladin. How's that? Solid?”
“Ughhhh....”
God, he wanted to reject it.
But... the picture painted itself. Elf—no.1 creature never entering desert willingly—plus rare troll. A smart-talking one, led by bearded water mage. No sane elf or troll comes here voluntarily—must be captured, forced. A dash of Yggdrasil and Notum flair, and anyone'd buy it.
Prof. as exotic mage-slaver's gift to Kaulradi. Desert spells diverge from magic—they won't spot it easy; claim special brainwash taming passes basic scrutiny. He's near-immune to mental magics anyway. Rakshasha's desert spell savvy covers the slave brand.
Then, as innermost slave warrior, bide time—snatch pampered royal siblings, bolt to waiting Dry Oasis ship, flee to new lord's turf.
Ugh... it works. This damned plan could actually work. Ugh...
Even the first guards went 'slave?' on sight. Perfect exterior.
Hard face, sculpted body forged in near-torture training.
Massive frame etched scars across vast canvas.
Hero points piled so high they cloaked the [Dark Skin] trait: thick lines, sunken eyes—not classical beauty, but rugged charm laced with story on bronze visage.
Prime slave merchant bait. Damn.
“Hmm. This'll do. Now~ sting~”
*Crack!*
Rakshasha's painstaking pick—a hefty gold hoop earring—plus kohl-heavy eyeliner, and the mirror held no saintly Professor: pure desert warrior slave.
“So, you're in? Of course—if you hate it, I'd never force you. Kaulradi's warriors are elite from every corner; even with a gap, reverting to frontal-assault original plan means heavy casualties for our spy-assassin crew... but that's our issue?”
“...Fine. Let's do it.”
“Thank you!”
*Leap!*
On his resigned sigh mid-fidget with her hands—making his rags look more naturally worn—Rakshasha threw herself into his arms.
“Not empty-handed, though... just once. Whatever you want—anything—I grant it?”
“Any... anything?”
“Yesss~ Whatever you can imagine. As much as you desire.”
[Guhhh!]
*Crash-tumble!*
His heart plummeted; inner gallery cackled off the sofa.
Arms looped his neck in embrace, she clasped a massive desert-gold choker necklace around it—then mirage-slipped from his hold, eyes back to her parchment.
“There—exterior so flawless even the Sun God approves. Polish some accomplishments? Literature, strategy, arts, music—more you know, finer the slave? Oh, mage sir too. Mystery shines in ignorance, but polite knowledge avoids rudeness?”
“Ugh. Please do.”
“Ah, got a magic staff? Strong mage image.”
“Umm... our school's not big on staves...”
“I'll make one? Something fitting?”
“Y-yes...”
Thus, under Rakshasha's eager coaching, the 'Hero of Light Party' swiftly morphed into the 'Interior Mage Slave Trader Crew.'
And the next morning.
*Thud—thud—*
“Halt! Forbidden to parade monsters through the city! Declare yourselves and follow guard escort!”
“Umm... you, insect-like vermin... no manners? Know your place at least...!”
*Slosh—!*
“Waaah! Th-the oasis woke up!”
“The mage of legend... sorcerer! Call a sorcerer!”
“Waaaah!”
Third Stride of the Giant's Twelve. Kaulradi's grandest oasis welcomed a mage swinging a staff from atop a troll's shoulder.
“Otman—more intensity! Crush the lowly bugs! If we're doing it, do it right!”
“H-hey, Professor—I didn't sign up for—”
“Shhh! Who seared the Leadflow School brand on your back—whining over this?”
“Lower your voice, Otman. As an elf learning human ways, I shan't do this twice.”
“Aaah... no face left to greet the Grand Lady...”
“Grooo... That ship sailed long ago. Deal with it.”
[Um... everyone? Less jarring than expected. Notum—mind a roar?]
“GRRRRROOOOAAARRR!”
“Waaaah!”
“Monster's berserk!”
“Guards are down! Warrior Legion! Summon the Warrior Legion!!!”
[Yesss~ Perfect?]
“Grooo....”
Of course. The 'Otman Mage Slave Traders'—drilled overnight in desert history to improv skills—and Night Shadow allies providing real-time spell support.
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