Chapter 310
Chapter 310
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (15)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
“Mm....”
“What’s wrong, Master?”
“No.... It’s nothing. You’ve proven yourself a fine warrior. Well done, Saladin.”
At the praise from Lakshasha, disguised as a shaman, the Professor prostrated himself before her like a blunt, loyal slave.
It looked like a conversation between a brainwashed slave and his shaman master, no matter who saw it. The two of them had come not to Kauladi’s front, but to the slave training grounds clinging to his grand residence like a barnacle.
Naturally, just because one shaman had vouched for him didn’t mean a sturdy warrior like Saladin would be immediately elevated to Kauladi’s inner circle. Up to that point, the shaman who had met with Ottoman had merely been confirming whether the slave named Saladin was a spy or an assassin.
After that, with the shaman as his guarantor proving the slave wasn’t a spy, the real vetting was underway to see if he was fit for Kauladi’s slave warrior unit.
At least from my perspective, things seemed to be going smoothly.
First up, stamina test. Moving a sandstone block the size of five grown men across a set distance on the soft sand floor.
He picked up the test block right there and hurled it past the finish line. Pass.
Next, demeanor check. The local rulers competed over who owned the finest slave warriors, so the slave couldn’t have a hunched back, missing teeth, or any other flaws that might catch another ruler’s eye.
Thanks to the recent surge in Hero Points shifting his “vicious bandit killer leader” look to “noble outlaw,” and skin tanned enough to earn a nod from any sailor, he barely passed.
And finally, proving his warrior prowess through three combats. That’s what they were in the middle of now.
He’d just finished the second fight by taking on eight slave soldiers—former rejects from the warrior unit—all at once. But for some reason, Lakshasha’s expression wasn’t great.
Pretending to kneel and bow, I edged closer on my knees, and she whispered to me while keeping an eye on the scattered shamans.
“Hmm~ This isn’t looking good?”
“....Why? Should he have ripped off limbs instead of just breaking them? Was the performance a bit weak?”
“It’s not about combat power.... That fighting style just doesn’t mesh with the local culture?”
“Culture?”
What’s this now?
“Yeah. Culture. Desert warriors believe their weapons hold the warrior’s soul and the souls of those they’ve felled. But you, as you know....”
“Bare hands. Damn....”
“Sorry. I got so focused on infiltration and escape routes that I overlooked this little detail?”
In short, while he’d dominated the first two fights with overwhelming power, some folks found it deeply unsettling to see him swinging bare fists without a single soul-infused weapon.
‘No wonder. The shamans doing the judging and quality checks had sour looks. It was because I, with no weapon at all, didn’t fit in Kauladi’s slave warrior unit.’
The silver lining was Lakshasha spotting it quick and tipping me off.
Since it was such a minor issue, as she said, fixing it wasn’t hard.
“Well, for the final fight, just grab anything, right? The third one’s a one-on-one with a desert scorpion, yeah?”
“Yeah. They’re ones the shamans were taming for war beasts, but the high-level spells fail often, so they keep the leftovers separate. They’re doomed for slaughter anyway, so they use ’em for warrior trials. If you bash it with a weapon that fits your hand, the rest should fall into place.”
“Hm.... Let’s play it off as warrior pride. Say he felt it was an insult to swing a weapon even at worthless trash not worth touching. Acting all high and mighty might actually sell better.”
“Good idea.”
A weapon. A weapon, huh....
Luckily, there was a pile of worn weapons prepared nearby for the tests. According to the slave with the big brand on his forehead, they were once fine blades that had charged across the sands with their matching warriors, though battered now.
“Now their owners have returned to the sands, so they’re just waiting their turn to melt back into the forge. Weapons are meant to die with their warrior, aren’t they? You might balk at holding one stained with another warrior’s legacy, but once you pass all the trials and earn your place in Kauladi’s slave warriors, his master smiths will craft you a lifelong partner tailored to your hand and body. So please bear with these for now....”
“Got it.”
Even slaves had ranks, it seemed. Brushing off the obsequious blacksmith slave deferring to the old warrior slave, the Professor scanned the lineup of weapons.
‘So, no off-the-shelf desert weapons—just all custom jobs? Peak inefficiency.’
The reason logistics trump everything in normal warfare is that gear doesn’t wear out quick.
After a battle, during cleanup, you recover dozens of nicked blades, grind them down, and hand them to other troops.
But these crazy desert folk? When the owner dies, they collect every weapon, melt them all down, and reforge custom ones.
Call it devotion or madness?
I got that metal’s scarce here, so they cherish it. But still, this was overkill.
‘Whatever, not my problem since I’m just passing through. Let’s see.... Custom weapons mean they’ll observe not just build, but how I wield it.’
The weapons on display all screamed artisan craftsmanship, worn but premium. Smiths producing gear like this wouldn’t just eyeball physique—they’d study handling too.
Grateful for a keeper I could use long-term, but grabbing something random and having a sharp-eyed smith think, ‘That guy’s sword form is total dogshit....’ would spell trouble.
‘....Think two bucklers and punching counts as a weapon? What if they know Bright Church martial arts?’
In the end, to dodge suspicion, he’d need to show some skilled weapon work.
No other choice right now—had to find a shield.
“....You seem troubled. If you tell this lowly one what kind of gear our warrior seeks, I could fetch it....”
“Hm....”
Even those were just the big, round leather shields used in the desert, so while rummaging through the dusty racks, something in a pile of javelins caught my eye.
---------
- Jokasss: Oh.
- Deer Drug Please: You gonna use that? Didn’t you have some trauma tied to that? Back when you first started World 3....
- professor: Yeah, I know, but it feels okay now.
---------
Familiar enough that even the chat folks recognized it—an old favorite from way back.
....Clunk.
“Been a while....”
It was an axe.
****
Truth be told, the Professor hated axes. And for good reason: the darkest days of his life had been shared with that weapon.
In a fit of helpless rage, thinking he’d die otherwise, he’d crawled into GG’s World 2.
No quests, no guides, no clue what to do.
Pure catharsis play, swinging an axe. Days scouring trash piles in sandstorm wastelands, nerves on edge; nights mindlessly hacking away.
Playstyle? Minor Thousand Stream Emperor, if you had to label it. Difference being, I had the skill to shred every visible critter—and I existed?
Clever enough and skilled enough to brute-force to 70%, but with zero progress items, I stalled hard. Pick fights with anyone mouthing off, get wrecked, hide and run—that era.
It molded me into a freak warrior maxed on axe work, stealth, and evasion: my World 2 character, “Executioner Professor.”
I’d poured my soul into that char. But after meeting two NPCs in a rundown shack on the edge of the city-state alliance—and learning they were made from my parents’ data souls—I never logged back in. Even IRL, I avoided anything axe-related to bury those memories.
So why now? Why did the axe that once repulsed me feel neutral—no, almost welcoming?
[Isn’t that it? They say when shitty memories turn fun to recall, they’ve become nostalgia.]
‘If nightmares of mutants crawling from Mom’s grave to devour me, and living leashed to this world unable to die, count as nostalgia, that’s pretty fucked up, no?’
[Who in this world isn’t fucked up? Time’s the great healer, maybe?]
‘Pfft. So many wounds time can’t touch.’
Who knows. What softened past pain into memory?
But at least....
“....This’ll do.”
If he met those data-soul NPCs made from his parents again now, he’d have more to say than back then.
Lost in odd sentiment, the Professor examined the axe in his grip.
A big one. Longer than a battle axe, shorter than a mounted halberd—heavy, awkward, one solid piece of metal from haft to head.
The well-worn handle gripped like a glove, its head double a normal axe’s size and too hefty for one-handed use by most warriors, screaming it wasn’t just for humans.
Forged in a treeless desert, its purpose was purely smashing moving targets.
The broad head’s side bore weird cracks and dents—not battle scars. Ugly looks aside, the edge gleamed keen enough. Good to go.
Hoisting the long-hafted axe, he shoved it at the waiting blacksmith slave.
“That one.... Might be a tad lacking for our warrior.... It’s got prime steel, so we meant to melt it first, but whatever the smith mixed in made it resist the heat—burned and cracked instead. Had to shelve it.”
“Hm. These the marks?”
“Yes. Heat warped it funny. For axe work, maybe pair that smaller one with a shield....”
“No, this one.”
Survived the forge fire, huh? Even better.
Decision made, the hesitant blacksmith slave meekly bowed and pointed to the third trial site.
Thud- Boom-
The ground shook loud enough from afar.
A massive cage, hauled by two desert ships chained together, mixed steel and wood, etched with flashy shaman runes in contrasting paints.
Inside: a monster like the desert scorpions I’d seen crossing the sands—painted black and stretched out.
Matching a ship in size, it ran on stiff leg-hairs, tamed by shamanism for war. This one was a failed brainwashing berserker needing euthanasia.
My kit: one small desert ship and a loaned weapon.
Tough enough setup that I had to ask.
“....Do slave warrior trials usually pit against beasts like that?”
“Depends. Sandworm if one’s left, or six-leg crocs, gilaup centipedes. Most like that or a bit weaker—no big difference.”
“No big difference, huh....”
Not what I expected. Thought it’d be “caught a big one today,” but that’s average.
Meaning Kauladi’s slave warriors each could smash monsters like that.
‘They’re picky, alright.’
Might be tougher to bail than thought. Shoving the small ship off the dune, the Professor untied the ropes.
New to deserts, but shoulder-surfed sailor tricks let him launch a small craft on sand.
Sail set to the wind, it drifted slow toward the scorpion’s cage.
Confirming the tiny white sail on the sand sea, the big ships dropped chains. Shaman gestures whipped sandstorm, blinding the scorpion’s view—Professor, ship, everything.
Two big ships, crews, three shamans, one strategic-grade giant scorpion for culling.
Kauladi really pampered his slave warriors. This much manpower and assets to pick one elite?
In the sandstorm dome, just him, scorpion, and little ship. Professor advanced to the prow, axe raised.
Groooar.
Shwoooo-
Ship forward in the gale. Freed from madness, scorpion whipped head and tail, snarling at the approach.
Clack! Clack! Crack!
Arthropod maw and claws clashing, it rose on soft sand.
Skraaaaa-!
Crunch, crrrunch!
Axe in hand after ages felt worlds from punching. Body’s extension. Whole frame tensed like a catapult string, loading power to the tip.
Scorpion fully roused, charged. From the skiff’s bow, a twisting, squeezing crunch.
Kwachak!
Pro bow crumpling under the rush, and
Craaaaaack-!
A ripe coconut-splitting sound boomed loud enough for the oasis’s far side.
****
Lakshasha watched the Professor anxiously, timing how long till her flayed shaman skin dried.
She’d overlooked warrior weapons, but since they weren’t staying long, trusted his strength to pass any blade through the trial and onto next steps.
“Shaman Eolaraki, found a curious item? That heavy axe. Desert warriors shun such gear, no? Inland folk fighting armored foes maybe, but we’ve no need for heavy weapons.”
Another shaman pack approached, pretending familiarity with her guise. Lakshasha easily recalled his name from her prepped list of Kauladi’s underlings.
“Shaman Yagin. What brings you here?”
“Heard someone’s cleaning up my botched beast. Slave warrior trial.... Been a while. With war killing off all the promising seeds. Ah, starting?”
Yagin. One of the more capable shamans serving Kauladi.
Lakshasha opted to quietly indulge his interest.
Her own shamanism wasn’t weak, but mouthing off risked exposure here.
Luckily, Yagin was hooked on the action beyond the sandstorm, cackling as he spelled his eyes for clarity.
“Since it’s your slave, you guess.”
“Guess what?”
“The trial time, obviously! Even in your gloom, you remember our bets! Warrior Kalmakan took three days on his sandworm. Numak, three. Galek.... four?”
Shamans buzzing over past slave warriors’ third-trial times and matchup diffs.
Craaaaaaaaack-!
Beyond the gale, a familiar-yet-alien noise echoed.
Something splitting. But never on a scale to rattle the whole oasis.
At the eerie sound, shamans spelled their eyes for spirit-sight, peering through the storm.
Thud. Thud.
Skiff laboring sand, shattered prow clunking.
Warrior slave rowing hard sans sail—behind him, storm parting to reveal glossy black silhouette. Mid-sentence shamans barely choked out:
“E-Eolaraki, you.... struck gold?”
“....Yes.”
Lakshasha nodded blankly, staring at the scorpion split neat from head to tail-tip behind the Professor.
****