Chapter 320
Chapter 320
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (25)
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“Impressive power, Saladin! A fitting display from the guardian of the king’s blood!”
“Ah, yeah, well...”
What’s this? This nagging unease?
After supporting Nulak’s warriors struggling between the tangled second-line fleets, the Professor kept scanning the battlefield, gripped by some inexplicable discomfort.
Even a quick glance showed the tide had nearly turned.
The front lines could be dismissed as empty shells, hollow inside.
But the biggest prize was the third line’s formation, completely stripped of mobility.
Fifty warships. Each manned by over a hundred slaves for propulsion, half that number in crew, a similar count of warriors, and slightly fewer shamans.
The firepower on just one ship was enough to overrun a small oasis—and there were fifty of them. That massive enemy force scattered across the desert like a volatile stock chart, unable to even form ranks, isolated.
In simple terms, a single horn blast had turned about 15% of the enemy’s forces into stationary walls.
Impressive on its own, but the Professor was hoping for something more from what came next.
‘I don’t know the commander’s skill level, but I wanted to test how they’d react in this situation.’
On the battlefield, events crash in like waves. While handling one crisis, the enemy keeps moving, and lingering on the past is a luxury when each incoming moment demands a life-or-death choice.
By observing the enemy commander’s response, he could vaguely guess their objectives.
The Professor had tossed them this puzzle: ‘fifty intact warships suddenly halted.’
‘Fifty warships are enough to shift the battle’s momentum. They won’t discard them easily—especially since they can sail again with fresh slaves.’
But dallying to resupply slaves would leave the second-line vanguard, locked in combat with Nulak’s elite warriors, unsupported. Meanwhile, Nulak’s main force, delayed by Kauladi’s interference, would reach the clash point, crush the first and second lines outright, and slam into the third line’s vanguard just regaining mobility for a head-on line battle. A worst-case start, diving straight into melee after massive initial losses.
‘Any commander with guts wouldn’t play that bad hand.’
There was a counter: abandon all fifty halted third-line warships. Cram the remaining warriors and shamans onto the rear fleets, shove aside the now-useless empty hulls, and brute-force support the second line still fighting.
This would push the clash point with the enemy main force one line forward. With luck, they could kill off some elite warriors, offsetting vanguard losses with melee strength. Of course, losing fifty inoperable ships and mangling the second line into the forefront would shrink the effective fleet size and strategic flexibility—but it was a calculated trade.
Either way, Nulak’s formation held the edge, but as mentioned, the key was the enemy’s goal subtly revealed by their choice.
Choosing the first meant a prolonged battle. Their supply lines matched or exceeded Nulak’s, with ample reserves, perhaps even luring the enemy into an ambush for annihilation. A cautious strategist minimizing losses.
The second meant settling the war’s fate here. Sacrifice irreplaceable warships to preserve warriors and shamans, overload the fleets beyond capacity, and ram through for victory. Used when confident in troop quality over quantity—likely hiding decisive weapons or elites unknown to Nulak. A bold warlord’s gamble.
He’d adapt accordingly: pull back and call in Nulak’s warriors for another aerial strike, or press the momentum to pile on enemy casualties.
He’d figured, with powerhouse reinforcements like Mutation Blood, they’d push hard, smashing forward while those freaks wreaked havoc.
But the enemy commander chose something the Professor never anticipated.
“...Over there. Desert warriors ride ships as well as any seasoned sailor, right?”
“Not just as well—we were mostly sailors before serving the Lord. Crossing this deadly desert makes the line between warrior and sailor meaningless.”
“Then you know sandships well. Those from the enemy’s third-line vanguard—are those anchors?”
“No doubt. The entire third-line fleet dropped anchor. They’ve cut and lowered the sails too.”
“Listen, Saladin. I’ve fought fleet battles as a desert warrior more times than I can count, and I’ve never seen a dumber strategy since picking up a sword. No exaggeration—that’s a commander who’s lost his mind.”
“To Kauladi, it means he has no capable subordinates to maneuver that host. A fitting end for someone who got lucky, seized power, and crowned himself king.”
....
The enemy’s choice.
Abandon the fallen first line. The clashing second. The immobilized third.
Divert all fighting and remaining forces to pinning those fleets in place, while withdrawing the intact troops wholesale.
‘...A commander predicting defeat against overwhelming odds and opting to flee.’
Kauladi’s decision strayed far beyond the Professor’s predictions.
True to their shaman-heavy legions, they’d overridden his horn signals with their own sorcery, stripping his command. Then they signaled the troops battling Nulak’s cooks.
『ブオオオオオ-』
And the absurdity followed.
Crunch!
Warriors turned from foes to smash ship masts.
Splash—thunk!
Sailors wrestling tangled lines unleashed the heavy warship anchors fully, then smashed the winches to irretrievable depths.
Now, before the slave-less third line stood another immobile fleet. A barricade of pure gold, efficiency in the gutter.
Their chosen response.
.
.
.
.
The sheer absurdity bred suspicion.
“Any shamanic traces? Blood sacrifices to blow the ships after a delay? Or lining blood-soaked hulls for some massive ritual...?”
“We checked that first—nothing. They truly ditched the ships clean and bolted. Those idiots.”
“Huh....”
He’d assumed a trap, but no trap.
In modern terms: routing soldiers parking fuel-less, unsupplied tanks on roads or bridges as obstacles, then fleeing.
Yes—the enemy was withdrawing like a routed army.
A situation so ideally beyond expectations. Victory was in hand; they could seize the flag and bludgeon the foe.
Ding ding ding ding ding ding—!
‘This is wrong. Wrong! Fucking wrong!!’
Yet it rang endless alarms in his mind.
The Professor hefted a massive chain, thick as a man’s torso—anchor chain from a warship.
“How long for the main force to break through this?”
Nulak’s elites nodded at his gesture.
“Obviously. They’re warships, but with both anchors dug into sand, they’re reefs.”
“No combat damage, so widen gaps left-right, ram with Nulak’s ships to wedge through—faster that way. Some hull side damage, but scratches compared to what they abandoned.”
‘Rout. And delay tactics....’
The commander’s goal, gleaned from strategy: buy time.
Enemies buying time meant gains afterward—preparations, unless they were utter fools.
Something big enough to sacrifice nearly half their vital warships as mere barricades.
And one more.
Reinforcements that should’ve joined upon clash: Mutation Blood’s elite-packed forces.
If Kauladi chose delay, where would they head?
—Zing!
A nerve-tugging jolt whipped the Professor’s head around.
Nulak’s main force, delayed by Kauladi’s sand.
Concentrate senses—and hear it.
....Sssssss—
Like snakes slithering underground, swift through sand.
Fingers clenched instinctively.
The scent calling him.
Thud!
Thwack thwack!
Soon, sand pillars dozens high erupted around Nulak’s flagship.
Dozens of land-burrowers piercing sand with razor jaws. From them, Mutation hordes!
The Professor gritted his teeth as Mutations blanketed the flagship black. They’d joined at last.
“The flagship—the one with the Lord—is under attack!”
“Warriors, retrieve lines! Signal all squads on other ships! Return and defend the Lord’s flagship!”
Thwip!
Thwip thwip!
Warriors loaded kite handles into captured ballistae, rushing back to main. Poor launches dropped windless kites into the boiling sand sea, warriors plummeting—but most caught gusts to Nulak’s ship.
“They’ll turn it around somehow...”
Wind from there carried blood-scent. Sweet Mutation reek stiffening hackles, familiar as home yet nauseatingly human. Amid countless Mutations, one rich named’s aroma stood out.
Reinforcements. Mutation Blood’s full force and wild cards, dumped on Nulak’s fleet.
‘...Damn quantum choice.’
Crossroads.
Like Nulak’s earlier warriors, the Professor loaded a kite handle into the ballista. He agonized over direction.
Kauladi sacrificed half their fleet for time—believing it guaranteed victory upon completion, worth the insane loss. Fly at enemy main to stop it?
Or face Mutation Blood’s nameds— asymmetric threats, endless obstacles in future Mutation wars—by flying to Nulak’s main?
Which right, which wrong? What choice draws enemy sighs or relief?
Pick one, the other slips his grasp.
****
Drip. Drip.
Sweat drops. Desperately piecing every calculable scenario in his mind, hot sweat fell from the Professor’s brow.
‘Tunnel vision. Treated the field as one event—should’ve watched linked threads.’
From afar, he pictured the bastard moving chess pieces.
From Kauladi’s war council, overhearing Termakian and Nigmi, he knew they deeply respected Palkatus’s command. Mutations and nameds moved on his orders.
And now, likely watching his choice from somewhere.
[Whichever, he’ll adapt.]
‘Yeah. That schemer’s got the brains.’
Judge carefully, choose fast.
They sought not just victory, but achievement through war.
Enemy intent.
My goal.
Surface, depths, ultimate target.
“....”
Drip. Plop.
As sweat soaked his feet amid peak cognition.
Tick, tick-ticktiktiktik....
The ballista under his grip began slow rotation.
Loaded kite handle pointed—
“Don’t dance to their tune—break their pressure, move where they don’t expect.... right.”
Beyond vast desert and clustered fleets. To Kauladi’s main, where eerie energy rose.
Where Mutation Blood and Kauladi united to pin Nulak—and him.
Delay and ambush both screamed: block approach to Kauladi’s core.
Ignoring the nagging pull on Nulak’s flagship like a hand yanking back, the Professor adjusted the ballista.
Fwoom!
Crack—!
Nulak’s flagship—lordly castle-sized—tilted near capsizing, then boomed like a drum, flinging black-clinging Mutations everywhere. Amid it, two geyser jets from desert center swept the hull; root-like growths sprouted, enveloping the ship.
Full battle engaged.
Notum, Ottoman, Yggdrasil, Lakshasha—proven comrades, survivors of death’s edge, far above average. Mutation numbers uncountable visually, but Nulak’s desert arch-shaman, troll Notum’s forest rites, Ottoman’s water magic, Yggdrasil’s spirits barred hull access.
‘But.... not enough.’
Nigmi as spec-ops was one thing; Termakian, built for mass battle, overwhelmed them.
3rd World staples: Edeorna, Bazur, Termakian, Dox, Zignil.
Unlike variable nameds like Nigmi, Adalua, Yol, Tuk depending on players, these five always appeared—community wiki detailed, Professor memorized.
Edeorna. Queen-based, grows against nemeses—custom nemesis hunter.
Bazur. ‘Mage Collector.’ Post black mage subjugation allied early, built from their corpses. Scales spells and barrage by mage count—fixed artillery named.
Zignil. From black mages’ undead lord fragments. Half-ghost, half-flesh semi-life. Mass battles staple; feeds on souls to grow. Starts debuff observer with fear AOE, unchecked becomes undying debuff totem: multi-debuff spam, live-soul drain from all visible life, damage heal, physical immune.
Dox. Magic immune opposite. Assassin-type from kidnapped hero unit—secret kill-cult head. Pairs with Bazur: weaves clumped anti-mage human lines post-barrage, decapitating commanders.
And.... Termakian.
Built from Lordric’s greatest mass-battle knight, Charlotte de Agate’s data.
Inverse of Charlotte: she buffs scale with allies; he empowers with each ally death.
Absorbs all physical stats of his side’s dead on battlefields—for set time.
Ten? Ten men’s worth. Hundred? Hundred.
Thousands, tens of thousands, millions.... As foes shred his allies, power condenses into him—battlefield calamity.
Already: two Kauladi fleets, hundred warships—loosely two thousand plus dead.
Five hundred tough desert warriors alone.
....Pure strength might surpass his already. As Termakian rampages, casualties mount in party and Nulak fleet’s fight, his breakthrough overwhelms defenses. No hero-unit melee to match, they’d...
Grind, crunch crunch....
Snap!
Boom!
“Good.... a choice, huh....”
Clank—!
Shaking off brain-seeping horrors like punching the rail, Professor yanked the ballista lever.
Such dilemmas were exactly Palkatus’s planned trap.
Now, evade their script: like their wild card on Nulak’s main, he’d dive enemy heart.
....Believing those left behind would hold till his return.
Ignore fact-based predictions, bet on faith alone.
“Urgh, uuuuu! I believe! You ultra-competent pig! Hold out till I win this chicken race Palkatus forced—somehow survive! Ottoman! Notum! Yggdrasil! Lakshasha! Please!!!!”
—Twang!
Figuring the bastard timed even his hesitation, Professor snapped the line, launched the kite, and leaped.
Sandshark hide-and-bone kite bloomed wide; his prow-dipping leap rocketed him and kite afar—to where they hid secrets, holding his comrades hostage.
****
Kauladi fleet: sacrificed 150 warships across lines 1-3 for delay line. Key troops recovered, reformed defensively.
Nulak elite ‘Cooks’ return to main; Kauladi abandons 3rd line—clash point dissolves. Front lines gap over 800 paces. Battle lulls.
Nulak fleet clashes massive Mutation main.
Named Termakian, Nigmi join. Slaughter unfolds.
Warrior Saladin advances.
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