Chapter 323
Chapter 323
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (28)
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Fear arises from imagination of the unknown. Standing on a cliff, one pictures oneself plummeting down; walking a dark path, one conjures shadows lurking in the gloom, trembling at self-made terrors.
Thus, when confronting a being that transcends imagination, a person cannot easily feel fear. Like marveling at the Milky Way or gazing in awe at an endless ocean, one simply trembles at the encounter with the unknown.
That awe touches the skin only in the moment when, from an opponent whose chasm is unimaginable, one discovers something akin to oneself.
Two eyes manifesting in a natural form signify that it, too, observes the world before it as I do.
The hostility in those eyes declares it a living being capable of judgment and enmity.
And so, when the unknown steps into the realm of the comprehensible, all the prior trembling and reverence transmute into fear of equal magnitude.
A terror that burrows deep into the chest, filling from the surface of the mind to unfathomable depths.
Dragons are such beings. People called that near-reverent terror a dragon's fear.
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‘...Pissed yourself?’
[A little?]
‘Damn it. The community’s gonna make a huge fuss again.’
[It’s fine. The warriors next to us are flooding the place, so relatively speaking, it won’t stand out.]
The Professor was grateful in that moment that he wasn’t a pure magic-class character but one focused on physical prowess.
Had he not been a warrior capable of perfectly controlling his own body, he’d have been drenched like the Kaurladi warriors and shamans nearby.
‘All that hard work wasn’t entirely in vain, then.’
The reason the Professor could stand tall on his own two feet, unlike those soaked warriors, was purely due to his past experiences.
He’d seen dry skies erupt in lightning storms, undead souls materialize in corpses gathering overhead to form an ill omen.
So what if a mountain of sand rose up, sucking in all the desert’s grains? As always, just another insane ordeal shoved in his face in this mad GG.
...Or so.
He repeated it to himself over and over, forcing the thought, because otherwise his legs would lock up.
Gazing at the desert sands swirling and surging as if drawn into a vortex, the Professor scanned the ritual inscriptions and catalysts scattered around him.
Shamans with blood-inked glyphs drawn in fresh blood and hands coated in crimson caught his eye first. Tears streaming down their faces in ecstatic joy, they formed bizarre mudras.
The smooth bones of some creature, like marble, were disassembled and piled up, unrecognizable until reassembled, but the stench of rotting protein assaulting his nose made their origins clear.
‘Kingblood. Fallen descendants of a once-dragon lineage...’
Their condition was so grotesque it was hard to look at. Swollen skin, layers of bandages, the reek of decay mixed with magical reagents.
They seemed like mummies preserved from long-dead kin, dragged out and bloated with some drug.
The horrific tower of flabby, swollen corpses, stripped of flesh and reassembled from bones, reminded him of the hatchling Aldarshax’s self-reproachful words from the watchtower.
[We’re nothing but useless relics of the past, fit only to be protected.]
Useless relics of the past. A race similar to lizardmen yet utterly different in form—their bodies bereft of power and wisdom, mere traces of a once-glorious species. Kingblood.
Shwaaaaaah—!
As the rising sand swelled ferociously, devouring everything around it, the lowering slopes caused sand to cascade onto the Kaurladi flagship.
The shamans, enraptured, ignored their flesh melting into the boiling sands as they offered prayers.
The sands swallowed the enslaved warriors, immobile in prostration to greet their great lord’s return.
They swallowed the tower of decayed Kingblood corpses,
And finally enfolded the white, massive dragon skeleton, burying it in the depths.
Shamans. Worship disregarding life symbolized divinity.
Warriors. Forced sacrifice symbolized offering.
Kingblood corpses gathered from across the desert. Flesh identical to dead dragon meat, devoid of power and wisdom, and dragon bones unmarred by centuries of erosion. Dragon bone and flesh united as the dragon’s symbol.
And the lifeblood squeezed from the heart of the desert’s supreme leader, deemed closest to the desert’s king—Kaurladi—formed the king’s symbol.
Kuuuoooooo—!
All of it summoned the [Holy Desert Dragon King].
Analyzing it as a mage, piece by piece...
...At this point, it was almost laughably hollow.
“Hey. That’s the thing.”
[It really is.]
“It was stinking up the place from the desert’s edge, but I didn’t think the real deal would show.”
The colossal sand mountain loomed so vast he had to crane his neck back to see its peak. A dune on what he’d thought was a sand hill split open, revealing a vertical yellow slit pupil in what seemed like an eyelid.
Puhook!
Nostrils exhaled a first breath beneath the revealed eye. Beneath obsidian-glinting predator fangs, golden scales rippled in stark contrast to the menacing form—utterly beautiful.
Strong, beautiful, awe-inspiring to all.
A form befitting the desert king the Kaurladi and shamans so desperately craved.
‘No, shit, for real...’
He’d considered it when tales of desert legends cropped up. In this game, most “no way” things happened anyway. He figured he’d face it eventually.
No full-blooded dragon would appear, so probably summon a sand dragon infused with dragon power or a skull dragon from desert-buried bones, smash it, maybe preemptively request holy orders for undead disaster support... He’d made plans.
But.
Seeing the dragon manifest before him drove home how naive and fanciful those assumptions were.
『Quaaaaaaa—』
Its birth cry resembled not new life, but a volcano erupting or earthquake rumbling.
From highest dune to oasis bedrock. The massive reverberation settled over every grain in the desert, proclaiming to the aimless sands bereft of a master that their lord had returned.
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‘This is... me?’
Kaurladi’s consciousness swam through a vast space like the outer cosmos.
It was a moment-by-moment struggle. He’d handed two hatchling siblings to the enemy over some trifling matter, nearly wasting years gathering Kingblood corpses across the desert.
The thought of incompleteness lodged in the shaman’s mind as “imperfection,” forcing Kaurladi to add a long, complex ritual to reinforce that wedge-like image.
Creaaak!
Craaack!
The snap of salted, two-year-pickled ship timbers breaking reached his ears, focused on the ritual.
The enemy’s champion warrior. Saladin, weaponless.
‘He’s surely reached a realm where he no longer senses his body or armor’s uniqueness.’
The fleet he’d prepared his life for crumbled so easily. With each breached defense line, each explosive split of ship and warrior advancing toward him, Kaurladi gritted his teeth harder, focusing on the ritual.
It felt like fate stepping closer to punish him for defying the desert’s order.
Defying that fate of war and famine, Kaurladi continued the ritual even as the black beast of death approached.
‘To defy heaven, one must stake one’s life.’
Manifesting without completing the rite.
Drawing his obsidian dagger, he heard something massive slicing the air.
As sharp claws tore the flagship’s sunshade—
Puk!
Agonizing pain, and Kaurladi’s consciousness vanished.
Like dreams seeping into long sleep, his soul, bound to the ritual, traced his unyielding past.
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‘I shall become king.’
The parched land ceaselessly incited battle among its inhabitants. Young Kaurladi hated it. If we grew more trees like inland folk. Planted more date palms, shared abundance—no need to fight over scraps.
‘Not one exception. All this land beneath my feet.’
Even the finest shamans shook their heads. Despite preparing everything for fertility, not even oasis plots sprouted life. Despair gripped him. Imported soil, filtered breezes, sunlight—all futile. Even shamanic mysteries failed to quicken seeds. He realized satiety and peace could not coexist.
The desert gave just enough sustenance to survive. As if goading conflict, it evoked an ancient curse.
Curse from two vanished gods, one’s dying words. Barren land, endless strife.
Oil mixed with sand smeared the rubbing mast. Sunken crew with shattered ships. Their fat boiled in the scorching sands, mingling with dust devils.
Witnessing it, Kaurladi returned silently to his abode.
Ordering every ancient scripture brought.
Someone must break the curse.
And if only he could, even straying from humanity.
‘I shall revive the desert.’
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.
.
.
.
Kuuung—
And now, Kaurladi’s dream stood before him.
‘Was the world always this small?’
It lay all beneath his gaze. Fleeting changes from a dragon’s view were mere flows in the grand scheme.
‘Was the desert always this vast?’
Yet, from this lofty vantage, the desert sprawled endlessly.
Now his.
With the searing land his own, he could unravel the ancient curse with its power. Hadn’t this land once overflowed with water, lacking space for life?
Unleash the curse, sprout new life, restore inland verdure to this withered expanse. Famine-born quarrels, hatred from strife, blood-soaked hell—all find peace.
Countless slain in Kaurladi’s name would seem like dust. Far more lives reclaimed.
Waver—
Kuuuung—
He toppled, unbalanced. The dragon’s bulk and his soul not yet fused. Perhaps the rushed ritual’s fault. Golden scales worthy of supremacy cracked to sand, reforming—visible.
‘Incomplete.’
Supreme being housed in flawed flesh. Natural.
Shaken briefly, then calm. Filling lacks was simple.
The battlefield below, dragon eyes stinging from destruction, held the missing dragon fragment amid the warships.
With this body embodying dragon flesh and solar might, a single sand stream would...
‘...Gone?’
The two Kingblood presences confirmed aboard Nulak’s flagship before the ritual—vanished.
Fearing eternal imperfection, Kaurladi’s calm shattered as dragon eyes pierced the sands.
[Seems you like the new body.]
A familiar yet alien voice pierced his mind.
[Palkatus. You...]
His aide. Who found the key to his stalled wish.
Elusive other-race strategist.
The dragon’s growl met formless laughter, as always.
[You did splendidly, Kaurladi. Shamanism is astounding. Magic couldn’t revive such a being; divinity would require god-level power. Yet with a fraction, you forged a proper dragon.]
[....Spare the flattery. You approached first, discerning my preparations. My shamanism, built on desert power, lacked a core—until you brought it.]
Suspicion was obvious. The creature at his feet during inspection wasn’t human or common desert beast; its fluent tongue repulsed.
Yet its offer quelled all doubt and disgust—irresistibly.
‘A fallen sun fragment. With its power, can the ritual complete?’
How it obtained what he, desert overlord scouring vast sands, couldn’t find—who knew.
To Kaurladi, steeped in ancient lore, it was singular hope.
Mysteries etched on silver disc.
Like gods crafting gardens, verdant plots with rainbow bands of dozens of symbols—truly solar relic.
Using it as axis, his soul as catalyst, he’d summoned the ancient Dragon Lord.
It permeated the dragon body with his dead flesh, powering it still.
[....The Kingblood. You hid them.]
[Merely holding them for a use.]
Evasive.
[Payment? As discussed, a place for your kin in the revived land? Fear I’ll break my word?]
The dragon’s fury met childlike stifled laughter.
[Such things... you couldn’t provide anyway. I’d be a fool to trust promises of what you lack. The one who bit my head off was far too great for that.]
[What?]
[Examine your body well. Not as dragonman Kaurladi, but shaman Kaurladi.]
At Palkatus’s words, Kaurladi focused on the unfamiliar flesh. Immense power, matching presence. His soul, failing to blend.
Not just failing—soul and flesh repelling.
[This.... What?]
Losing composure, Kaurladi struggled to cling to the drifting soul as Palkatus’s laughter crumbled overhead.
[Ah, nearly great Kaurladi. Forgot the legend? The king coveted the moon, toppling it; enraged sun destroyed the dragon kingdom with his end.]
Why.
[Still don’t see? Why solar power manifests as sand control, not light and heat. How this once-sea, dragon ‘ocean kingdom,’ became thus? Truly blind? Still?]
Palkatus sighed at familiar frustration. Debating dullards exhausted him. How, given every clue save the answer, did they miss it? His father reached truth before words formed, surpassing with unique solutions.
Palkatus eyed his staggering dragon via hovering mutant’s gaze, father opposing it.
Behold that superior form, unlike this wretch. Ear-water droplets—father’s favored message spell. Lip-reading: hatchling escape. Likely ordering their guardian shadow to hide the pair.
As always, correct.
As father grasped, this dragon needs all Kingblood, including survivors, for completion. Potent now, but no sky-soaring world-shaper.
Shaken soul in botched rite would sever from new flesh. Dragon pressure gone, father joins Nulak’s ship, defeats struggling brothers, claims victory.
‘Father, ritual-illiterate, grasped it in one glance. Others... pathetically dim.’
How never suspect? Showing body possession, yet he dragged Nigmi as “guard”? No need for mind control—just hints, whispers, festering desires.
Even Nigmi’s mind-reading shouldn’t blind so easily.
‘Years-stalled wish blinded Kaurladi.’
Impatience. Tyrant from saintly heart.
Counting kills and cripples, easily fooled.
To shocked Kaurladi, Palkatus offered pitying truth.
[The desert you stand on, boiling after centuries—this is the ‘sun’s’ remains, Kaurladi.]
Soon-vanished fool deserved that mercy.
[The dragon body you summoned is the Dragon Lord’s flesh, recipient of vanished god’s wrath; its core, that wrath-born solar power. Mutual antagonism is natural, no?]
[You bastard.... Deceived me....!]
[No surprise. We smiled for mutual wants. You’d never admit man-eaters to your paradise. Accepting easily signaled refusal.]
[Kuuh....]
[You sought power for impossible dream. I, incomplete dragon flesh post-soul ejection—perfect if finished, risking world-self possession. This flawed form suits us. Splendid work, bonus prize. Thanks, Kaurladi.]
[Kuuh.... Aaaah!]
Fading consciousness, Kaurladi thrashed. Still controlled the dragon. Transparent vision pierced sands, glaring at sunken Palkatus.
Pitiful speck bleeding from cracked skin.
While wielding dragon might to drag it down—
A warrior entered his sight, charging.
Black-armored, like the one disrupting his rite.
[Such pity, Kaurladi. You clung longer than expected—feared that sand might snap my neck.]
[No. Can’t end like this—I sacrificed all for this moment! Can’t end, won’t!!!]
Warrior approached. Amid ship shards from kicks, black form surged with white flames, violence incarnate.
Dragon eyes read warrior’s puzzlement. Seizing perfect chance with full assault, yet baffled why.
And the monster’s applauding voice.
Kung—
Warrior’s fist shattered dragon bone; Kaurladi’s soul, barely holding, released grip.
[From then.... All along....]
[Well done, Kaurladi. Your role ends here—planting doubt in father.]
Dragon flesh mere bonus.
Palkatus bid fading soul farewell, shifting to true body.
Tak.
Glossy horse piece set down.
“...Buddy, carry me. Time to gear up.”
Tak tak, clack clack—
Buddy, awaiting the word, gently lifted Palkatus into his fluids.
Their spot left scattered pebbles—a completed board. Palkatus’s final horse at center.
Perfect picture. One plan. One goal.
Leaving the board, Palkatus smiled brightly.
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