Chapter 327
Chapter 327
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree?
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April 27, ㅁㅁ Year.
Between the stars of Derail and Puelka. 13 degrees to the left.
....The voyage has begun, and that damned priest and our ship are already bound by taboo. All I know is what I've heard secondhand, but if I don't say something like this, the remaining crew will tear the ship apart to make rafts and escape. So we have no choice but to claim we're all taboo fodder.
The legend that you become a target just by approaching a taboo might be a lie made up by captains like me in situations like this. If the crew runs off before even reaching the 'village of taboo breakers,' I'd be left sitting on an empty ship in this vast desert, waiting to die. Damn it.
It's uncertain info, but I've heard there's definitely a place to avoid the quicksand. Probably on top of sandstone areas not yet buried in sand. The only way to avoid quicksand in the desert.
....Hung two more crew trying to escape from the mast. Please let the rumors be true.
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April 30, ㅁㅁ Year.
The lookout spotted quicksand. It chased the ship slowly but relentlessly.
Since we'd already laid eyes on the taboo enforcer itself, there was no need to hold back anymore. As captain, I took responsibility and spoke with the priest of abundance.
Maldaup Kern. Apparently a high-ranking priest. Even after three days without food or water, his face looked far more vibrant than ours. He said no apostle of abundance could look upon this parched land without heartache, and that he had come to bring the grace of abundance to the withered earth.
We confirmed wheat sprouting thickly between the wooden planks of the cabin where he was confined. Even a bed made of wheat stalks. What the hell did he use to grow that?
Not a single crew member accepted Maldaup's kind offerings. A human priest has to shit and piss like anyone else, but there wasn't a trace in his cabin. Except for the well-grown wheat stalks.
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My final hour.
I leave my last entry in this log that has accompanied me my whole life.
I, Captain Kalem Sunat, and 30 crew members will be devoured by quicksand as punishment for breaking the taboo.
Ah, the black maw reaching for the depths is visible before my eyes.
If, far in the future, this record rides the sands to the world, tell posterity of our end.
Do not break the taboo.
Kill outer god priests on sight to eliminate future troubles.
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May 02
Thank you! Thank you! Whether it's the desert's ancient will, our ancestors, or that goddess of abundance or whatever!
We survived! From that horrific crash, we survived!
Priest Maldaup was greater than we thought! The ship is completely covered in wheat stalks without a single gap, utterly unusable now, but they absorbed the impact, so here we are alive.
The priest mourned that he'd used up all his blessed seeds meant to spread abundance to new lands.
Of course, when one crew member clumsily mimicked his prayers, his face lit up like nothing had happened.
Hmm.... Latura, Tenebrie....? Is that how it goes?
We've come this far; nothing to hesitate about now.
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Flutter, flutter, flutter—
As they read page after page of the log, the crew who had freaked out claiming it was cursed began gathering closer bit by bit.
Well, who could resist being curious? It was the log of someone in exactly their situation.
‘I thought logs were just full of latitudes and such, but this one's surprisingly fun to read.’
It felt just like reading the diary of castaways on a deserted island.
But fun was fun. What he sought wasn't the tale of how the captain and crew survived.
It was how they died.
Flutter, flutter—
The Professor flipped through the old log briskly. They'd torn apart the irreparable ship to build a crude house on the sea's debris layer. They'd meticulously recorded edible sea creatures and poisonous ones. In a place blocked by sand sky above and nothing but sea below, the priest's missionary work was the crew's sole comfort. To the priest of abundance, abundant land itself was the temple; by growing wheat well to make fields, he said he could amplify divine power and request rescue from outer temples. The crew clung to that small hope.
All the joys and sorrows the castaways endured in less than a week were packed into this little book.
Flutter, flutter—
The captain's handwriting in the log grew smaller and smaller. To conserve ink, meaning he'd resolved to stay here quite a while. It also meant he'd seen a chance to survive.
Then, amid the tiny, neat script, the Professor's hand caught as he turned a page.
“....The pages are stuck together? Did seawater get in?”
“Give it here. I've spilled booze on logs before and had this happen. If you don't peel it right, it tears.”
The captain took the log from the Professor and carefully separated the stuck pages with practiced hands. He unfolded the stiff, dried page, pondered what he saw for a moment, then quickly handed it back.
“Hmm....”
“What, is the text smudged?”
“No. It seems this is where the part we've been looking for starts.”
Rustle.
Unlike the previous tiny script, the opened page was filled with scrawled writing that could tear the paper.
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Solar Year 121, May 13. No stars visible.
Crew are going missing. Incomprehensible.
In a sailor's life, there are countless times we go longer without outside contact.
Of course, our situation now is even more special, but these are men I've seen for over ten years. They're not that weak-willed.
Especially when some say they're happier and more stable here than up top, thanks to the priest. Why the hell would they jump into the sea?
....Fine, damn it. Not missing. Nine crew stripped neatly, folded their clothes, and dove naked into the sea, never to return.
The priest, me, and crew ambushing by the shore grabbed the naked diver.
Damn it, he was completely mad! Eyes vacant, shrieking horrifically and thrashing; even after the priest's holy magic subdued him, he flailed until wrists were raw and shoulders dislocated.
The sea is singing, he said. What the hell does that mean?
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Solar Year 121, May 14. No stars visible.
The one we caught ultimately went into the sea.
The pillar we tied him to had severed wrists and was soaked in blood. The remaining wrist bore clear bite marks.
The priest inscribed every holy rune and symbol he knew and devoted himself to prayer; the crew sang hymns by his side without eating.
How could I have forgotten? This is hell where ancient gods seize and kill taboo breakers.
No matter how strong the outer gods' lineage, this is within the desert's embrace.
A faint song came at dawn. Can't sleep.
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Solar Year 121, May 15.
I killed crew with my own hands.
The priest went mad, screaming, ‘Our god below calls us! He wants me!’ The praying crew threw him into the sea like a sacrifice.
They cheered at the priest sinking without a blink, then turned eyes seeking something else to fill empty hands.
Beheading the unarmed, lost souls was too easy.
But enduring the vast ocean waves surrounded by crew and shipwreck corpses in a sea of blood was impossibly hard.
Splash. Crash. Splash. Crash.
Right. To avoid going mad, clear the bodies first. Dumped the naked crew corpses into the sea one by one and picked up the pen again.
What to write now? Ah, yes. Left the desert, so not a voyage log anymore, but a sea log. Must write about the sea.
Like a beautiful woman waving her hand, the sea surface knocks clumsily on my house door.
A gentle touch. Ah, I'm not alone after all.
Her presence feels astonishingly firm, true.
Ah, so that's it. The song the crew spoke of, this beautiful call has finally reached me.
I hear it. I hear! Heavenly melody! My frail ears can't bear it, but brain and heart receive the sound!
I go. Ah, to you! Don't be angry I was late. Incomprehensible being of the depths.
.
.
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“....”
“....”
“....”
“....”
Thud.
The log, increasingly mad and bloodstained toward the end, cut off after that entry.
“Uh....”
What is this? Why's the genre shifting from fantasy to cosmic horror? Ancient gods really in the Elder God category? Huh?
A stark record of a group and its writer descending into madness.
The neat handwriting twisting, old paper soaked in seawater and blood—it made even the Professor, epitome of calm, break a cold sweat.
The crew? Already rubbing booze on furrowed brows, spinning in place spitting—some ritual to ward off bad luck, they said.
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- Highway Nacho Man: Cthulhu! Cthulhu!
- Take a Look: Need someone to stay up all night here with me till morning. Anyone. Please.
- Jokass: Gotta pull an all-nighter today. Work till I drop, sun'll rise eventually?
- Holy: I,I,I, I.... hope I don't stay here long.... uh....
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Chat room folks reacted much like the crew.
‘So, that thing below recovered the NPCs that came down here? Sucked 'em in with quicksand, then kept them cozy in its bosom?’
‘Let's see.... Quicksand only sucks up taboos, i.e., anything divine-related. Of those, useless ships, houses, etc., get spat out onto the sea surface, but the core NPCs get slurped up whole?’
‘Years in the log. Now's about Solar 129? 121 is.... before my character was created. Not Mutation Blood related.’
That sea center, glowing in the coral reef depths—surely the sunken moon.
Sunken moon. Fallen god collecting divine-related things.
“Ah....”
Palcatus—no, all Mutts are now spawn of the queen turned evil god?
The moment they entered the desert, they pinged the 'taboo radar.'
Riding mole beetles underground, closer to this sunken sea than surface humans.
Whether pulled by quicksand or bewitched by that 'song' into mole beetles diving with passengers aboard.
They inevitably encountered this sunken sea.
Plus, this sunken sea holds primordial life force—perfect for Mutts mass-producing troops by jamming chamber maids into parched earth. A gift from the heavens.
‘If the sunken moon collects holy units, the queen's direct descendant Palcatus could approach the moon too.’
Thus, Palcatus gained power tied to the desert's secret.
Shared some with Kaulradi, tempting him to fulfill an impossible wish.
Thanks to that, he devoured an incomplete dragon corpse whole....
‘He knew I could use holy power.’
‘Using holy power draws the sunken moon's hand, pulling it into its bosom.’
‘Dragon, a formidable foe. Environment forcing holy power use.’
『Hahaha. I plan to let you live. From now on too.』
‘....Fucking obnoxious bastard.’
Dragged me, openly declaring me their target before Kaulradi, all the way here.
Saying it aloud twists my limbs in disgust, but undeniable fact.
“Got hooked.”
Even kindly warned [On the way, the taboo quicksand seemed off; prepare countermeasures....] No room for doubt.
Palcatus foresaw the Professor using taboo quicksand as a last resort and lured him in.
Read him head to toe, stripped bare.
Sure, minor deceptions lately, but never so thoroughly outmaneuvered in a head-on brain battle. Quite the shock.
Look at the results.
Ally Nullak abandoned us; theirs got looted too, so promised reinforcements likely fizzle.
Lakshasha critically wounded and down; we're tossed with a cracked-bottom ship into unknown Mutt territory.
First met Palcatus around knighting as Hero of Light—about a year ago. In that short time, where'd that sniveling papa-boy go? Now dancing over my head.
‘....Comparing to someone.’
[What? Shouldn't you be ashamed the original you lags behind that knockoff?]
‘Then Hyde, you as Park Professor mk.2, step up to that bastard's level! Always lounging on the sofa sorting files! Hey! We got two brains on same hardware! How get owned so perfectly!’
[....Probably focus difference. That guy's got nearly all our info.]
Hyde's words forced a groan from the Professor.
True. The Professor fretted over Storm Hill, Empire, 3world's future, Clear and GG truths—everything.
Palcatus? One focus.
Me. Professor Park. Rival, father, nemesis in his head.
After Storm Hill wipe, turned eyes to desert to track and avoid me; meanwhile observed every move, power used in Empire.
Knows my combat style, tendencies—probably counts armpit hairs too.
Named built from player data, faithful to role: laser-focused on player.
Hell, can't believe it's programmed now. Calls me Park Professor, professor—why care about code?
“....Things went too smooth lately. Instinct dulled. Completely rusted.”
Tossed the read log into the box; Professor sighed at the blue sea below.
Fine. He licked me clean, played with that intel.
‘Then. Poke his blind spots.’
Cleared vast 'Clear' scenarios from mind, left only 'Palcatus' related.
Guy equal or superior fixated solely on me—can't slack or get cocky.
‘Besides, smashing him seems prerequisite to Clear itself.’
Post-meeting talks. Traits revealed. Mercenary skills. Thinking patterns. Surfaced all standout bits.
Then, things invisible to him. What I can wield outside his sight—one by one, listed.
Not many, but some solid ones.
....Near speculation, but if moon identity right, one sharp enough to draw blood.
“....He slipped first. Start there.”
Professor quietly brushed the pattern on his side, turned to blue sea.
Sunken sea. Mutts arrived first, claiming it smoothly— their home ground, sure.
But this side's a water mage.
Drop infamous 3world water whip into sea? Release drowning-immune lifeform into water! Utter non-mage thinking—lamentable!
‘Don't know? Then hit 'em with it.’
Like I got hit by unknown; now strike their blind side.
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