Chapter 342
Chapter 342
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 342
Chapter Title: Can One Who Has Seen the End of the World Plant an Apple Tree? (47)
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****
Whoosh!
The pyre, piled high with the wreckage of shattered ships, burned endlessly, relentlessly.
Even as the victors' cheers rang out after the battle's end, the battlefield's horrors did not fade.
Countless pyres dotted the glass plains of the sand sea. The ships that had carried the holy knights were now smoke, accompanying them on their final journey.
Anaya, too, rode the same flames into the inferno.
“You’re here.”
As I stared blankly at the blaze, someone approached me.
“Gold Gazer Merchant Guild, head of liquor, arts, and precious metals trading—Bergenev Adran.”
“...Yes.”
Adran. A direct descendant of the Adran family. One of the blood kin Lucilla had mentioned.
Even in my grief-stricken haze, my mind deduced his identity and purpose. Not the top grain overseer, the guild’s prized asset, so not the eldest son as vice-guildmaster. Yet he handled grain-related liquors and high-value goods, placing him around second or third in succession rights.
“...Sending someone off is heartbreaking, but it’s undeniable that Saint has achieved a great victory. Just as we mourn them, shouldn’t Saint lead by example, allowing the survivors to express their joy in victory? Proclaiming triumph to the living is the duty of a hero.”
“...Is that so.”
Speak of victory for others’ sake. Politely put, it meant ‘stop whining and get up.’
Fair enough. A three-year exclusive contract on all grains for the Radiant Church was a massive deal involving national budgets. Sealed verbally, rattled off like machine-gun fire on the fly—no wonder there was a mountain of follow-up work. Especially for the Adran family, drained of liquid assets by skyship development.
But this wasn’t the place for such talk amid the holy knights’ dirge at the cremation grounds. Not under normal circumstances.
‘Choosing profit over my goodwill.’
Goodwill? No one could claim more than Lucilla, who’d crossed death’s threshold with me. This meant plastering on a poker face here, squeezing maximum gain as merchant to client. Dumping a contract stuffed with poison clauses on a grief-addled mark unable to think straight. Basic merchant craft in this era. Perhaps even enough to upend the Adran succession, long set in stone—so wrap it up personally before busy brother returned from western front supply runs.
...Reality was the wave shoving grief aside. Yes. Time to work. At least then, I could forget her final moments, the vivid sensation lingering on my fingertips.
As I hauled my slack knees upright, color bloomed in the merchant’s eyes.
Clank—
“Bergenev of the Adran family, was it?”
A heavy metal gauntlet blocked the merchant’s outstretched hand.
“Saint is observing the sacred rite. Mundane affairs can wait until all departing brothers of the Light are sent off.”
A burly holy knight with fierce eyes and massive build. It was Gregorius.
Blood-soaked armor and towering frame parted merchant and me like a wall just by advancing.
“Holy Knight Captain Gregorius of Roharam. I’ve heard much. As expected of a knight of the Light—even to my ignorant eyes, your faith—”
“Do not speak his name lightly, you who know nothing.”
“Th-that... I apologize. If I may, Saint seems merely to be observing the rite... Surely there’s time for a quick signature? We’ve prepared everything—just needs your seal...”
“I said no.”
“No, that’s for Saint to decide—”
“No.”
Clank.
“You, Bergenev of Adran—dare claim petty worldly coin games outweigh the lives of one hundred sixty-five souls who died screaming? Here to fatten on saints’ coin, yet brothers’ deaths fetch no profit, so beneath notice? Is this how Adran treats the Light?”
Gregorius closed another step. Bergenev, Adran direct kin who’d crossed hellscapes, wasn’t a match for this blood-drenched holy knight fresh from slaughter not an hour past.
“L-let’s discuss the deal later.”
“Grateful. Lathura, Ro Haram.”
“Th-then, I’ll...!”
Bergenev fled like a rabbit; the beast-like growling knight turned solemn as he faced me.
“If I’ve overstepped in blocking Saint’s affairs, punish me. I’ll accept gladly.”
“...No. I... must’ve lost my senses for a moment.”
The sensation still clung to my fingertips. Her spine shattering, trembling like a fledgling bird before going limp—that moment too vivid for thought.
Losing one was enough; Gregorius had lost hundreds he’d trained, fought beside, right here.
“Then... if I may overstep further.”
His weary eyes met my sunken ones. Deep pupils mirrored loss like a looking glass.
“Saint hasn’t steadied because this lowly soul and others filled a greater vessel. You are the vessel holding Light, voice of our collective will. Your grief mirrors the Light’s heart, cherishing departed as own flesh. No brother blames you for pausing to rest. They’d rejoice at entering your embrace, even briefly.”
While I’d stood petrified sending Anaya off, Gregorius had commanded the rest. He’d ordered swift recovery of holy knights sinking in the sand sea, gathered ship debris for pyres on the glass plains, compiled casualty lists for church funerals.
“Yet, thus.”
Clank.
The holy knight knelt before me, hands clasped.
“Hesitate, waver—but do not fade. If we who witnessed their dawn-flash end halt here, who proves their deaths worthwhile? If light piercing night gutters before touching dark earth, who knows dawn came?”
“...”
“Pray and advance, brother. That our brothers, families, loved ones ascending that dim sky may see our light and find peace.”
“Faith propels me; brothers of that faith sustain me. As you carry the departed’s will, they march eternally beside us.”
“Thus our deaths are not ends, but new journeys. Fallen brothers’ light links soul to soul, reaching the Guide of Light at last. All that light converging for great purpose—we call ‘Radiance.’”
“Brother, for those who’ll walk your path ahead, pray. Lathura.”
“Lathura... Ro—Haram.”
Prayer and vow entwined. The church’s vow, forged battling evil across history’s span, piled with equal sacrifice. Vowing never to render that sacrifice vain.
Its weight anchored my grief-tossed heart. If Anaya saw me slumped like this, wouldn’t she scoff, ‘Never chose such a weakling man’?
Recalling her drew a hollow chuckle. Laughter rasping from a parched throat—what spilled and vanished, regret, guilt, despair? Unknown.
The Professor extended a hand, helping Gregorius rise.
“...Kept parroting ‘read the scriptures’ like a myna bird—thought you lacked eloquence.”
“This dim knight’s poor counsel aided Saint, even slightly?”
“More than you imagine.”
“Then... read the scriptures indeed. All I said is drawn from its verses. Hahaha.”
Dry laughter as he drew a slim scripture from his waist pouch, pressing it into my chest.
“Pffft... you people...”
“Unyielding stance is the true form of Light’s servant.”
His steadfastness, ink smudges and handwritten notes peeking from the blood-crusted palm-sized tome—drew a wry laugh from me, matching the knight’s.
Laughter barely more than shallow breaths amid lingering loss, but enough vigor to press on.
Rustle.
Pyre flames cast shadows behind the standing pair.
“Heading out?”
“Yes. Soothe that Adran kin you scared off, thank the visiting mages, talk with my crew... War’s not over. Piles of work—can’t sit idle forever. Brother’s right; can’t dawdle under the eyes of the gone.”
“They’re all church folk, admiring Saint—surely they’ll forgive a day’s rest?”
“Hahaha. Too many hotheads among those I carry.”
Gregorius urged rest, but now rest held no appeal.
Dark shepherd. Daddy Lewil. ‘His Majesty’ Chester King Major. Squad leader Wally, Miss Mister Marty. M.J. Doris. Palmer. Liam... Old comrades vanished in battle’s roar.
Father. Mother.
Holy knights who trusted and fell. Anaya.
Too many behind to not advance.
Holy knights’ baritone dirge flowed into low humming. Swallowing grief, they parted for their marching saint.
Eloquent as he was, facing hundreds’ smoke on his call left him wordless.
“...May Radiance be with you.”
Small nod, small salute. All the Professor could manage.
Smoke mingled with knights’ song, rising heavenward.
****
“Yggdrasil...”
“Yes. Ottoman.”
“Professor and I. You and Notum... Just us four again.”
Borca. Aldrich. Lucilla. And, Rakshasha.
Ottoman recalled those once in their party, pondering the inexorable flow.
Closest witness, he knew each farewell reshaped the river in the Professor’s depths.
Paralysis of unknown origin lifted; legs still trembling, they followed the Professor’s path out.
Escaping the moon’s innards at last, their eyes beheld:
Night sky settled on glass plains—and at center, Professor embracing Rakshasha from behind.
‘Not one to wither... but worrying. Hope the torrent doesn’t overwhelm.’
Hatchling Senika’s thick tears plopped; Notum, holding her, shed fist-sized drops.
Fortunately, Professor approaching wore resolve amid sorrow—Ottoman sighed relief.
“Body alright?”
“Now’s no time to fret over others? You, without rest...”
“Resting brings thoughts flooding. Busy’s better.”
“Hmm... Still, you...”
“I’m fine. Really. Got unexpected comfort.”
En route, Professor recalled visitors in order.
Wind mages first—flighty lot, had to snag quick.
Many familiar faces. Like the lightning mage stroking his long beard in odd speech.
---------
“Ooom—guest who smashed home.”
“Ah, Galrude. You too. But Astraad... not here?”
“Oooom—nooo—Arty’s stuck home working~”
“...Arty? Work? Weren’t you secretaries on letter duty break?”
“Nooo—even that—fearsome young empress squeezes us on ‘friendship’ pretext...”
“Empire letters halt a day, she’ll unleash cats on home... our dear homeland!”
“Eeeek!”
“Felix mercy!”
“That terror fluffball rampaging corners, fur blanketing home... Great Felix Drixiel’s remains transmitted to posterity as cat giant traces—!”
“Ooom... Empress Lucilla knows us too... too well...”
“Last time she visited, beat me as dustball...”
“...Then with fifty here, who’s left at home?”
“Arty.”
“Astraad aside.”
“...Arty works well.”
“Ooom~ one-man army. Fifty gone, still fifty-worth~”
“She handles all empire letters alone?”
“You left hill~ all waved goodbye, Arty solo’d it? Looked relieved, haggard—we’ve... sorta... slacked since~”
“You... wizard bastards...”
“Hehehehihi! Guest, Arty sends regards. These letters from all us to you.”
“Showed good stuff, so help as needed. Familiar guest.”
“Skyships serve fine grub.”
“...Thanks. All of you.”
“Ooom—so, where’s our pup? Won’t tell?”
“Never. Don’t know, and wouldn’t if I did. Why sour his hard-won peace with wizards?”
“Fine... I’ll find if needed. Hehehe!”
---------
Astraad’s gift over greetings. Wind mages came ready to aid post-war, no convincing needed.
Unpredictable, yet generous to favorites—bending social norms with kindness.
Like during skyship greetings, when third son Bergenev Adran returned for contract talk.
Scrutinized his clauses, shredded to dust.
Likely planned to fleece me like a dazed widow’s insurance. Thought sending direct kin to this hell was gesture; now seemed expendable fool—contract a mess of breaches, ethics, commerce norms.
First skyship test flight, no?
Roman’d insist on desert jaunt regardless; instead, clueless lightweight for mega-deal beyond numbers.
Skyship public, Roman prime recruit/assassin target for guilds/nations; Adran, sunk roots-deep in his tech, couldn’t risk a hair on him. Obviously no true valuables to warzone—like this chaff.
Likely why Roman, shipwright, stowed in engine room secret nook.
Newly aboard, no clue where.
All thanks to wind mages’ eager aid.
---------
“Ooom—merchant pal, cloud trip with us?”
“Kh... Hm! Grateful for mages’ sincerity, but mere trader I—”
“Hehehe! Come on!”
“Yeah! Rode cool toy, repay!”
“Snub mage kindness, die!”
“W-wait! What’s—”
Pewooong—
“Waaaaaaah—”
“Flying! Up!”
“Ship over clouds—we’ll show below!”
“—Aaaaaaaaaa——”
---------
Mages hurled Bergenev rocket-like from craft, pointed inside with bizarre gestures (supposed signals).
Crew noticed, eyed distant speck and us, feigning blindness—knew of Roman’s stowaway.
Thus, tacit consent led inside skyship.
Where I met bearded wreck Roman.
---------
“...Roman? Roman Gacia Manson?”
“Hahahahahaha! Long time, friend! Doing... not well, looks! Face’s a sight!”
“How here... Bergenev said you’re deep in family labs...”
“Hahahahahahaha! Finally fooled that viper patriarch, scaled Adran walls! Dare not board my childlike skyship—sole success of many, ‘Authentic Skyship No.148’ heaven-ascent form—as magitech engineer, unbearable! Ah, also brag to co-developer you!! Hahahaha your alchemist pals ace! Hahahaha!”
“‘148’ sole success... prior 147 just prototypes/skeletons?”
“Nope! All crashed! Gloriously oxidized for progress! Crew trains high-altitude freefall before skyship maint! Hahahaha!”
“Rumor Voltare Adran patriarch fainted thrice... true.”
“Twice! Last, I caught him pre-127 crash-learned! Engine aflame before him—I asked if ok, he bellowed curses mixing Teldrat Gore, engine-rival roar! Spry for age! Hahahahahaha!”
---------
Still manic, ever-laughing—unlike my shaken self, zero doubt pursuing will.
Roman completed skyship beyond my imaginings.
Post-greetings, apology from him.
---------
“Hahaha! Patriarch narrower than thought—delayed! Sorry! You, life-saver, dodging death repeatedly—I just cleanup!!”
“Late? Your aid wrapped it neatly...”
“No, late! Earlier, that smoke festival smoke, dirge triumph hymn, your somber face usual Professor, pure friend-joy glow! Sorry, too late!”
---------
Face laughing, fist pounding chest/wall.
He’d watched from above.
Professor learned one could look apologetic while grinning. Yes. That’s Roman.
---------
“...Thanks. Roman.”
“Hahaha! Fine! You’ll be ok!”
“Thanks to you, much better. Truly grateful.”
“Hahahahaha! Really grateful? Later lop more limbs! Can’t find spirit-crafter like that black mage—need prime materials! Great hero, century-returned Radiance cardinal Professor’s limbs—shadow black mages’ll leap for! This skyship’s got your first ‘Chickensensor’!”
---------
Thud.
His passion-hot hand clasped mine. Friend truly sorry, impossibly swift skyship, self-blaming for delay.
...Felt anew: world not centered on me. While I rampaged empire, Roman Gacia Manson leveraged Adran gold/manpower—147 failures (testing every brain spark, money no object)—delivered skyship I’d pegged next world.
Astraad anchored centerless Felix Home... firmly as home-part. Lucilla no longer bratty trader, but passionate Empress Lucilla Agdan.
“Even as tragic hero wallowing, world spins indifferent. Realization killed sitting still.”
“...Glad you overcame safely, Professor.”
“Overcame... depends on next meeting’s view.”
Fwoosh—
Flutter!
Mid-quiet talk with Ottoman, vast presence alit with wingbeats.
“Thanks for waiting. Great Ancient, Atlaheva.”
『Mortals fragile. Ready? ...Let’s move. Much... very much to discuss.』
“...Haven’t reached ‘qualification’—not much to say?”
『Near. Even rigid ‘system’ half-acknowledges—now mere time. Plenty to share.』
Dragon voice brought familiar spine-tingle. Time congealing, world glassing away.
“Be back, Ottoman.”
“Dragon summit... Hear over bath after.”
“...Sounds nice.”
Flash—
Last words, blinding light—Professor and dragon vanished.
****
Scratch scratch—
Rip.
Sizzle!
Yggdrasil eyed her record, tore front pages. Ottoman, rooted where Professor vanished, turned.
“...Record dissatisfying?”
“Fact-based record—satisfy or not? Merely understood.”
Understood. Ottoman wondered what lore-lusting elf learned now. Her eyes odd since ‘saw Mother Tree.’
“What... did you understand?”
“...Nothing grand. However much I record today, those absent can’t learn ‘human’ from it. Rather, limited script breeds illusion of grasp, knowledge-absorption—begetting arrogance like this elf.”
Sizzle—
Tear—
Yggdrasil ripped more, plucked/twined hairs.
“For kin? No—personal diary only.”
“Then... notebook near empty?”
“...Enough. Rest, learn outside direct. Live with humans? Feel skin-deep, not knowledge. Thus, records convey human affairs via senses, not words.”
Bark-bound notebook cover: no text inside—Yggdrasil’s hobby sketches only.
Ending lone man in night sky. Elf’s awakening for human insight moved Ottoman.
“You... learn fast?”
“...Half-human.”
Last sketch split notebook in two. Diary side hugged close; sketches side, she leaped ship with.
Good for homeland kin, but more/efficient for Carnelan elves—she knew via light priests’ swift global spread.
Clutching sketchbook, toward knight ‘Gregorius’—pondering dissemination speed.
****
—Flash!
World Tree-like alien space.
But where that held grandeur...
Here, mind-melting white void. Save three dragons.
“Aldarshax... Then beside, Atlaheva. Senika too?”
Blue dragon filled view. Red-dress woman, pink lizard beside.
『Saladin. Honored to welcome here.』
“Thanks for returning ancestor’s power to brother, Saladin.”
Siblings bowed unison; Professor pondered—accept dragon greets before famed crotchety Ancient? Or grand prostration?
“Greetings later. His head’s full of other things now.”
『Yes, Grandmatron.』
“Kkiruluk.”
Only one ‘Grandmatron’ for them—red-dress speaker, Atlaheva.
She stepped forward, light-orb atop hand.
Knew without words: what, who.
“...She went well?”
“Yes. Safely. Valkatus’s order aside, generational soul ‘errors’ need caution. Rakshasha’s clean—no grudge, regret. Next world, vibrant woman again.”
“...Thanks.”
“Nothing. You sent well. Seems this ‘world’ few errors—glad.”
Flash—
Rakshasha’s soul—data soul—from Atlaheva’s hand vanished.
“Yes... Called you for tales to tell.”
“...Honestly, heard most via Valkatus.”
“Valkatus... Truly, you’re special player anew. You, his conclusions... Hydra too.”
[....Hic!]
‘...Hydra?’
[Aigoo! Don’t call! Say I’m not! Scary auntie’ll grab me!]
“Hehehe. Won’t grab—sit, listen. This talk stems from Professor-player uniqueness. You belong too.”
“...Hear thoughts too?”
“Of course. What think dragons are?”
No wonder quiet as mouse awhile. Locked eyes with Atlaheva—mine not, inner direct.
“Now guests seated. Time for ancient duty.”
“Duty...?”
“Yes. Duty. First, show this. Aldarshax. Polymorph human?”
『S-sorry, Grandmatron. Magic-handling yet...』
“Fine. Revert sister-like. Can’t eye-level dragon vid.”
『Yes.』
Aldarshax shifted to past ‘Aldar.’ Plush sofa behind hatchling siblings; small box grew before.
Old, museum-like brown-tube TV—belly protruding.
“Poor quality, forgive. Born of His touch, finale bears His taste heavy.”
“That one...”
Atlaheva ignored, slotted black cassette-like vid under spherical TV. Label: ‘Genesis’ scrawled marker.
Static—crackle—
Gray noise cleared; greasy-bearded middle-aged man appeared.
Fatigue-lined face, fierce eyes—paced camera irritably.
[....God. Worse shitbag than thought, watered vodka bastard. No doubt.]
“Th-that?”
“Focus. Creator’s record for posterity.”
Man’s look, Atlaheva’s words—pointed same.
Man, younger Andrey Gedroits than known, rambled camera-Professor like.
Pacing mid-sentence, snatched side bottle irritably—gulped half-empty—hoisted camera to face.
[I won’t be murdered by that ass-heavy god. Won’t let it. Eyes open, never yield to homo god! Absolutely!!!]
Mad, bloodshot glare bored camera.
****