Chapter 345
Chapter 345
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: The Saint and the Completer (1)
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Ch.16: The Saint and the Completer (1)
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Gulp—gulp—
“Grrraaah—”
The liquor gifted by Captain Avery was insanely potent.
When I emerged from the dragon’s lair, the only ones around were the busy sailors; my companions had vanished somewhere. Judging by how the pyre’s firewood had burned down, about an hour had passed. Unlike the World Tree’s domain, the dragon’s lair didn’t freeze time.
And, well.
The sailors, who’d been working through the night with torches lit, freaked out and tumbled over at my sudden appearance in a blaze of light.
While they celebrated that I’d returned in one piece—unlike Aldarna or Senica, who they’d only heard had been taken by the dragon—Captain Avery quietly patted my shoulder and pointed to the crow’s nest. He’d fetched a metal flagon decorated with jewels that looked like a work of art. With the battlefield cleanup and funeral rites done, there was nothing left for me to do. Our ship’s rule was to give bereaved crew a day off and the best booze available.
“...Wonder how much a sip of this costs.”
Thanks to that, while everyone else was occupied, I got lucky—sipping strong liquor up in the crow’s nest, stargazing.
It was bitter and harsh, but the aroma was overwhelming. So much so that, savoring the beautiful flavor, I instinctively nodded thanks toward the captain.
The flagon alone must be worth a fortune. Under the bright torchlight, thick rubies and emeralds sparkled, with a vivid dragon engraving at the center that seemed alive.
“Aha.”
Peeking down from the crow’s nest, I saw a merchant from the Gold Geyser sweating bullets, trembling as he pried open a crate hauled up by the crew. His face paled at the radiant glow spilling out, on the verge of fainting.
The sunken desert. The relics that sank with its history were mostly goods from foolhardy merchants dreaming their own Silk Roads. Desert folk feared the taboos, but inlanders dismissed them as native superstitions.
That centuries-old shipwreck graveyard formed the surface layer of the sunken sea, so the value of what they salvaged was incalculable. Above all, the sunken sea had swallowed even the fragments of the desert kingdom where dragons once gathered. Just the appraiser’s expression showed that the crew’s random grabs were national-treasure-tier rarities. This liquor was probably something similar—aged centuries without turning to vinegar, its aroma still so robust it needed airing out.
“Fare’s more than covered now.”
The Dry Oasis was battered from the mutants. The sloop wings were snapped and repurposed as doors, the auxiliary mast broken in half, the hull’s sides a ragged mess of claw and fang marks. The crew was in no better shape.
That much cash could let them quit seafaring, return home, and live lavishly for three generations.
...Gulp, gulp, gulp—
“Grrraaahhh.”
The flagon-tilted liquor scorched down my throat, belching fiery heat.
Flickering bonfire. Hazy smoke.
Blink. Blink.
The system alert blinking annoyingly, as if on purple purpose.
“...Fine, fine. I get it—even you, the creepily ominous system, what you want.”
My mind was still a mess, but I couldn’t just stall forever.
Buzzed, I tapped the pile of backlog alerts I knew was waiting.
Ding-!
[Player ‘Professor’s external connection resumes.]
“...Chat first. Gotta check the chat.”
No doubt chaos like last time, so best broadcast I’m fine. Most here are my contacts—fastest way. Private messages might go unseen if they’re offline.
Shaking my dizzy head, I picked my words and opened the familiar-yet-strange chatroom: [Professor’s Game-Born Game-Death (Real Death) Ch.1].
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- Nutria Pass: Squawk! Came back from work and your stream exploded!
- Heung An Mandu: Oh, ratling! Haven’t seen you lately—working? Doing what?
- Nutria Pass: Moved to the new 4th Dome in Sector 45. The great Chancellor decreed free water and bread for revolutionary survivors embodying the frontier spirit!
- Jokasss: Looking at us retards, we’re full of talent. Sector 45? Military? Busy, huh?
- Nutria Pass: Nah nah, still a sturdy-legged power plant grunt bringing light to underground bunkers.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Untouchable pariah chic. Risked Sector 45 for that? Front lines collapse and we get support missions daily. It’s 4D Zergling Blood experience central.
- Nutria Pass: No choice. Safe zones stripped bare—no more farming to survive. No special skills, mouths to feed, so refugee aid for scraps.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Oh, family alive? Super lucky guy? Kids how old?
[Player ‘Professor’ has entered-]
- Nutria Pass: Not kids, parents. War trauma, can’t move—gotta earn for three.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Holy fuck
- Jokasss: Bulletproof vest ass
- Deer Drug Please: A young guy still doing ‘filial piety.’ Pad-lip damage victims still exist in the wasteland!
- Holy: Top husband material. Kept two immobile parents alive.
- Nutria Pass: Oh, interest? Come for tea? Households fit for married life are rare these days?
- Holy: Generator bum though...
- Deer Drug Please: Rich girl too good for generator beggar.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Decent guy, but just decent.
- Nutria Pass: Damn it! Deer, you’re a generator worker too! Intra-species hate!
- Deer Drug Please: You’ve got dependents. I am the dependent? Our pro moneymaker machine buys rice, meat too~♥
- Jokasss: ...Miss Mom.
- Deer Drug Please: Can’t see Mom, but I’ll make you Dad?
- Jokasss: I-Investigate! Call investigators! Hwaaaah!
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.
.
.
.
“...Huh?”
My typing excuse-fest halted.
No panic, no worry. Even my entry notice got buried in their banter, scrolled up out of sight.
...What?
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[Player ‘Jokasss’, ‘Deer Drug Please’ have left.]
- Professor: Everyone doing well?
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Oh, Prof! Perfect timing! I just hopped in!
- Heung An Mandu: Y-yeah... you’re back? How’s the bo—oh, you don’t know? That’s outside stuff.
- Heung An Mandu: Congrats? Dome cut stream prepping your ‘mutated body’ or whatever for exit. Clear’s close, huh? Lemme see... still in desert?
- Professor: Mutated body... my outside body? They’re tuning it? That’s why stream cut?
- Heung An Mandu: That’s how I got it? Uh... right?
- Professor: Y-yeah, spot on! Body’s unique, so... all around? Like F1 pit crew swarming to swap tires—total overhaul!
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Bullshitted through, then scrolled up for history. Notice popped: [With clear nearing, prepping Professor’s consciousness transfer via major mutated body care.]
“...Director Young’s quick on the draw. Didn’t want extra chaos in refugee-riddled Dome.”
Last Empire stream cut, Professor Church folks protested admin to save Professor—armed demos, nightmare for rulers. They prepped countermeasures. Calmed it fast.
Anyway, less for me to do—good news.
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- DOOMgay: Yo.
- Professor: Well, well. If it isn’t the BDSM boss.
- DOOMgay: Brain-fried puppet on Chancellor’s remote leash. Heard you’re out soon. Always saw you tangled like a maggot den—untangled somehow?
- Professor: ...Yeah.
- DOOMgay: Prep’s needed for exit. Body’s on admin/us, but other stuff piles up.
- Nutria Pass: Ah, yeah. Gotta brace. Definitely needs prep.
- Professor: For what.
- Heung An Mandu: Jokasss’s happy home spark nothing? For real?
- Professor: ...Divorce lawyer?
- Holy: Opposite. Wasteland romance starts cohabiting unless armed meetup, but smooth like them? Rare. Golden couple?
- DOOMgay: Yup. Usually one’s found shotgunning divorce papers with the other’s corpse. They’ve hit century-harmony.
- Number Three: Sis-in-law! Sis-in-law! Dana girl! You said handle it, trusted you, skipped stream! That killer Lakshashan babe! What happened? Not beside you—handled?
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...Clack.
Mid-cheerful reunion chat, typing froze like nailed down.
Glaring bitterly at empty flagon, creak-creak rope below—lukewarm cactus booze bottles tied, hauled up. Sailor waving up: Naruka. Young crow’s nest hand. Sharp eyes, night vision too.
Click, pop—
Sour cheap rotgut opposite the prior nectar, but it loosened my fingers.
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- Professor: ...Handled.
- Number Three: Grrraaah, pure romantic! Didn’t peg obsessive—where’s she now? Gone forever? No loose ends?
- Professor: ...Sharp. Right here.
- Number Three: Uh... huh?
- DOOMgay: ...No wonder face soured hard. Revenge? Clean finish?
- Professor: Woulda been disaster. I killed her.
- DOOMgay: ...Fuckin’ hell.
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Age unknown, always “bro, bro” friendly kid—I pointed at dying embers.
Wastelanders, no “why/who killed” queries. All seen comrades die, headshot risen mutants. Nuances said they got it. These guys knew me long enough.
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- DOOMgay: ...Boozing? Anyone with home liquor—grab it.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Ours—I’ll fetch. Bukhar bag’s stuffed with his moonshine.
- Heung An Mandu: Barely rice here.
- DOOMgay: Outpost? Grab diluted sanitizing alcohol. Cheers with that—won’t kill if done right.
- Professor: Such fuss...
- DOOMgay: Not fussing—clean end for your ‘sob sob’ pity party style. Drink, sleep. Fresh new life tomorrow.
- DOOMgay: Cheers.
- Heung An Mandu: Cheers—haven’t in forever.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Cheers—
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“...Sigh. Masters at boozefests... What’s virtual cheers worth.”
Grumbling, bottle-hand rose to empty air.
“...Cheers.”
To unseen friends. Unseen glasses. And somewhere beyond, the forever-gone.
Clink.
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- Heung An Mandu: Urk, whaaathellishboozer.xckl
- DOOMgay: This fucker’s smashed.
- Heung An Mandu: Aaaah acutealcoholpoisoncureanyonequickpls-
- DOOMgay: Nah, survives. Russian pals did it—only five died.
- Holy: Uh... how many total?
- DOOMgay: Twenty-two-ish?
- Heung An Mandu: Giiive...moooreaaarghgrawrblech
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Snicker.
Ian blended in long— their drum-and-cymbal antics amusing.
Hot buzz-mingled emotions flowed out with the chuckle, quietly fading.
“...Farewell, Anaya. Next time... better man.”
Professor finally felt ready to move on.
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- DOOMgay: Alright, drank, cheered wrinkled Prof—business time.
- Professor: Business? What?
- DOOMgay: See? Dragon-magic brainrot kills reality sense. Me and Ezel, usual 3-4 min lurkers, stuck chattering—feel the diff? Wasteland corner-diggers suddenly chatty?
- Professor: Logged in?
- DOOMgay: Yeah, dude. Shifted back to Dome full-time from 2-shift wandering. 45 developing, but stocked. Outpost military maintenance sharper even.
- Nutria Pass: Ah, daytime beggar horde was you? Early login this time? Heard Sector 45 scavenging, rough ride too?
- DOOMgay: ...Shit.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Met nobility...? Right?
- DOOMgay: Noble(貴人) or demon(鬼人)...
- DOOMgay: Damn, Chancellor pinpointed that fucker’s shack?
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Spot-on. Coords precise—guided strike’d bomb his shelter roof.
- DOOMgay: Mission bonus. Squeezing Dome dry like now, snagging him helps. Need Prof for that. Avoid Chancellor’s pet-collar—needs devil tongue like his.
- Heung An Mandu: Who’d rattle you? Joined violent outsider gang?
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: ...Thousand Stream Emperor. Came with him.
- Heung An Mandu: Huh?
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Pffft!
“Who? Thousand Stream Emperor?”
That guy. Argalian Sword-block, mock-Gora, dragon-slayer, world-conqueror with sword dance—certified Superman.
Why’s he popping up here.
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- Nutria Pass: Heaven-Earth I Alone Supreme, Supreme Martial Thousand Stream Emperor? Still alive? No stream since 4World—thought dead?
- DOOMgay: Yo, Nutria? Fan? Knows him well?
- Nutria Pass: ...Kinda?
- DOOMgay: Good. Aid investigation. Human? US super soldier? Old-era cyborg indistinguishable from human?
- Heung An Mandu: Nah, overkill. Even for him.
- Nutria Pass: But... not impossible. Folks checked his login code registered with ID—no 2nd sec? Bio code, vehicle, citizen ID, zilch. Jungle/wild island spawn? Or gov-wiped super soldier past. Why? GG moves—deflects bullets, slices mutants sword-only? Bone-deep swordsman in robes?
- DOOMgay: Guy I saw: wasteland hazmat, bursts shelter, one-hands chainsaw strung with Lv.5 laser cutters. Epic—if not swung at us.
- Nutria Pass: No sword? Disappointing. Emperor’s mark: one hand, one waist.
- Soy Sauce Gaybar: Used one. Waist sword idle, spare hand paring knife whirl. Live with certified psychos, but grenade-cook, toss—palm-knife slices fuze off clean? Chills.
- Heung An Mandu: Wait—fought him life-or-death? Grenades, mod laser blades? Why? Looted?
- DOOMgay: Dunno! Fucker charged outta nowhere!
- Heung An Mandu: Came together. Corpse haul or trucked subdued?
- DOOMgay: Dodges crossfire barrage with steps, charges—freak laser-chainsaw smashes tank barrel mid-swing, halts. Glances Vex face, mine, shredded BDSM flag—withered breadstick voice: ‘Professor here too?’
- Heung An Mandu: Huh?
- Nutria Pass: What?
- Holy: Pardon?
- Professor: Me?
- DOOMgay: Yeah, you. Psycho hunting you?
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“...Why?”
No link to Thousand Stream Emperor. Except one.
‘Completer. I’m third candidate. Third clearer. Second: him. First: Levit.’
Gedroits-related only.
“...He nearby?”
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- DOOMgay: Meditating BDSM HQ after sparring crew to hospital.
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Ian’s reply—Professor clenched fist unwittingly.
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