Chapter 381
Chapter 381
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Travel Preparations (4)
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A few minutes of sprinting out the administration building's back door and into the back alley used by the inspection team.
“Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be anyone over here.”
“Looks like you’re pretty used to this sort of thing.”
“Not as much as you, but I’m a bit of a celebrity in my own right. Usually Ian or Bex come with me when I head out, but when I have to go alone, I’ve borrowed these back paths a time or two.”
“A celebrity... Even getting this kind of treatment in the real world feels awkward.”
“You’ll get used to it. Right now, just the news of your recovery is plastering the community—you’re a celebrity.”
Screech—
The camouflaged door swung open, bringing a rush of dampness and the stench of mold. It must connect to some external warehouse.
In the brief pause, the exhausted Dana plopped down on a nearby rickety crate to catch her breath, and I flopped down beside her.
Alright, let’s take a moment to sort this out.
“So, those folks are calling themselves the ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch’?”
The moment we stepped outside, a thunderous “Latura!!!” roared from somewhere, and I swear my heart stopped. No joke. One of them actually stuttered to a halt, twitching.
Not that it wasn’t true—I’d only recently crawled out of a world where people shouted that at every meal.
My imagination even went as far as: [Turns out the war ended in a miserable defeat, and a grudge-filled Edeorna dragged my barely-alive ass back to turn me into a brain in a jar.]
It could happen, right? The 3rd World’s end was a picture-perfect happy ending. After pickling my brain in that blissful fantasy, snap! Fingers click, the grim northern cave materializes, Edeorna approaches my severed head with a cruel smile, asking, “Human, did you enjoy the dream I prepared?” before resuming the torture. Something like that...
...
...
...
Yeah, thoughts like that crossed my mind! I was seriously freaked out! Damn it, next hospital visit, I need some psychological counseling too! The game’s so mixed with reality that I still don’t fully feel like I’ve escaped!
“Definitely, those people do have a bit of an extreme side.”
Hearing my inner monologue, Dana nodded quietly.
“First off, they’re not actually into real religious rituals or anything, right? A group that size could manifest even faint divine power in GG.”
“Hmm... You might want to calm down a bit. Realistically, they don’t have much religious influence. To begin with, the predecessor of the ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch’ was the ‘Professor Park Official Fan Club.’ It’s more a fandom group than a proper religious organization.”
“Phew!”
Relief washed over me. I’d been worried that next login, Norman the Archbishop would leer at me with, “Saint, did you like the gift I sent?”
“It started as a small gathering, from what I hear. As you know, people under the Dome’s protection each have their assigned jobs, and life’s pretty tough. Most folks’ hobbies boil down to reading community posts or watching broadcasts. The ‘Professor Park Official Fan Club’ gatherings began as, ‘Hey, let’s grab a meal together since we share this hobby.’”
A single bowl of rationed slop earned from pedaling generators all day. Even bland porridge went down easier with like-minded company as the side dish, so after work, people would light fires in oil drums at the refugee camp’s edge, project old broadcasts of mine on battered projectors, and call it a day.
Up to here, it’s no different from the everyday gatherings all over the Dome. Not just among my viewers, either.
“And as you know... your broadcasts objectively have a lot of positive influence worth spreading.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You worry a lot about the things that have worn thin in the wasteland. Most scenes in your streams show you bleeding and striving for exactly that. No one watches and suddenly reforms with an ‘Ah, I should live like that!’ but at least it reminds people of what they’d forgotten.”
Refugee camps. Refugees, naturally, aren’t under perfect government control. They overflowed from capacity due to disasters to begin with.
Even manpower generator workers—bottom rung though they are—are under the Dome’s protection. But the camps house plenty who aren’t: elders who exhausted their strength reaching Sector 47, orphans the Dome’s overflowing orphanages couldn’t take, the disabled, the sick, and so on.
After grueling labor and claiming their daily rations, the ‘Professor Park Fan Club’ crew spotted the destitute clutching empty stomachs in the shadows.
Half a calorie bar left in hand.
The idol on the fast-forwarding screen: Saint Professor Park.
“...My stomach’s fuller than usual today. Hey, old timer! Don’t just stand there—come here! It’s cold out.”
“M-Me?”
“Who else is there besides you? Have something to eat.”
“N-No, not yet...”
“Then eat this and tell me some old world stories. Professor’s on the move right now—bit boring.”
“P-Professor...? There are still universities left in this world?”
“Huh? You don’t know Professor Park? This won’t do. Hold on. Hey—James! Got that [Empire Decisive Battle] recording? Play it!”
Admiration means revering a target and aspiring to emulate them.
The ‘Professor Park Official Fan Club’ folks felt a spiritual thirst from the gap between their idol’s actions and theirs. Before long, to quench it, they shared their rations—even extending it to outsiders not in the group.
Bowls once clutched and slurped privately lined up on someone’s battered table.
Meals became modest banquets.
Word spread, drawing crowds until the gatherings grew so large the Inspection Bureau had to approve them as regular assemblies.
More people meant larger ‘sharing leftovers’ efforts, and soon they needed someone to handle the increasingly complex events.
Thus, the ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch’ was born.
Leader: Professor Park (absent).
Everyone else: just believers.
“The funds they collect are officially donated to the administration under the ‘Church of Luminance’ name and used in various places. The paths cleared in the camp’s remotest corners recently? The slight increase in free rations? That’s their influence.”
“...Donations big enough to pave roads?”
“Bigger scale than you’d think. You know how cults thrive in chaotic times.”
I do. The problem is waking up to find I’m the cult’s divine figure.
Starting as a fan club and morphing into a quasi-religion is absurd, but at this size, I can’t just laugh it off.
“Money and people gathering means trouble’s inevitable. Maintaining such a good reputation while scaling up... means there’s a sharp head or two, right? Who is it? The fan club president who grew this cult in my absence?”
A group formed organically without a special banner lacks a solid core. Holding together on fandom alone is nonsense.
Someone seized the opportunity perfectly, solidifying their rule over the ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch’ like bedrock. Absent mythical figure and the priest upholding their will. It even follows classic religious structure. Smart operator, clearly.
“Figured you’d be curious, so we’re heading to meet them now.”
“...Now?”
“You’re hungry, right? Isn’t it only natural for the resurrected Saint Professor’s first meal to be a humble banquet from the church’s origins?”
“Uh... That does paint a nice picture... But then why’d we sneak out the front gate if we’re meeting them anyway? I get me panicking, but...”
“There’s a difference between meeting after hearing what they’re about and just running into them blind. They sound like good folks from my explanation alone... but honestly, some are pretty extreme.”
“Extreme like those at the administration’s front gate?”
“Yeah... Similar. Folks who watch your stream, shout ‘Latura! Latura!!’ and faint.”
“Ugh. That’s paladin-level devotion.”
They’d sway whenever I passed nearby, eyes bulging as they rapid-fired prayers to stay sane. Walking a path lined with them was torture. Scary stuff.
Dana’s explanation made me want to go even less, but she seemed dead set on eating there with me.
No wonder the warehouse looked rundown—they’d aimed for the refugee camp from the start. She’d planned this out long before I woke up.
“Let’s go. If we’re late, the good stuff might be gone.”
“...Fine. Lead on.”
Unable to resist as she latched onto my arm and pushed, I let her lead the way.
I did say she could do whatever. Even if it’s refugee camp calorie bar stew.
Creak!
Raising the rickety warehouse shutter unleashed a thick dust smell, revealing the shabby refugee camp.
The original sign was sawed off, leaving a metal stump with a wooden replacement.
[Refugee Sector D-3]
Beyond it, hazy smoke rose like clouds.
A sizable crowd.
Sweat. Booze. Food smells.
That way.
“Ready?”
“More sad that you’re used to this.”
Somehow, meeting cultists just to step outside felt profoundly weird.
But it’s true—I’m the most seasoned at this in the Dome.
Deep breath, then with Dana on my arm, we emerged from the camp’s back alley.
Rowdy voices.
Makeshift giant induction stove from disassembled home heaters, bubbling pots atop it. Aunties perfectly suited to the task stirred vigorously, dumping stuff in.
“...A religious gathering? This?”
“Told you. A bit extreme, but their activities aren’t heavily religious.”
Along the long food line, mat vendors laid out homemade toys and tools. Notably, no prices—just [Trade for terminal battery] / [Medical supplies for root veggies], and people lined up familiarly bartered.
Some items had impressive quality, so I leaned in for a look. The vendor noticed and called out cheerfully.
“Good evening, brother! Latura!”
“Oh, uh, yeah... Latura.”
“Hahaha! I see you’re eyeing this Kang Geum-pil’s handiwork! Everyone’s born with different talents—sharing them makes life easier, right? Need metalwork? Name it! Scrap, junk iron, broken machine parts, food—anything!”
Uh... What?
“K-Kang... Geum-pil?”
“Hm? You know me? That voice sounds familiar...”
The vendor, pulling out wares, tilted his head oddly and lifted his deep hood.
Clang!
Crash!
Spotting my face peeking from the dim alley, he dropped the metal parts clutched in both hands.
“P-P-P-Pro... Professor?!”
.
.
.
.
.
Clang-clang!
His strangled scream silenced the ambient noise like magic.
Left only: stew bubbling in pots.
Gasps of “Hah, huh.”
A ladle clattering from a woman stirring atop a small ladder.
“Mister, you’re alive?”
“I-It’s really the Professor! La-Latura!!”
Geum-pil’s shout erased all doubt, drawing eyes.
Body half-extended into the alley.
Face identical to the Dome’s endless ‘Hero Professor Park’ tribute reels.
Leather jacket of ‘that group,’ idol of the camp’s aspirations.
And trailing him: porcelain skin. Dana Elisha Hyacinth, spy-suspect if unknown in the Dome. His partner, supposedly.
“He’s here.”
“He really came! To this wretched place, gracing us with his presence!”
“P-Professor! My daughter’s been off since Orpheus disaster—p-please, just look at her once...!”
“Don’t push! I said don’t push!”
Sneak.
Sneakily.
As evidence piled up proving the man was real, people approached like moths to flame.
And then.
“Brothers! Keep your composure! You think you want to show nothing but ugly sides at this precious chance to meet the Professor? You all knew he existed in this mortal world!”
Before the crowd lost reason, a sharp voice rang from above.
A table slightly elevated nearby. The woman before it.
‘Middle-aged woman. Curly short hair. One arm, green eyes.’
Stranger. Likely the real head controlling the ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch.’
...The total stranger auntie who’d turned me into a cult god,
Kang Geum-pil, BDSM Town resident I’d thought dead post-Sector 38,
And hopping beside the one-armed auntie, waving...
“Mister! Miiiister!!!”
...Cynthia. Brighter than before, nominally my foster daughter.
“Looks like there’s a ton of stories to hear here too.”
“Exactly.”
“...That why you brought me?”
“You’re the nosiest person I know from that world. To let you rest properly, I figured you needed the full picture of the changed Dome. Hearing vague ‘things have shifted’ would just make you antsy—you’d sneak off alone to investigate. Better show you everything quick so you can relax.”
“Uh...”
Damn. No retort. Yeah, lounging with the kids over drinks, then hearing ‘You know the wasteland Luminance Church is no joke?’ would have me itching, ruining the fun.
Still, disappointing. I’d fantasized about a date: hit eateries, browse shops, kill time bored.
“Ah, my first date. With a mood-killer woman.”
“Ah, my first date. Penalty for falling for the nosiest guy.”
Her unflinching comeback made me chuckle despite myself.
Fine. Handed her the date reins anyway—might as well enjoy it my way. A date with hundreds of ‘my’ followers... Perfectly unique, full marks there.
Mind made up, I stepped toward the frozen crowd.
“Nice to meet you all. Survivors.”
No ‘brothers’ or ‘countrymen.’ First, show I’m no god—just a flesh-and-blood human.
“...It’s Professor Park as you know him.”
“Starving, came for food. Do I line up?”
And subtly ask them to make way. Lost on what to do? Guide them.
“F-Food. If you’re h-hungry...”
“The Saint seeks the holy feast!”
“Oh dear, we can’t serve this... Just wait a moment—we’ll whip up something proper right now...”
“Looks hearty enough. I’ve eaten radioactive mantises, slurped rat snails—seen it all. This is a banquet. Use these bowls?”
“Y-Yes...”
“Oh, one more bowl. Got company.”
Slipping in smooth as an eel, I grinned like a politician scoring market soup and grabbed two.
Clink.
“Smells better than expected? Thought it’d be oatmeal ground with calorie bars and potatoes.”
Casually sat beside the one-armed middle-aged woman who’d shouted earlier.
Cynthia, awkward near me, dashed to Dana instead. They’d bonded in my absence, looks like.
As I settled with my bowl, folks hurried to grab theirs and sat around. Eyes glued to my table, of course.
Hm. Atmosphere screaming for a speech.
They’re picturing a sacred historical moment, but sorry—despite Norman’s tearful efforts, I can’t recite a proper prayer.
“Dig in, thanks for the meal.”
Murmurs.
Whispers—
“Uh... Next time I’ll pay, so don’t hold it against me.”
Slurp—
Prayer swapped for casual thanks, I dove into the perilously full bowl.
Not just eating precious food, but savoring it? That’s blessing enough in the wasteland. Plenty.
My first bite unleashed clinking spoons, restoring the lively clearing. Topics mostly me, naturally.
“...Professor. I lead the believers of this ‘Church of Luminance Wasteland Branch’—”
“Let’s eat first. Doesn’t seem like chit-chat-over-slurps talk. This is sneakily good.”
The woman hesitated, then focused on her meal.
Hm. Let’s see.
‘Wasteland-hardened auntie obvious. Communal feeding, bartering. Cult around a comatose ex-hero. This scale, this control...’
Too pure for just good-hearted folks under a good banner. I’ve rolled in the wasteland enough.
“Fox borrowing tiger’s might? Using famed Professor Park’s rep to build a mutual aid group? Haven for the weak? Or something else? Hm...”
“N-No, that’s...”
“Ah, sorry. Bad habit—mutter when thinking. Finish eating. Mmm, lots of meat too.”
...Dealing with political sharks in 3rd World sharpened me. Easy pickings.
Her sharp reaction to my offhand mutter confirmed: no casual laugh-off group.
But the sector boss, Chief Officer Young, wouldn’t ignore a known player like me unless harmless to Dome safety. So they let it slide.
‘Observe first. Smash if off. Tune if good.’
Perfect, as a would-be cult leader, I’m experienced.
No real saint-runs cults—industry top dog.
Dig a bit, make use if worthwhile. Doesn’t seem outright bad.
Slurp—
“How is it? Edible?”
“Shockingly good. Hidden gem. Luminance Church.”
Mulling that over, enjoyed first meal with Dana. Surprisingly, this mishmash stew was worth seeking out. I’d believe she brought me just for this.
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