Chapter 383
Chapter 383
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 17
Chapter Title: Preparations for the Journey (6)
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While leaving the refugee camp, Dana continued her explanation in a soft, steady voice.
“Zeus Valley?”
“Yeah. Remember? The thing you fired when you were at war with the Raptors.”
How could I forget? It was one of the most exhilarating moments in my tumultuous life.
A colossal weapon built on the foundation of an entire building, with output so immense that a single shot could black out the whole Dome for days, the vibrations, the noise, and even the risk of the operator getting electrocuted from overvoltage! Man, just thinking about it now gets my heart racing!
“So... this is that place?”
“Exactly. This is the spot swept clean by Meyer Zeus’s bombardment back then.”
“A real valley got carved out.”
“I’m not sure if this is the right way to put it, but the firepower was a bit overkill just to wipe out a few dozen tanks. It was made to obliterate even old-era doomsday weapons in one hit to begin with.”
Zeus Valley.
In a way, it was a fitting name for a valley born from a single electromagnetic cannon blast.
“After the war ended, Zeus Valley was swarming with scavengers. The wreckage of the melted tanks was fused with the ground itself, and as you know, tanks are basically lumps of high-quality alloy. People without gear chipped away at the splattered molten bits with pickaxes, while those with equipment used laser cutters to slice off the fused alloys and sell them. There were even vehicles and towing rigs that had tumbled into the valley during the retreat, turning the whole place into a bona fide gold mine.”
“Raptor vehicles and tanks just lying around in the open... Yeah, that must’ve been a jackpot.”
“You got it. Pickaxe clanging and laser cutters sizzling went on nonstop, twenty-four-seven. With all those laborers needing rest, temporary shelters popped up, and once those were there, simple eateries sprang up to feed them... Before long, it evolved into a makeshift market just outside the Dome. The sunken terrain was perfect for blocking the sandstorms, too.”
Open-pit mine turned into laborers’ barracks, barracks into a market, market into a black market.
A natural progression. The Dome draws every caravan around, but inside, the inspectorate has eyes everywhere, lighting fires under anyone they spot. Plus, there are tariffs.
But right nearby, a spot where people gather, sunken into the ground so it’s out of sight unless you go looking, with some infrastructure to boot? A landmark begging to be used.
Caravans are wasteland folk, and in the wasteland, killing each other is daily life, so they often end up with goods they can’t handle themselves. A lot of it’s the pricey stuff banned in the Dome.
Too good to dump, too risky to sell openly—for caravans with warehouses full of that junk, this market was a godsend. Sneak in some drugs or chems, flashbangs, cryo-preserved organs on the way to the Dome, sell ’em on the black market, then stroll in like nothing happened and peddle the usual wares.
The Dome probably let it slide. No matter what they do, junkies get their fix inside somehow. But this way, at least the goods don’t circulate within the walls.
“Early on, mutant byproducts were seen as unclean because they used bodies that were once human, so they naturally gravitated to the black market here in Zeus Valley.”
And the black market exploded in size.
Those biochemical resources—revolutionary, if you ignored the ethics.
Mutant corpses, with minimal processing, became bulletproof vests that shrugged off rounds, generators fueled by burning organic matter, blades as sharp as laser swords. And the raw materials? Piled up like mountains right in front of the Dome’s defenses.
“Ethical issues. I heard they were pretty serious. Looking at Camilla, it’s not hard to see why.”
“No. In reality, the early waves of Type 2.5s flooding in like that happened because all the scavengers and survivors on the Dome’s outskirts turned mutant. It was basically no different from processing human bodies into goods. I was against it back then, too.”
On the surface, it sounds like a split in public opinion, but it was bad enough for brawls to break out several times a day.
The opposition: ‘If human skin is warm and tough, should we peel it off and make clothes?’ Versus the proponents: ‘Resources are drying up everywhere, and this is a brand-new one. Tossing it is the same as saying let’s all die slowly together—what’s the difference?’
Wastelanders prioritizing profit? Par for the course. But this was right when refugees were flooding in, and most folks had just watched family or friends turn mutant before their eyes.
Then came the twist.
“They discovered mutants that reproduce.”
“...Mutants reproduce?”
“Yeah. And aggressively.”
I racked my brain for the mutants I knew. Type 1 and 2 were basically zombies, so ambiguous.
Walking Cane. Humanoid monster woven from building-sized concrete and wood chunks, like a walking wall.
Old Picture. Lumpy, amorphous thing like a shoe blob daddy.
Among adapters, the one with twelve legs nailed to a burning cross. The one that ate its own ass-face.
Noho Buru. Living, rotting tiger.
W. Shadowy ghost without a solid form.
.
.
.
.
No matter how I thought about it, I couldn’t imagine how they reproduced.
The closest thing might’ve been that one in Sector 38.
Mugler? The rolling furball. But even that was more like single-cell division than real reproduction.
“...How?”
“Not all of them. The reproducing ones are rare. But once a variant mutated to enable reproduction, their numbers grew faster than we could imagine. You know how the mutant virus works, right?”
“Yeah. Psychological factors play a big role in the mutation. If it mutated into a form capable of cross-species breeding, the original person must’ve been a real animal with nothing else on its mind even before turning.”
“The first one discovered was a rodent-like thing with six genitals.”
“They really go all out.”
We’d walked quite a way, and I could feel Dana leaning a bit more on my arm, tired out. Come to think of it, we’d left the refugee camp alleys behind, and now people were thickening up around us, lively clamor starting to fill the air.
“Anyway, discovering reproducing mutants flipped public opinion completely. Reproduction proved they weren’t just mutations—they were a whole new species with their own genetics. People were already swayed by the ever-improving byproduct goods, and once that news dropped, everyone jumped on board, turning a blind eye to past ethics.”
With opinion solidly shifted, the Dome had no choice but to officially recognize the mutant byproduct industry.
Official recognition and active support followed. As refugee zones expanded, Zeus Valley—once outside—fell under Dome management. Booming population, handling valuables refugees brought, and the now-legit byproduct trade propelled Zeus Valley’s commerce to new heights.
From a shady black market peddling contraband, drugs, and illicit goods to a full-fledged night market landmark, lit up like no tomorrow.
“Sounds like we’re getting close with all the noise.”
“Nah, we’re still a good ways from the entrance.”
Dana said that and led my arm out of the alley.
And the sight beyond? It was—
“Whoa... Someone said I’d get called a country bumpkin if I reacted like this.”
“Told you. Things changed a ton while you were gone.”
A whole new world, no exaggeration.
Bustle bustle bustle!
“Hey, no cutting!”
“Wanna get punched? You know even the inspectorate can’t touch folks here?”
“Ha! Thanks! Means no one’ll nab me even if I knock you flat!”
“You little—!”
“Hey, up front! If you wanna die, go do it somewhere else! Let’s move it! Dawn’s breaking!”
The wide road, built for tanks and military trucks, crammed with people, oil lamps hanging densely overhead, spewing a thick, unique stench.
“Hey, mister! Nice piercings! Head to Night Market upper level, Line 12 for the real deal in knuckle piercings! New spot up top, but skills good enough for down in the valley!”
“Hey, pretty lady~ Check out some clothes! Got tough, cute stuff from Red Bell hides that just came in!”
“Not the clear moonlight of the old world, but the hazy glow of our era! Just like that, our era’s symbol—moon glow! Limited edition from Zeus Valley’s smash hit, grown alongside our history! Buy now and get the out-of-print ‘Professor No.17’ figurine! Come find us down in the valley!”
Hawkers with handmade megaphones strained their wrecked throats amid the throngs, desperately reeling in customers.
“Hey, make way.”
“What? You talking to m— Hiiik! P-Please, go ahead!”
Some carried bloody sacks dripping on their shoulders.
Follow that chaotic line of people stretching ahead, and way off, a big, flashy sign catches your eye.
[Infinite Free Trade Market]
[Zeus Valley]
“Night market? I pictured food stalls...”
My heart pounded at the pre-war night street vibe. Not just talk—my dual hearts, built to handle mutant-level blood pressure, thumped so hard it sounded like galloping horses in my chest.
And the street was one thing.
“Coming through—”
“Oh, who’s— Ah, BDSM folks, you gotta say so.”
“Thanks for the hard work. Hey, you look familiar...”
“Stiff jacket screams newbie! Go on through! Splurge on top gear—don’t die out there feeling empty-handed!”
.
.
.
.
People shoving forward yielding the path en masse? Straight-up epic.
Okay, a bit embarrassing when they do it for saints or human Professor, but if it’s respect for my group... kinda nice? Unburdened fun, I guess. Feels good in a weird way.
“Public thinks pretty well of BDSM, huh? I figured metaljaw psychos dragging the wasteland’s worst around meant wearing this jacket would get me stoned on sight.”
“They operate out a lot. Missions are mostly high-risk hunts, so they end up rescuing folks plagued by those things plenty. Solid skills, tons saved, quirky bunch of problem children, and their leader’s the wasteland legend ‘Professor.’ Especially here in Zeus Valley—tied up with BDSM types since black market days—so they get major respect.”
While I basked in the unexpected welcome, the casino-like glittering entrance loomed right up.
Huge entrance, walled off by barriers as tall.
The beefy guards eyed my leather jacket, grinned wide, and parted the way.
And then.
“How’s that? Flashy, right?”
“This... is really reality? Not VR?”
A true otherworld unfolded.
Shells of every color strung up like laundry.
Butcher trimming a single leg with four joints using a massive cleaver.
Stalls with frames woven from huge bones, obvious what they sold.
Merchants wrapping dried guts in oiled paper, tailors punching holes in mottled hides with awls.
“...”
“Hm? What’d you say?”
“Nah, nothing.”
I muttered ‘log out’ under my breath, convinced this time. Nope. Nothing changed.
Orc outpost shops, black mage reagents, monster meat even GG wouldn’t touch—all real, in ‘reality.’
Like exam, civil servant, office worker terms, now monster meat, bone stalls, multi-jointed legs were everyday reality words.
“This isn’t bumpkin level. It’s straight isekai...”
How’s an 80-year-old horse-cart driver feel hit by a steam locomotive?
Watching that guy who just bought dried guts stuff it into a bizarre gun? Couldn’t believe I’d been gone less than a year.
World changed this much in months.
“Guess the world keeps turning without me...”
Spent too long in GG, where I dictated the world’s fate.
Saint, Dome hero, or affection-starved solo survivor Professor—didn’t matter.
While I lay there like a corpse, the world raced on.
“Reality...”
“...Professor?”
“Sorry. Got lost in how wild it is.”
Surprisingly, deep down I’d harbored a bit of ‘I’m the saint! The completer! Your savior!!!’ Turns out, seeing the world roll fine without me deflated me a tad.
“Dana.”
“Yeah?”
“Back when this was a black market, some of those smuggling illicit stuff are still around, right?”
“More than ever. Market grew, so did the stakes. Camilla’s ‘human hunters’ are probably some of ’em. Heard some even kidnap, torture folks to force trauma mutations, then sell the mutants.”
“Ohhh?”
Perfect. Trading lead with bad guys’ll snap my reality sense right back.
‘...Holy shit. And I came out here with no gun, no blade? Am I insane? Wasteland basics totally nuked?’
Whoa. That hits hard. Me, a greenhorn? The type wastelanders mock as ‘young master’!
“They sell guns here?”
“More than anywhere else in the Dome.”
“Great! Shopping’s gonna be fun.”
Feeling the empty chest holster and light pockets, I pondered what weapon would best revive that old sensation as I stepped into the market.
Looks like rehab wasn’t just for the body.
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