Chapter 432
Chapter 432
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 432
Chapter Title: Chapter 20. Offroad (6)
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“Aura Knight?”
“Yeah. Even if it doesn’t look like it, I’m pretty well-known in the Teldrat lower regions, y’know? Pathfinder, wandering knight, fidgety... Eh, skip that. Anyway, you’ve never heard of me?”
“First time hearing it. Then show me your aura.”
“That’s why I’m famous as the ‘Aura Knight who can’t use aura’ or something like that...”
“Then at least draw your sword! Knights are supposed to be good with swords, right!”
“Ah, this sword’s durability drops right off if I draw it, so that’s kinda...”
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“Hmm.”
“Krhm!”
Damn it. Even I think it’s weird after saying it myself.
The funeral I stumbled into had ended, and with everyone gathered, it naturally turned into a spot to introduce myself...
“...If you don’t have aura, can you even call yourself an Aura Knight?”
“Grr. Salvage ship that doesn’t salvage. Fishing boat that doesn’t catch fish.”
“Captain, that guy seems really suspicious.”
No matter how much I showed off Aura Knight-like reflexes, strength, and dynamic vision, no one looked convinced.
“Not some well-built attendant priest or something? That... what was it?”
“Gruk. Monk. Church of Light has lots of priests who beat people up. Tradition.”
“Yeah, that! They say when their holy power increases, their bodies bulk up! That’s gotta be it!”
“Makes sense if he’s a monk. Itinerant priests who wander the world as ascetic practice usually hide their identities to avoid perks as clergy. Even in this hellish sea, on the lowest-of-the-low salvage ship where only the bottom-feeders gather, masochistic zealots who love their suffering would sneak aboard willingly. Mother Tree, have mercy.”
More than that, they’d been overwhelmed by the proper rituals and formal funeral held in this bottom-barrel salvage office and pegged me as one of them.
Good lord. Elves, trolls, humans, scruffy beards that looked dwarven, beastkin—all huddling together, debating my identity. My head’s spinning.
“No, I’m not trained or anything! I’m just an orphan from a temple, so I picked up a few things! Living in a temple for a few years, you pick up what the priests do by osmosis, play with ritual tools instead of toys!”
“Ah, I’m an orphan too. Southern Abundance Church orphanage. I was there till I was ten, but I don’t remember any complicated rituals like that? I remember every farming technique the church taught, though.”
“Look, I was smart and had a good memory as a kid, so the priests taught me stuff thinking I’d become a temple priest... Aaaargh! Why am I even explaining this! I’m not a priest! Not a monk either! Loharam, you bastard! Loharam, you idiot! There! Happy?”
My trump card. As a former temple orphan, I braced for a smidge of divine punishment and boldly blasphemed.
“Wow...”
“The higher up you are in the Church of Light, the more casually they talk about Loharam, right?”
“That legendary saint from 200 years ago supposedly called him ‘that bastard’ and ‘this jerk’ all the time. It’s canon in the scriptures.”
Hey.
“Must be a really high-ranking guy.”
“Paying top dollar for passage just to follow him proves he’s no ordinary fellow.”
“Uh, um, Lahura... Loharam? Is that right?”
“Gruk. Traditionally it’s Latura. Of the three Light churches, the Sun Church uses Lahura, the Lighthouse Church uses Latura, and the Saint Church uses Natura in their prayers. Mix ’em up and you’ll get smacked by a priest. Which branch of the Church of Light are you from, priest?”
“Well, I’m from a Lighthouse Church orphanage, but...”
“Then Latura’s right. Gruk, nice to meet you. Eggwil, salvage hand. Species is as you see: troll.”
“Look, I don’t... Whatever you guys think, Hyde. Been a while since I’ve seen a troll.”
To these folks, I was already solidly pegged as a ‘Church of Light monk hiding his identity for pilgrimage.’ No point arguing since they wouldn’t listen, so I decided to let them think what they want. It wasn’t a negative image, and they’d figure out I’m no priest after spending time together.
“Anyway, the rest of you...”
“No need to know.”
“Why bother getting to know each other? Just board the ship and do your jobs.”
I tried starting introductions with the troll Eggwil, but they scattered like something had gone wrong.
“...What did I do wrong?”
“Nah, no way. On a salvage ship, if something shitty happens, blame another guy and you’re usually right. These are folks with rock-bottom social skills from gutter lives. I’m Grim Rock, captain of this ship and warden to these gutter rats.”
“Uh, um. Nice to meet you, Grim.”
“Call me Rock. Easier to yell on deck. Oh, don’t go cursing me at night just ’cause I dropped the honorifics. If you want pretty-boy treatment, I can point you to better spots across the street.”
“That’s a black mage, not a priest. And I’m no priest to begin with.”
“Wahahaha! Fair enough. No one on a salvage ship spills their life story that easily. Anyway, don’t hold it against ’em. Sailors got different habits from landlubbers. Praying to unheard-of sea entities instead of the Five Prime Gods, using waterlogged scriptures for prayers for the drowned so they can read it, not telling newbies their names even if you beat ’em half to death—stupid stuff like that.”
That explains it. The scriptures were soaked through.
“Superstitions, huh?”
“Might irk a priest, but what can ya do about sailors?”
Rock chuckled and lightly knocked his forehead with a finger.
“Teach a newbie your name, and their skull remembers it. Most newbies die on their first voyage, sinking that skull with your name into the deep. Having your name sink down there? Unsettling for sailors. Over time, all those sunken names drag your body under, so don’t name the doomed ones—that’s the dumb superstition that stuck.”
“Ahh, so that’s why they bolted when names came up?”
“You’re a priest, closer to the spooky stuff than us lowly types. So they steer clear. A corpse lit up with holy power? Stands out more to sea entities, dragging that named skull even deeper or whatever.”
The captain who introduced himself as Rock grinned, yellow teeth flashing.
Big frame but somehow gaunt. Scruffy beard, filthy headscarf. Rough skin screaming ‘life at sea’ at first glance.
He looked like the poster boy for ‘seasoned salt,’ leading me from the office to what seemed his quarters inside.
Clunk, clunk-clunk!
“Damn it all!”
Bang!
Crash!
Just like the front door, it only opened after a kick. He shoved aside piled boxes and their contents with his foot to clear a path, then sheepishly pushed one fallen box my way.
“Sit. It’s filthy, sorry.”
“That salvage?”
“If it wasn’t scrap ornaments and rusted junk, no need to hoard it, right? Nah, don’t treat it precious. Already investigated. Useless junk that won’t sell—my hobby collection.”
“Junk, huh.”
Clink.
I picked up one of the items spilled when he kicked the door.
Judging by size and shape, probably a pot once. Definitely scrap metal now, worthless... but one odd thing.
“...Not a magic stone, but it holds mana?”
“Heh heh heh. Weird, right? Most Big Blue salvage holds faint mana. Sea’s thick with it, y’know. Scholars studied it—totally useless. Mana to extract it costs more than you get out.”
“A sea so mana-rich even normal stuff gets infused.”
Even massive mana cannons chowing high-grade stones daily don’t imbue mana into the barrel itself. What the hell is that ocean?
“No mages come sniffing around? Mana-addicted wizards or water-obsessed hydro mages?”
“They did. Used to come lots. Even carried a cheapskate mage on salvage runs to save coin.”
“Results?”
“Disaster. Old guy blushing like a boy in his first love’s undies at departure. Hit the sea and turned green, wailing ‘This ain’t the ocean I knew!’ like a little girl. I ferried him for the pay regardless. Dude got off, claimed he couldn’t cast anymore, bawling. His fief demanded compensation from us. Total nightmare. Ugh, mages.”
“Even a hydro mage couldn’t handle it? Sounds like a hack. Common sense says hydro mages thrive on water.”
“Rank 2 circle, so not total hack. Got dragged to court over it, picked up some lore. Unrefined archmage-level mana flowing in ocean currents. Like not chilling in a burning house just ’cause you can use fire.”
“Oh ho.”
Rock kept spinning yarns about Deep Blue Line seas. Mechanics who bragged rough couldn’t hack it; hydro mages going mad and retiring; magitech rigs smashed by one wave upon docking; typhoon-tossed killer fish raining down, nearly leveling the city...
“Whoops. Got off track? Feel free to doze. Boring stuff. Without tall tales, sailor life’s brutal.”
“Nah, so engaging I woke right up.”
“Handy priest for sea stories. Uh... what was I getting at?”
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“Oh, right. Anyway, we’ll sail together, dive together—so here’s what you need to know.”
...Clunk!
Rumble!
“Ow, damn. Where’d I put it... here?”
Rustle!
Splash!
“Not here... Ah, got it!”
Rummaging through rusty junk, he plucked out a filthy trinket box.
Rumble-crash!
“Ugh, clearing this’ll take forever.”
He’d toppled the shaky salvage pile entirely, then opened the small box to show me. Looked like a dried scrap of paper.
“...Pretty old. Ink’s... yeah, restored from water damage and rewritten.”
“Oho! Got an eye on you?”
“Path-finder. Did some relic hunts in old empires and continents.”
“More useful than I thought, priest. Recognize this too?”
“Not a priest... ?!”
About to correct him again, his finger shifted, revealing the paper’s bottom and cutting me off.
“Magic Empire seal?”
“Official record. Can you read it?”
“Old vocab, but... looks like an order?”
Water-smeared but blocky phrasing screams Magic Empire order, especially military docs. Even this scrap’s worth 300k silvers historically.
And it said—
“...Airship No. 1. Entered ops zone sans launch order... No shoot-down... Must recover?”
“Intriguing, eh? Next, check this!”
Eager as I finished, he shoved another record.
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“...So I must stop that nefarious invention. Magitech wasn’t born for such things—free magitech...? Why, Kyle, that path?”
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“...Did Master foresee this? Entrust me the ignition key of his namesake invention for that reason?”
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“Unknowable. We’ve all crossed an irreversible river now.”
“Gods forbid the cursed A-Tomb reaches the leyline before I do.”
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“This is...”
“Rarer than the last. From grand magitech master Roman Gacia Manson’s two disciples, Kyle and Berhan. Berhan’s diary—the practical magitech guy. Copy, but still.”
Even a copy; nobles wouldn’t let historical gems like this go cheap.
“This content... don’t tell me...”
“Heh heh heh. Get it? What it means?”
I carefully scanned both records at his question.
Not the historical value—priceless info inside.
‘Airships are magitech pinnacle. Most from Magic Empire Teldrat under their control. Key assault craft in the Two Empire Wars.’
‘Record: [Airship No. 1] flew sans orders, likely stolen by enemy. Order: no shoot-down, recover at all costs. Means the airship itself or its pilot was VIP beyond measure.’
‘Roman Gacia Manson’s disciple Kyle heads free magitech, builds magitech weapons, culminates in leyline-twisting catastrophe. Fellow disciple Berhan seems to counter with something from master Manson.’
Grand magitech master. Roman Gacia Manson’s namesake invention.
Airship ‘No. 1’ designation.
Untouchable even in empire’s do-or-die war. Ignition key to prized disciple.
“A-Tomb. That century-defining clusterfuck exploding leylines. West Empire threw armies to stop it, Magic Empire to activate it. In the chaos... Manson’s top disciple Berhan stole something massive from the capital, flew it to Blue Line. And—”
Boom.
“Got swept in the exploding leyline. Mad magitech marvel ahead of its time, won’t crash till utterly wrecked—Empire’s monster. The first airship, ‘No. 1’.”
“...Roman Gacia Manson built it himself, saint personally carved flesh to infuse life?”
“Yeah, that one. Grew deadlier post-saint’s death. Records say it headed Blue Line. Vanished without trace.”
Salvage captain Rock spread arms wide toward his salvage.
“Airship No. 1! Records of its absolute defense are endless! Tanked rank-6 mass spells head-on! Aura barely scratched by Aura Knights! Took emperor’s sky-splitting sword and limped home! Leyline blast debris and magitech wrecks litter Deep Blue, but ‘No. 1’? Not a splinter in 15 years of dives! Not once! No broken mast, no figurehead shard! Berhan reached here with it, clear as day!”
“Meaning...”
“It didn’t break. Unlike other airships shattered to continent-scattered debris, it sank intact-ish.”
“To somewhere deep in this Deep Blue Line, its final destination!”
Lean in—
Rock leaned over the table, face to face.
“I’m hunting it. Greatest treasure ever—Roman Gacia Manson’s masterpiece. Airship No. 1!”
Eyes blazing greed, dreams, regret for years chasing them.
“...Though 15 years yielded just this trash and oddball relics.”
“Yet you haven’t quit, have you?”
“Hell no. Not till someone finds even a busted ‘No. 1’ scrap.”
“Anyway, that’s our salvage crew’s goal. You’re here for ‘leyline shards,’ right?”
“Yeah.”
“Perfect. Both need deep dives—no bickering over depth.”
Rock reverted to his initial scatterbrained tone, kicking salvage aside like on entry.
“So that’s the deal. Let’s get along, priest.”
“...Sure, captain.”
“Sailing tomorrow. Tough, but mingle with the crew. Do nothing, and even I can’t stop ’em dumping you overboard.”
“I’ll try.”
Last, he scribbled my name on a plank outside his room, then went his way, done with handouts.
“Liability waiver for death or disappearance... No wonder they don’t say ‘welcome aboard.’”
Ship you can only board after notarizing it’s your fault if you die or vanish.
In this crumbling salvage office full of junk, that pristine plank stood out—altar-sized casualty list explained why.
Only things remade weekly: liability waivers and death rolls.
“‘Adapt to ship life by tomorrow or die’—got it.”
Who first?
Hyde gauged presences inside, outside, on deck, pondering the most reasonable.
From brief meets, the one seeming open to talk.
“Best bet’s him.”
First to give name, most intellectual of the crew—the troll. Hyde turned toward his likely spot.
Sail tomorrow.
Less than a day to learn enough not to be green.
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