Chapter 498
Chapter 498
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 498
Chapter Title: Chapter 23. Gedroits's Heir, Deul (13)
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“You really came! Professor!”
“You think I’d come all the way here, ask for directions just thirty minutes out, and then not show?”
Heung An Mandu. Real name Bae Sung-ju. Greasy, matted hair and the kind of beard commonly called “scavenger stubble”—roughly trimmed with a knife or a can lid. Combat boots, a maintenance jumpsuit, and an aviation jacket densely patched and sewn with every scrap imaginable. The guy looked like he’d decided to wear his entire identity on his sleeve.
“The folks from the 47 chat room said to pass on their regards.”
“I saw that. They’re probably talking about us right now.”
Our meeting felt oddly intimate, like something other than a first encounter between internet friends.
“Uh...”
“...”
Of course, it wasn’t that Mandu or I were the type to instantly bond like besties with someone we’d only texted.
“And, um. You too...? Nice to meet you...?”
“I can’t fathom what about me prompts such delight, but. Understood.”
It was simply that a total stranger had wedged themselves between two people with an established online rapport, making it flow naturally.
“...”
“...”
“Why are you both staring at me like that?”
Crack!
At the intruder’s question, Heung An Mandu jabbed my side hard, his face twisted in clear annoyance.
“Ow—&^%#@!!”
The guy had struck my body—officially rated “tank composite armor grade” by Dome researchers—and whispered through a groan of pain.
“Ugh... Hey, what the hell is that? Weren’t you coming alone?”
“Uh, well. Mandu.”
“Call me Mandu. Feels less awkward that way.”
“Right, Mandu. First off, sorry.”
“Even if we go way back online, dragging some extra without warning isn’t cool. This isn’t Sector 47—it’s the wasteland. Showing up at the meet with unannounced company? That’s fair game for treating it like an ambush, you know that.”
“That’s why I’m apologizing. My bad. I didn’t see this coming either.”
“So I could fire up the military defense turrets on you two outsiders right now, no problem?”
Hm. He’s serious. Hand slipping toward his pocket—looks like a semi-automated turret activated by manual input. Vintage model.
I glanced behind him, eyed my companion, let out a deep sigh, then shrugged at him.
“Fine. If that’ll make you feel better, go ahead. Just shoot from far enough that the shrapnel misses.”
“Military turrets, huh. AA guns, maybe two of ‘em.”
“Y-yeah...”
Mandu gawked at the turrets threatening us, then at our nonplussed selves, his face shifting from shock to exasperated amusement.
“Damn. Here I was putting on a show for real monsters. Neither you nor your guest gives a damn about some old military turret, huh?”
“That, and AA turrets pack heavy explosives unless they’re smart rounds. You were yapping right in my face. It was all bluff—you had no intention of firing.”
“Shit. Acting tough in front of Professor. I must be nuts.”
What Mandu had done was classic wasteland survivor posturing. When rival groups meet “peacefully,” they flaunt their firepower to signal, “We’re tough enough to come talk instead of fight.” Rough around the edges, but a time-honored gesture of truce.
‘Ah, been a while since I’ve seen this. Ian was a pro at it.’
Not even a flicker of anger. Beyond the safe Dome fringes, this was how wastelanders said hello, and Heung An Mandu had every right to protest an unannounced extra from a new group.
‘Let’s see. Standard protocol—what comes next?’
First, both sides show off their muscle. Our side’s physicals crushed Mandu’s AA turrets, so initiative’s ours...
“Bae Sung-ju. Nickname Heung An Mandu, lord and squatter of this Wutai Mountain airbase, ex-Union Air Force 25th Division ace pilot.”
‘Right, the intimidated side intros first.’
Every HIV run, this step got cut short by Metaljaw’s gunfire, but by wasteland norms, this was textbook.
“Ahem. Professor, as you know from the boards. GG stream rankings #1, holder of 3rd World and 4th World clear records, half-breed mangled in an accident but surging lately—spiritual pillar of the ‘Luminous Order Wasteland Branch’ and Dome’s own hero. Oh, and recently appointed Chief of Staff for the brand-new Dome Expeditionary Force.”
“Damn. You’ve lumped together every badass title our generation could dream of, like some Abomination boss.”
He bowed his head, so unless I planned to lop it off, I bowed back.
“And this one... well, no need for details, right?”
“Anyone who doesn’t know is a spy.”
Next, the leader—me—introduces the troublemaking extra.
“Thousand Stream Emperor. Same nickname. Opened the cargo hold at the mountain base, and there he was.”
Thousand Stream Emperor. The ranker who cleared 3rd World before me under the same tag, snagged one of Gedroits’s completer rewards: [Military Project T-42/Hyper-Sensory Training Program].
The uninvited guest crashing the first offline meet of Heung An Mandu and Professor was one of the freaks Dome had just legally branded “treat as Type-3 variants like Oldpicture.”
“Thousand Stream Emperor... was hiding in the truck?”
“Yeah. Cargo hold.”
“Took two days to get here, right?”
“No fights, just driving—didn’t have time to check cargo.”
“Food? Water? Bathroom?”
“He held it.”
“This guy, who’d been holed up in Sector 47 doing nothing but BDSM since the move, why the sudden—”
“No clue. First I saw him was thirty minutes ago, popping the hold at the foothills.”
Truth be told, even after opening it, I wasn’t sure. He was wedged statue-still between RPG launcher crates and ammo boxes. Eyes slid open on what looked like a corpse murmuring, “We there?” Without my 4th World-forged patience, I’d have chucked everything at hand. Half the truck was explosives—we’d have gone up gloriously, me and him crawling out unscathed from the scrap heap.
“Anyway, he’s tagging along now, so deal with it. Got room on the plane?”
“Four max, sorta... Shit. Extra passenger means recalculating.”
Hearing my rundown, Mandu spun away, baffled, and started yanking at a rickety sheet-metal door with grunts.
“Can’t leave it parked forever—come on in! Flight details inside!”
The door—zero structural integrity—slid aside, revealing what was likely the only airbase around still serving its original purpose.
Flutter!
“AN-2. The granddaddy of biplanes, resurrected as a modern toy.”
And its sole reason for being: a small plane with twin wings in tandem.
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Rattle-rattle-rattle-clank!
Creak-creak-creak-creak—
“How about it? Impressive, right?” “...In some ways?”
It was impressive, no doubt. Dome scouts had stripped this place so bare they marked it “no further visits needed.” From concrete shells alone, Heung An Mandu had jury-rigged a functional airstrip and restored an antique plane solo.
Squeak-squeak-creak-creak!
“Uh... Feels like something from Home Alone.”
“Ah, the cabin. Yeah, I did draw some inspiration from that Christmas gremlin.”
The issue? That impressiveness wasn’t the facility—it was the “You’re seriously launching a plane from this shoddy setup?” vibe of dread-admiration.
I knew the runway was short from the pics, built for VTOL 7th-gen fighters anyway.
But Mandu? He hadn’t maximized it—instead, he’d festooned the middle with wooden posts, parachute cords, tarps dangling everywhere.
Grunting, he cranked a massive pulley, and the lines and tarps slowly retracted toward us—away from the runway.
“Even a biplane like the AN-2 needs minimal takeoff distance, but this strip’s marginal, and turbulence here’s brutal—might not clear. So, I built a catapult.”
“Catapult...? Like the siege engine in GG?” “Eh, same root word. This is the high-speed winch from carriers for launching fighters.”
Rattle-rattle-thunk!
Mandu hooked the tarp’s end to a floor cleat and explained.
“Thanks to your hardener, I managed a ramp at the runway end. Plane doesn’t take off on its own thrust—catapult yeets it skyward. Looks like a slingshot, right?”
“Yep. Minus the rubber bands. Flinging a biplane takes serious power—how’s that work?”
“Already set up—over there.”
His finger pointed to a big rock on a nearby ridge. He offered binoculars, but Thousand Stream Emperor and I could make it out fine bare-eyed.
“A rock. Unstable base, but you’ve bolted chains in solid.”
“Yup. Local tourist trap, the摇摇石. Sweated bullets climbing to rig it.”
“That below... bomb? Remote.”
“...Spotting that naked-eye? Anyway, yeah. Hit the big red button—boom. Rock drops.”
Even an idiot could piece it together now.
Huge rock opposite the runway, chains bolted firm.
Chains stretching under the runway, hook on a rail crossing the center.
“Fancy setup, but mostly guides to keep the under-runway rail on track.”
Rock falls, yanks chain, winch hauls hooked biplane with thousands of tons of dropping force down the runway.
“So it is a trebuchet?”
“First siege trebuchet begat carrier catapults by aviation engineers, which begat Heung An Mandu’s aerial trebuchet. Knowledge cycles.”
“That work? Safe?”
“Uh... probably? Stress disperses via rollers under the plane... In theory? Should.”
Doubtful. Visions danced of the biplane tumbling down the slope at launch, dooming the摇摇石 with it.
Explanation done, Heung An Mandu turned to us like a conductor awaiting applause.
“Well?”
“...”
“...”
As my eyebrows furrowed into an inverted eight beside stone-faced Thousand Stream Emperor, Mandu’s proudly spread arms drooped.
“Uh... Not safe for just anyone, sure. Slight angle slip mid-launch? Straight into the gorge. Excess lift on wings from accel spike? They snap on takeoff. But... the plane flies? It flies! Humanity leaping skyward again in an aviation-dead age!”
“W-what do you think?”
“...Keep talking, let’s hear it. Fun guy. Thousand Stream Emperor, he’s more entertaining than expected, right?”
“Indeed. Impressive.”
“See? I said I’d back whatever you need—even loot Dome if asked... But you built a mountain trebuchet anyway?”
“Couldn’t help it! You started supplying just a month ago! I’d prepped this to fling the biplane way before! When you messaged ‘Is that old dream of yours the plane?’—catapult was 70% done!”
“Then you asshole should’ve said upfront it was this prehistoric suicide machine! I’m loaded now! Gyros, exosuit booster packs—name it, I’d drone-freight stacks to bolt on!”
“Bullshit! Know how much math went into this? Strapping extra thrusters to a light, flimsy biplane? It’d shred like a transforming robot!”
“Then calculate like you did stress/lift—”
“Like cramming for college exams, three weeks minimum. Don’t underestimate aerodynamics. One obsession got me here—otherwise I’d have jumped off that rock with my textbooks.”
He flapped his ink-stained jacket sleeve. Beyond, stacks of tattered aviation manuals and yellowed printouts piled against the concrete wall.
“...For real, no way?”
“No. Won’t. Back to math hell? Rather die. Gun to my head, still no.”
“Gun to the biplane?”
“Y-yeah, three weeks! Not Lego—can’t slap thrusters anywhere! Even adding Thousand Stream Emperor means recalcing range, everything!”
“Three weeks... Damn. Can’t wait. So we fly ‘as is’...”
There sat the weathered biplane.
Before it, runway raised a step with scavenged plating and chassis, catapult rail dead center.
Beyond, crude wood ramp glued with hardener—and farther,摇摇石 ringed in chains and bombs.
All for a “short runway.”
“Don’t worry. Takeoff and landing, all accounted for.”
“Ugh... Please take care of us...”
One letter-dragon plummet was enough sky-falling, but after two days driving here, I couldn’t ditch [fast + terrain ignore + no mutants] air travel. Only five days to return to Dome.
Resigned, I trailed the beaming Mandu, tinkering on the plane till late.
Clang-clang—
Deep night. Thousand Stream Emperor hammered scavenged steel by electric forge all night. I crashed hugging a truck parachute like a talisman.
Dana’s warmth already ached.
Dawn broke anyway.
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Rumble-rumble-rumble!
Hiss, hiss—
[Heh heh— uh— mic test. Mic test.]
[Aa, good morning ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain Bae Sung-ju, aka Heung An Mandu, ensuring your safe flight.]
“Cut the crap and prep for takeoff!”
[Now now. In-flight disturbances lead to total fatalities, crew included—so behave. Bathroom done? Belts on? Detonator ready?]
“Thousand Stream Emperor has it. Professor’s hands too big, so I’m holding. Press at launch?”
[Bravo. Thanks for the eager cooperation, passengers. Also, if the rock-drop timing misses the plane’s thrust ramp-up, she snaps in half—so sync it nice.]
“Hey!”
[Heh heh heh heh. Don’t sweat it, Professor passenger. Wasteland hero’s rep precedes him.]
Hiss—
Bae Sung-ju—more often Heung An Mandu than his real name these past years—knew the headset carried the passengers’ curses post-broadcast, but he shrugged it off. He knew the banter eased Professor’s nerves.
Now mattered more—by orders of magnitude.
“Back in the seat again.”
Unlike fighters, cramped cockpit. Window too small for the vast sky, gauges and buttons a dizzying thicket. Far from his old jet, yet aviation’s intricate weave shared DNA.
Click click click
Whirr—!
Buttons lit in sequence, flickering awake.
One shot. No tower, no copilot—pure instinct to match catapult pull with throttle.
[Shooting Star-2, standby.]
Eyes shut. He recalled it: piercing azure beyond sound’s barrier. Body, mind one with the craft—that indelible moment till death. He signaled.
[Catapult, GO]
Boom—
Ahead, a mountainside chunk succumbed to time.
Just 200 meters. Rock teetered slow-mo a beat, then snapped chains and cords whipped air like lashes.
And.
Screeeeeeeee—
Finally, again. Every fiber—blood, flesh, heart, guts—lagged the forward crush. That overwhelming rush unique to liftoff!
Rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble—
Thud!
The pilot nailed the instant the roller released its prize amid the brutal G.
Shores vanished under the iron beast.
Gut-twisting sink as tension peaked, then—
“We’re— we’re airborne! Mandu, we’re flying! Trebuchet-launched a plane!”
Quiet vibration arrived.
Hiss—
[Heh heh— aa, passengers. Passengers?]
“Hey! Sorry for doubting! Was braced to bail, but this actually— ”
[Shut it, passengers! Eyes out the window!]
He felt the guy’s joy tenfold, but a weightier milestone loomed.
The calamity that banished all planes: sand-choked skies wrecking engines, electrostatic veils from the grit.
This crude, simple beast—unfazed by specks or EMPs where finesse failed—pushed through to reachable heights.
Whoosh—
Abruptly, cloud-sea below.
Above, long-lost blue expanse.
[Time now 06:24. ‘Hard Old Man’ airborne successfully. Flight to Sector 25 [8744.09.248]: 14 hours.]
That’s the world. Endless wastes and sands seemed eternal—yet beyond, blue skies endured.
White plains below. Crisp eternal azure overhead.
Farther, satellite lights twinkled in the breathless blue.
[...Shooting Star-2, RTB.]
[Sorry I’m late, friends.]
Mid-thirties pilot traced jacket patches, murmuring.
This was his place.
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