Chapter 499
Chapter 499
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Gedroits's Heir, Deul (14)
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VROOOOOM—
[And this thing is just as ridiculously awesome as it is crude—]
Hiss, crackle—
The biplane's distinctive propeller noise battered my eardrums.
“Hey. Thousand Stream Emperor.”
“Mm.”
“Look at that. The sky's blue.”
“Unfamiliar.”
According to the nonstop chatter from Heung An Mandu up front, this AN-2 model was developed by the Soviets in 1947.
It had an incredibly simple structure that even a non-expert like him could handle basic repairs and maintenance after a short study of the blueprints. Despite weighing only 3 tons itself, it could carry nearly 2.1 tons of payload. It ran on charged batteries instead of a separate power vehicle, and it had its own fuel pump, so you could just load up drums onto the plane and refuel without a dedicated rig...
In short, it boiled down to: 'In this godforsaken apocalypse world, nothing's as simple and easy to use as this!' A prime example of simple is best.
The only thing I knew about this plane was that it had served active duty even during World War III.
After the 14th Special Forces escaped their black sheep status and started bouncing around on nonstop ops, I'd seen paratroopers dropping from the sky amid that exact 'VRROOOM' biplane roar. I didn't remember the details, but from the ground, it looked just like the one we were on.
“North Koreans flew it, right?”
“You remember. It was often called the 'one-way transport.' Never survived exposure to enemy air defenses.”
“Yeah, I've heard that. Seeing it with my own eyes, I thought, 'Is that a bug?'”
.
.
.
.
“You ex-military too?”
“Mercenary. Sold off to the North Korean border—the spark point of the war.”
“Where you from originally?”
“Brazil, São Paulo. Cracolândia. Gone now.”
.
.
.
.
Heung An Mandu's humming filled the gaps in our halting, fragmented conversation.
[Blood gushing, blood gushing, what a doggy death~♪]
[Blood gushing, blood gushing, he won't parachute anymore~♬]
I'd heard that song somewhere before.
“Army tune.”
“You can tell from the lyrics.”
“Paratrooper anthem.”
“Knew it. So that's his background. His obsession with flying—”
“War trauma. Seen plenty like him.”
—Most are dead now.
Thousand Stream Emperor added, turning his head toward the sea of clouds outside.
“One of the horrors of war you worried about. Some experiences carve into your marrow, independent of time.”
“And those staked with such memories in their hearts are the ones who kept their footing and survived the brutal wasteland. You know what that means.”
Out of nowhere, yet fitting for this moment—fourteen hours facing each other in a twelve-seater transport.
“You... can give long speeches too?”
“Not my preference.”
The two days driving the truck from Sector 47 to 40, he was holed up in the cargo hold like a dead mouse, undetectable even to me. After picking him up hitchhiking at the mountain base, all he'd give were short replies like 'I see' or 'I followed.'
'Waiting for a chance to talk alone?'
Smart choice, if so. The biplane's roar drowned out everything unless you were right next to someone. Heung An Mandu needed the flight headset comms to hear anything. And up here, beyond dust and EMP storms, no eavesdropping could reach.
Sure, back in Sector 47 there were plenty of chances... but he's too much of an eccentric for normal logic. Had his reasons.
'And those [personal reasons] made him tag along on my trip...'
Thousand Stream Emperor.
Slender build, long hair. Tactical all-weather outer suit perfect for ops, multi-laser chainsaw on his back, worn long sword at his waist.
Even now, with much revealed, he remained a mystery. What I knew for sure: this obvious weirdo had a lot of interest in me.
Fine. Asking now should get a different answer than yesterday.
“Hey.”
“Mm.”
“Why'd you follow me?”
“Observation, protection, personal curiosity.”
“Observation, protection, curiosity. Probably ties to that 'Han Seo-ho' you mentioned at first sight?”
Thousand Stream Emperor nodded silently. How much that man influenced him showed in his twisted expression every time the name came up.
“Do you have a dream? Can you sum up your reason for living in one sentence?”
“Reason for living... One sentence might be tough.”
“I can.”
Thousand Stream Emperor swallowed, stroking the hilt of his sword at his waist like declaring to some absent soul.
“Becoming like Han Seo-ho. Becoming a great soul who never loses his own light, even in the foulest pit. My life moves solely toward that.”
“Self-cultivation. Dreaming like a Tibetan monk.”
“Not so different. The difference? They reach for a nonexistent absolute. I reach for the image of my one real friend who existed.”
“So? How's that connect to following me?”
“You resemble Han Seo-ho, Professor.”
As he spoke, Thousand Stream Emperor's eyes—dead like something long buried deep—met mine.
“He was a reporter who unluckily washed into a prison without bars.”
“Amid rivers of drugs, crime, violence, and debauchery, Seo-ho never crossed the line he'd drawn in his soul. Not until death came before my eyes, by my hand.”
“...So.”
“Professor. You're one of the few admired in this land of killers. Cast into the harshest world, like Seo-ho, you didn't lose yourself—instead, you led others with your light. At this point, you're the sole figure I've known who 'nearly' matches Han Seo-ho. Before you, no one even touched his heels.”
“'Nearly' means there are differences?”
“You're still alive.”
He emphasized 'still,' his eyes saying he'd end that state right now if needed.
“Professor, I desperately hope you die as you are.”
“Wow.”
Thousand Stream Emperor's calm voice seeped through the biplane's fierce prop wash and Heung An Mandu's song shifting to brain-melting parts.
“You don't know. The feeling of chasing an ideal that recedes with every step. I could never reach his shining soul. I had to admit my debauched past had ruined my mind. Even if not, I admitted I'd never reach it alone.”
“So my alternative: imitation. If just one more—like Seo-ho, able to lift himself from the ugliest pit—crossed my eyes, I'd mimic everything about him, become him.”
“Professor, you're one step from proving you're a transcendent self like Han Seo-ho. Even in death's moment, as life's final flicker fades—unchanged? I followed to see that with my own eyes. I can't miss your death.”
“So you stalked me out of the blue... First spark was the 3rd World clear vid, right?”
“Mm.”
Whoa. Knew he wasn't normal, but this reason's even crazier. Has to see me die with his own eyes. Geez...
“Cool with it? Thanks for tagging along.”
—Like a super reliable, useful ally volunteering.
“...Glad I don't need more explanation.”
He nodded, satisfied with my reaction.
Thousand Stream Emperor wants to witness if I stay unchanged until death. If yes, he'll mimic my entire recorded life. Like having an insane superfan.
Key point: he needs my 'deathbed impressions.' So no getting headshot mid-melee with a 'Gah!' Or shredded by tank fire without a word.
If 'observation' is that, 'protection' means shielding me from sudden deaths.
“Thousand Stream Emperor. Last time in anti-personnel training, you played opposition, right? How many opponents?”
“Dome agents: 57. BDSM rookies: 15. Veterans: 27. Total 99. With me, exactly 100. Training urban combat vs. Raptor's massively enhanced cyborg troopers. Chancellor wanted repeats, but I saw no need and refused.”
That's why he's so useful.
Not just any 99—fully armed elite Dome agents, wasteland-hardened vets who'd smashed Type-3 mutants. He solo'd them all with a baton like a reincarnated Lü Bu. And he's here to prevent my ignoble end. How reassuring.
'If I'm mortally wounded beyond repair, bleeding out cold—he'd kick away meds and stare at my dying form. But for small-unit fights, no better backup.'
Unexpected gift. Perfect ally hunting mystery Type-3 mutant hordes.
“...Ian or Vex fly you? Or Beks?”
“Mm.”
“Damn bastards. No wonder they let me go easy.”
Thousand Stream Emperor was at BDSM HQ. Vex, Ian—wasteland vets—surely vetted this mystery human weapon.
He doesn't hide his goals, so he probably spilled the same story to them.
Vex would've charged at 'I gotta see him die slow in front of me.' But Thousand Stream Emperor's superhuman; no easy kill.
Ian—brain pickled in gunpowder most times, but sharp when thinking—
Likely concluded this death-obsessed weapon was highly useful for my 'slow death.'
[Truck's loaded with a month's worth of arms for a company.]
He said that, but opening the hold revealed just a few crates of guns and gear customized to my size, plus Heung An Mandu's fuel drums and Thousand Stream Emperor curled in the corner.
'Ian figures one Thousand Stream Emperor equals a fully armed company's firepower.'
My 'personal' gear: crates of grenades and ammo. So Ian.
“Alright. I'll try dying slow and painful.”
“Thanks. Prepared recording media, just in case. I'll capture your death, send it to your family.”
“And obviously, you'll use that footage as study material?”
“Mm. As long as you don't die ugly.”
“Khkhkhkh! What a riot you are.”
Offered a hand for 'let's get along,' but he glanced and turned to the window silently. Typical.
I didn't push, looked out too.
VROOOOOM—
Prop still deafening, Heung An Mandu's anthem now at 'Pour you out from my boot~♪'
The old plane sliced the sky faster than any ground speed.
“...Professor.”
“Yeah.”
[Ooh~! He won't parachute anymooore~♬]
“Shut that disabled vet up, I'll consider painkillers as mercy.”
“When I die? Wow~ Generous perk!”
Heung An Mandu's singing was so bad even Thousand Stream Emperor—incarnation of chill—winced.
****
Crackle, hiss—
[Uh, announcement for passengers. Sleeping ones, wake up now—]
Hiss— snapped my eyes open. Dozed off briefly; surroundings now pitch black.
[Current time, 21:37. This transport will descend for landing—below's familiar sandstorms, unfamiliar EMP storms, and a clusterfuck of assorted radioisotopes no sane person approaches—environment you'll face soon, folks—]
Heung An Mandu's biting PA confirmed the thick sand haze below screamed danger even without it.
[Also, your pilot has zero terrain intel on the LZ— as you see, visual confirmation impossible— oh, air traffic control.]
Hiss—
[Passengers, check the rollers in the rear hold—]
“Rollers? Oh, the wheeled carts for catapult-launching the plane?”
“Here.”
Thousand Stream Emperor pulled a massive cart from under the fuel drums. Looked like the catapult one bisected.
[Found it? Good. Strap on parachutes, grab one each, line up for drop.]
His voice muffled now with gas mask.
[Ready? Grab rollers and drop quick. Gotta catch the plane before it descends.]
“...?”
“Mm...”
Even Thousand Stream Emperor pondered. Neither of us got what Heung An Mandu meant.
“What the hell! Catch the plane? You're dropping us and RTB, right? Never said follow to this mutant-infested radiation hell!”
[Sigh. Why ops with ignorant meatheads are such a hassle.]
“Ignorant?”
Crackle—
[Yeah, plane noobs. AN-2 guzzles 162 liters per hour. 14 hours: 2,268 liters burned. Right?]
“Probably...?”
[I explained kindly, but AN-2 payload: 2,140kg. Fuel alone maxed it, plus us three, gear—barely fit. Meaning—]
Rumble rumble, putter putter PUTTER!
[Fuel we brought? All used getting here. No return juice. Must land.]
“What?! All that fuel gone?”
[Yeah. Planes eat more gas than civvies dream.]
Clang clang—
Thousand Stream Emperor tapped the drums hooked to the pump; all empty rings.
[So, gotta land. But with that issue I mentioned, you two monsters help.]
“...Fuck!”
Didn't want to get it, but my sharp brain pieced it from clues.
“Drop first, catch the 3-ton plane on the roller! Make me human landing gear!”
[Tank-level durability! Heavy hydraulic strength! Biological gyro for perfect balance on uneven ground left-right fore-aft! If your self-proclaimed specs hold, you'll outdo any landing gear!]
“You think that's possible?!”
.
.
.
.
Crackle—
[Or don't. No regrets if I crash testing flight again.]
Mother of Roharam. Such a bastard exists.
[Return fuel... scavenge at LZ. Destination's a spaceship center, right? Surely fuel for one plane there?]
Oops. Said Next Space spaceport next door instead of Artist Union base. Heung An Mandu schemed this.
[Thousand Stream Emperor's here. Get him to help. He's a monster too.]
“...”
“...”
“Thou—”
“I'm out. My body's not built like yours.”
“Fuck.”
Chat made him seem solid, but nah—key moment, 'or don't' asshole mode activated.
[Come on, roller's composite fighter skin—won't break! Just catch good! I'll finesse the RV point— drop!]
“Damn—”
[Delay, plane drops first! Shut up and drop! Hate it? Walk back! Drop! DROP!!!]
“Fuck it! Thousand Stream Emperor! Stay aboard!”
“Thanks.”
Ground rushed up visibly; no choice but leap from the open door.
WHOOOOSH—!
Dust-laced wind smashed my face. Familiar air, yet distinctly different.
Looking up mid-fall: Heung An Mandu in mask and suit, humming, nodding down at me?
'Crazy bastard! Really landing in radiation-choked Sector 25!'
His 'or don't' was real; plane dove closer than thought.
'No time for chute...!'
Flutter!
Yanked the bag open, spilling parachute, snagged it fast.
Whiiiiiistle!
Then, rocketing down, meters from impact,
“Hraaagh!”
Grabbed chute ends, whipped it full-power like shaking laundry.
No regen, but strength near 3rd World Professor's—chute ballooned instantly—
POPPPP—!
Pressure burst it with a boom.
My fall slowed accordingly.
Whish!
Thousand Stream Emperor tossed the wheeled cart (Heung An Mandu's 'plane-proof') at my feet.
Plane distance: close enough to see bolt rust.
Crackle—
[LZ confirmed. RV in 5. 4. Hey, chest, not hands. Like hugging.]
“Like this?!”
[Yeah. Handprints ugly on skin.]
“-*#^&!! *#^***!!!!”
[Two, one. Touchdown—]
“Waaaah!”
Missed the rest. Literally catching a falling plane like skateboarding.
Rattle rattle RATTLE RATTLE!
Wheels gouged long tracks on bumpy ground atop me; plane's push slowed gradually.
[Hey— it worked! Release now! Bleed speed rolling forward!]
At pilot's OK, I shoved the crushing nose aside and rolled off.
“Huff! Huff! You, crazy, bastard, huff!”
Dome tests proved specs, but using a man as landing gear? Shocking idea.
Casually betting his life on it? Insane mindset.
Above all, shocked I pulled it off.
“This... not a game, right? Real life?”
Maybe I'd subconsciously rejected it. Wielding inhuman power in reality.
Yet when push came, used it like decades of habit.
Crackle—
[Yeehaw— it worked!]
Heung An Mandu's excited radio from the far-ahead plane.
[Thousand Stream Emperor streamed it! Shared with me! Post to our chat?]
“Damn, that's what a near-death guy says?”
[Near-death means I can! Fuel here, fly back once more! Hate ground one second!”
“Pfft.”
Wasteland life's full of crazies, but mine spanned a wide spectrum.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
[Thousand Stream Emperor here. Freq for your implant right?]
He'd approached in thick spacesuit-like protection, looming over my sprawled form in the hot zone.
[Jealous.]
“Whatever. Won't think that when you're one bad day from Type-3.”
[True. No major injuries? Up. Pilot's skilled.]
“Heung An Mandu?”
[Yeah. Nailed the coords dead-on.]
Rising per Thousand Stream Emperor, I saw what chaos hid on landing.
Bomb-ravaged city ruins, buildings gone. A path cleared amid them.
Lollipop sticks, rusty rockers, broken grandfather clocks, restaurant signs, smartphone wreckage piled mountain-high, sports car husks—once wealth symbols. Center cleared for a narrow trail.
Crackle—
[Doesn't look like a space base. Coords right?]
“...Heung An Mandu.”
[Yeah. No monster party for me. Staying to service plane.]
“Smartass. Quick on uptake.”
[Fuel on return. Jet or diesel.]
Survivor instincts knew death zones.
Why? The junk hill—nostalgia bait—dotted with old TVs, monitors all playing the same.
Dome's sole GG screening: my 4th World record.
[Greeting your arrival.]
“Looks like.”
...Rustle rustle.
“Cigs? Lost mine dropping.”
[Don't smoke.]
[I got. Whole pack incoming—smoke inside.]
“Nah. One's fine.”
Caught his hard-thrown pack, took one, tossed rest back.
“If memory serves, high chance no-smoking inside.”
Artist Union. Unknown, but not hostile now—best play along.
“Museums are no-smoking, right?”
I grinned at a familiar item amid the junk piles.
Sturdy frame: a painting.
Felt ancient—day friends and I raided Sector 45 bunker, snagged pre-war masterpiece.
Sold to Artist Union; now hung in a junk-buried house window.
Clunk!
Crash!
Tug: crumbling door opened, revealing entry hole.
Crackle—
[Dungeon vibe.]
“Yeah. Plenty horror-themed ones, probably?”
Wasteland's top mystery: two game rankers entering Artist Union, impressions.
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