Chapter 501
Chapter 501
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 501
Chapter Title: Gedroits's Heir, Deul (16)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
When facing a sudden situation so urgent that there's no time for deep thought and an immediate decision is required, the minimal thought process to go through is as follows.
『Can the action I take right now change the current situation?』
The action following this thought must lead to immediate results, reducing the unexpected crisis to a manageable general situation.
‘A trap. Or an armed show of force to maintain a dominant position.’
‘Thousand Stream Emperor thinks he's [subdued].’
‘In an enemy's sealed hideout, encountering a neutral force, with the enemy releasing psychoactive drugs, leaving allies defenseless.’
Exclude incomprehensible elements coldly, and substitute partially understood ones with more familiar concepts. This turns the unfamiliar situation into one experienced dozens of times before.
“W.”
“Surprisingly calm. Yes, I'm listening.”
“....First off, if there was no particular meaning behind it, I apologize in advance.”
“Apologize for—ah, I see.”
After this series of thought processes, there was only one action I needed to take right now.
Boom!
Instead of the modern firearms bound in my bag, the shotgun I carried as a talisman was the first thing my hand grasped—likely because my body, accustomed to emergencies, reached for what was familiar.
“Double barrel, huh. Quite the vintage taste, just like us.”
The bastard didn't flinch. The barrage of lead shot turned his white suit into a bloody mess, and he leisurely drew a wavy-bladed dagger from within that blood-soaked fabric.
Vmmm—
It looked like something a medieval cultist might use, but the faint vibration and characteristic reflective light marked it as the same type as the monomolecular cutter Vex used. Given enough power and time, it could tear open a tank hatch. Naturally, my body would slice apart on contact.
Clang!
Proving that thought, the shotgun I hurled like a cannon shell split in two under his blade, and I charged right behind the flying barrel straight at him.
Sudden situation protocol: Exclude complex judgments, consider only immediately actionable options, and decide swiftly. In this case, subdue the nearby suspect taking a hostile stance.
However. What set me apart from an ordinary—or even extraordinary—soldier was this.
‘....Hold on.’
This Professor Park bastard had spent nearly his entire post-war life in a chain of emergencies, so the lump of flesh in his head was extremely accustomed to such harsh situations.
‘Blood splattered. In Sector 38, when Vex held a knife to his throat, and now with the 12-gauge hit, blood splattered both times.’
The guy surveying the situation before his eyes was the self-proclaimed best brain at improvising through all sorts of worst-case scenarios.
His brain, hypersensitive to surroundings beyond habit into paranoia levels, was stuffing incoming peripheral info into his head even as he charged at the bastard.
The shotgun, bisected by W's monomolecular kris, sparked as it flew left and right.
The flying barrels landed atop the passageway crammed with old-era junk.
The junk catching the barrels was stained with the blood spraying from W's body, who had just taken my shotgun blast.
I fired the gun. He didn't dodge.
That's why blood splattered everywhere.
Right here, in this place filled with the past relics they had so painstakingly collected.
“Something felt off about that.”
“Such...!”
Shrrrip!
As the dagger—peak of modern metalworking—sliced across my shoulder blade, I blew past W, hurling my body toward what lay beyond.
From the start, my eyes weren't tracking the incomprehensible phantom that was W.
It was the ‘gunpowder smoke’ that had erupted massively from the battered double barrel, an antique relic firing 12-gauge shells!
The muzzle blast's smoke had mostly dispersed from my rough movements, but even the faint remnants were enough for my eyes to read the direction.
At a glance, a straight passageway piled with junk. But following the faint airflow drifting from deeper within—
Boom!
“That colorless, odorless smoke filling this passageway, dulling people's minds— that's where the bastard is!”
Sweeping aside the thick junk pile revealed a small space. There, the grotesque Type 3 mutant I'd glimpsed from afar before was burning its own body.
A torso charred black like it had been fully incinerated on a medieval pyre. A shriveled human form hanging from a cross-like upper section. And supporting it all, about twenty human legs.
“No way I'd forget a freak like this.”
“Iaaaa. Gaaa...!”
Fwoosh!
Suddenly, ash-mixed hot wind blasted fiercely from its body, but that level of heat—enough to merely burn an ordinary person—couldn't stop me charging in.
Crunch!
“Gaggrk—! Hiii...!”
“Stay still. Move and I'll rip your head off first. Even as a mutant, you understand human speech, right? If you're the ‘adapter’ type that W mentioned.”
“....”
“Good. Perfect, subdued. But damn, no clue where or how to break something like this.”
For now, I wrapped my thick arm around the neck of the charred human part up top and shouted outward.
“You there, phantom! I've got a hostage too! If you don't want your disassembled ‘pyre sheep’ in pieces, put a little more effort into treating your guest!”
.
.
.
.
Silence. Or no response.
If time dragged on like this, who knew what would happen to Thousand Stream Emperor's state. Unwillingly pondering whether to rip off one or two of its spare legs and ask again—
“She has a severe fear of being restrained in an immobile state. As you know, due to trauma.”
“Is that so? I've got a special trauma in progress right now from unidentified talking mutants drugging my acquaintance and turning him into a lab rat. Guess I reacted a bit aggressively?”
“....Outrageous.”
Step. Step. Step.
W, whose upper body was practically rags, took in the sight of the ‘pyre creature’ dangling under my arm like it might snap any second, and let out a deep sigh.
“From your consciousness returning and looking at me: 2 seconds. To acting mid-sentence: 3.5 seconds. I never imagined you'd confirm Glinda's presence in that time, pinpoint her location, and take her hostage. Especially facing a direct threat like me.”
“Heh heh heh. Can't afford to be floored by that much.”
“Hmm. How much more will you startle me—”
“Hey, footsteps.”
Step. Step. Step.
At the sound of his approaching shoe heels, I pointed at his feet.
“You gotta watch that, right? Those snack bags from outside got dragged in during the commotion.”
“...!”
The snack bags from the outer passageway that came in with me as I smashed through.
Yet W's footsteps produced clear heel clicks on the thickly piled plastic trash, as if walking on a pristine corridor floor.
As if disguising non-existence as existence.
“I gave it some thought. A being that shows up anywhere within an hour for a deal. Appears and vanishes like a ghost, but bleeds when a knife's held to its throat, buys paintings from me, hands over payment—showing substance. I racked my brain trying to figure how such a creature could realistically exist.”
Some say highly advanced science is indistinguishable from magic.
But while all Gedroits's other tech is seen as ‘genius inventions,’ dismissing this alone as some multi-generational magical science feels off, right?
“Fortunately, you lot provided the hints first.”
“What....”
“Collector. Thousand Stream Emperor's ‘Han Seo-ho Sword.’ And your nonchalance just now, not dodging my shot.”
The faint hypotheses in my head, thousands of them, compressed into solid conclusions thanks to the info they revealed.
“Collector. Your apparent leader appeared as a woman surrounded by screens linked to frontlines. Even hacked a specially secured TeeCat from extreme distances.”
“Thousand Stream Emperor's friend, Mr. Han Seo-ho, showed that Type 3 mutants can take truly any form—and that's when it hit me.”
“Ah! So bio-mech Type 3 mutants like Collector could exist too! Elder Woojin's ‘mutation tech’ is basically linking mutant tissues with machines anyway!”
Once that clicked, the rest—scattered info bits till now—connected on their own.
“Heard rumors during the war. Dummy armies—printing vinyl mockups of tanks or barracks to fake bases. From afar, they look real, luring enemy air strikes or halting offensives.”
“....Just a hypothesis.”
“Of course! Just a hypothesis!”
“With vinyl balloon armies being early 21st-century tech, fully reasonable to assume generations-advanced versions now—”
“Thinking about it, everything W's handled in front of me has been under 1kg: paintings, paper, small daggers—”
“In this old junk warehouse where blood splatter would ruin valuables, he showed no intent to dodge from the start—or even if he couldn't, no glance at the sprayed blood! Clearly walking on crinkly plastic, yet footsteps crisp ‘step-step’ like on bare floor! All just forced fits by paranoid hallucinating Professor Park! Sure! Obvious to anyone!”
“....”
“....”
“Iaaaa.... Gruuu....”
No words, but W's constant composure breaking meant he was cornered.
“One tip: fresh blood smells very different from old. Arterial spray near the throat differs from blood oozing from bullet wounds. Blood through guts reeks horribly. Use different ‘blood scents’ by situation. Normals might not notice, but someone who's inhaled nose-peeling amounts of varied blood types can faintly distinguish—and just now, your gut was rags, but the scent was purely fresh like a beheaded corpse.”
In summary.
He faked non-existent footsteps,
Sprayed ‘blood scent’ to mimic real bleeding where there was none,
Has substance but seems limited to very light objects so far.
Add miraculous ‘anywhere in an hour’ mobility as ‘that many individuals exist,’ and like Collector's or ‘Han Seo-ho Sword's’ mechanical traits, his identity falls into place plausibly.
“Augmented reality. Overlaying virtual objects or info onto real environments for indistinguishable realism. Miniaturized drones enabling that make sense.”
“Speculation.”
“Probably 5-7 units, more for spatial audio. TeeCat heavy drones are near-silent thanks to anti-grav panels—so mini-drones could be completely quiet. A 500g dagger? Robot arm on a drone handles it fine.”
“W, you're a drone. Or something controlling miniaturized drones providing near-real audio, visual, olfactory info.”
My long ‘hypothesis’ ended, heavy silence filled Glinda's sealed space.
My prepared thoughts stopped here. The lengthy explanation was to stand on equal footing.
From unidentified enemy holding hostage vs. ally whose identity was exposed,
To equals each holding hostages, knowing each other's secrets. A preliminary skirmish to shatter their intent to leash me from the start and meet eye-to-eye.
Now, having shocked the ‘mysterious monster handling AR drones,’ I could ease the conversation....
‘....Huh?’
‘Huh? Huh? Huh????’
Whoosh—whirr! Whoosh!
Thoughts wouldn't stop.
Jumping from thought to thought, endlessly leaping, cornered memories surfacing like fireworks.
“....Drones. Housing drones, care drones. Gedroits Company advanced massively in drone tech, yet so few types.”
“The authority I got: GG drone operation rights. Everything except ‘drone fabrication rights’—all transport drones.”
From narrow passageway to facilities, regions, given situations, unfolding events—my thoughts pierced relentlessly.
“This place. Bigger than Sector 45 underground nuclear bunker, used by Artists' Union. Can't easily acquire, enter, or operate.”
“If W's a phantom, no need for ‘adapter’ Type 3 mutant nonsense. His tearjerker backstory? Just his word.”
“Space launch site built right next door. ‘Collector’ identical to in-game GG admin World Tree. Never-seen-before ‘seamless AR tech,’ never-produced ‘AR-using drones.’”
And those sprawling tentacles of thought linked to one common target.
“Artists' Union. This was Andrey Gedroits's ‘outer’ plan, after despairing over the collapsing Perfecter Project?”
Long ago memory.
Entering Atlahheba's domain in 3World. That overly tidy dragon lair showed an old TV with Andrey Gedroits's own recording. He said clearly: [Like this, no choice but from outside....]
‘Atlahheba said Gedroits left GG looking deeply anxious, never fixing the errors.’
GG's admin World Tree inside, her sister Collector admin outside.
If inner Perfecter Project, why not outer Adapter Project? Artists' Union seeking new ‘adapters’ mirrors GG's Perfecters—too similar for coincidence?
Then. Handling never-public tech, never-made drones, key in Sector 38 ‘Orpheus Incident’ that shaped the wasteland, handling ‘Artists' Union external ops’—
[She loved old things. Old TVs, old furniture. Old games.]
[We collect old things to remind people of old memories.]
The one leaving records on old TVs and videos.
“....W. No, you behind it.”
“No way.... Andrey Gedroits, is that you?”
Who else but the spiderweb planner of all this, unparalleled failure Andrey Gedroits.
....Tss tss tss!
“Truly. Completed to incredible specs, Professor Park.”
The white-suited man's form melted into air. One where W stood, nine more emerging unnoticed.
Fist-sized mini-drones gathered silently, rippling like air distortions.
“Optical camouflage.... Possible at that size?”
“Tech with clear limits, but pushed to feasible levels. Nothing groundbreaking.”
The voice from the drone speakers confirmed my deduction.
Even I, who figured it out, couldn't believe it.
“Really.... you?”
“Yes, probably.”
“You're Andrey Gedroits? Creator of future computation modules, sparking WW3, the wasteland, GG! Mutants! Domes! Raptors! All of it!”
“....Is this the you I'm talking to?”
The arrogant genius who decided our generation's fate.
“....Collector was right after all.”
From Andrey Gedroits's mouth came not an answer, but a weary sigh.
“Let's talk. You can decide after all stories end.”
“....And if I don't feel like talking?”
Half sincere. From GG, I knew the wasteland's truth. The shady old man beyond those drones bore responsibility for our generation's sacrifices.
Tracking him down for blood debt wouldn't be wrong, right?
“Ah, I can make you want to talk plenty. I know juicy stories. Like the Artists' Union as ‘outer plan,’ what's waiting where that spaceship heads.”
“Or how the upcoming ‘Raptor-Dome war’ is rigged for Raptors to win—”
“....What?”
*Cough cough*—
As I processed his last words, strained coughing came through the speaker.
“So release poor Glinda and come inside. No worry for Thousand Stream Emperor. It's a rite of passage; he'll handle it. Called you here to finally talk properly at this point. You and I—we don't have much time left, do we?”
....Time. Time.
“Come, Perfecter. Save people before it's too late? That's what you were made for—”
Crunch!
The crushed drone's speaker cut off, but the meaning overflowed.
“....Lead the way.”
Nothing changed. Enter Artists' Union den, extract what I can.
Just, pre-entry questions were about my state, their identity.
Now, my head overflowed with questions I couldn't grasp.
They'd all tie to one name: ‘Andrey Gedroits.’
Boiling down to one question.
‘Andrey Gedroits.’
‘What do you plan to do to our world?’
I followed the drone gliding through the air.
I had to know. What the man who broke the world to save it was preparing now.
We had too little left to lose more here.
****