Chapter 74
Chapter 74
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 74
Chapter Title: In the Name of Glory (10)
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***
Hiss—
Clunk.
“Ughhh.....”
Sometimes when I scroll through the community forums, I see comments like, ‘Streamers these days have it so easy making money. What job lets you earn like that without breaking a sweat?’ That’s just talk from people who’ve never tried it. Unless you’re in a real death trap, you can grab any big-caliber rifle and stroll around like it’s a walk in the park. Real-world mutants don’t carry the infection risk like the ones in the game.
“Hey? Hepburn? Out early?”
“Came for food? Perfect timing. Let’s eat together.”
I’d just logged out, stretched, and was drenched in sweat from whatever they’d been up to. Bex and Ian, lounging in the living room, greeted me warmly. The decompression chamber was humming away—looked like they’d been working outside.
“Food? What food?”
“Lunch, man. The pod has meal functions, sure, but it’s never as satisfying as eating out here.”
“Oh.... Lunch. So it’s not even noon yet.”
One of the biggest issues with GG is the time dilation. Started the game in the morning, woke up with Anaya at the inn, parted ways, walked to the church on my own—that took until about 2 p.m. game time. Then the trial with Senadis, chit-chat, rounded up the new squad and heard their stories, and by the time I stepped out, the sun had long set. Roughly from 6 a.m. to 8 p.m.—14 hours. Real-to-game ratio is 1:5, so in that time, only 2.8 real hours passed. Two hours and forty-eight minutes.
“Hepburn? You look wiped.”
“Ughhh— I’m dead. Body’s fine, but mentally exhausted. You know that feeling? Supposed to sleep at night, but it’s 5 a.m., 6 a.m., no sleep, head’s buzzing.”
“Oh, that. I get it. Been there with insomnia.”
“Damn it. Can’t sleep at night, you just zombie through the day. I’ve barely had a bad night in 35 years.”
“Don’t go saying that outside. You’ll catch bullets from all the insomniacs suffering in the wasteland.”
“Khuhuhu. Let ‘em come. Brain-dead idiots who can’t even breathe right? They could bring a truckload, and I wouldn’t blink.”
Chatting nonsense with these guys was easing my headache a bit. Sleep when tired, sure, but lying in bed with the sun high? That’s wasteland amateur hour. Do something, and it’ll pass.
‘Once I’m good, right back in. Time’s not unlimited.’
Professor twitched his slightly alien thumb as he thought. Thumb to ring finger—all but pinky had gone over to Hide’s side. Basically lost a hand. Back in the day, he’d have freaked out screaming, but no panic now. Hide being so cooperative?
‘On purpose?’
[Who knooows?]
No answer, just stifled laughter. Sneaky bastard. Wonder who he takes after.
[Fun insulting yourself in the mirror?]
‘Beat it, Hide. Don’t compare me, a fine upstanding guy, to you.’
Left hand twitched, middle finger flipping up. Joking like this, but it hit home how precarious things were.
‘No need to rush, but no slacking either. Lose one more arm, and I might actually have to negotiate with Hide.’
[Can’t wait. Hehehe.]
Ignoring Hide’s loaded words, Professor reached for the steaming calorie bar Corduro had set on the table. Sweet, with a chewy fiber bite. Sweet potato and... carrots today? Put some effort in?
Bex seemed to like it fine, but Ian looked like he hated the stuff. Shoved a bite in, chewed mechanically—face crumpling more with each jaw movement.
“Goddamn. I can’t do this.”
“Why? Tastes good to me.”
“Try spitting it out. After all the work growing those ingredients myself, you dare complain? Chew. Swallow.”
“Exactly. Disrespecting the crops Master and I nurtured so carefully? New Master needs a lesson in a farmer’s toil, hmm?”
Zap—crackle!
“Gah— Professor, your AI’s messed up, man.”
Corduro’s drone sparked with a mini-welder, Professor eyed Ian and the fertilizer tank alternately in silent threat. Ian finally choked down his share.
“Urgh. Wasting the most important meal of the day on grass. Bunny bastards.”
“And what’ve you been eating?”
“Me? Raptor combat rations, or spoils from trading runs. Potatoes are fine for me.”
“‘Trading’ for ‘spoils’... Saying that naturally is already a red flag.”
Gulp, gulp.
Ahhh.
Whatever. Got money now. Just feed ‘em meat saddles.
“Corduro, two more waters.”
“Yep!”
Belly full, mouth rinsed—nerves settled, surroundings sharpened. Greenhouse had new shade; guessed what they’d been doing outside.
“Shelter parts already here?”
“Hm? Oh, that? Yeah. Arrived right after you logged in. Fun living here all rowdy, but it’s cramped for three. Your couch? Too small for me. Woke up with a sore back.”
“Not built yet—just slapped up a wall, staking the spot. Hepburn, here work?”
“Uh.... Maybe. Gotta calculate. Factor in active defense range for guard turrets.”
“Obviously getting one for our side too.”
“That’s the problem—overlapping ranges waste coverage. Unless you make a proper kill zone, wider spread’s better.”
Another hour bickering over shelter placement. Alone, time crawled like enemies hunting me. Now it flew. Couldn’t help it—reliable guys.
‘While I’m at it, ask?’
“Bex.”
“Yeah? What?”
“You said 3rd Airborne.”
“Yeah. 3rd Air Assault Division.”
“Ian, you’re military too, obviously.”
“Didn’t mention? Merc. War started in North Korea, hottest zone was Korea, so here I am. Spill?”
“Eh.... Later. Head’s too full now. Anyway, all vets, so you know unit ops. Survived the war? At least platoon leader.”
“Mmm. Yeah. Me—”
“Regiment commander for me. Not wartime, though.”
.
.
.
.
What? Regiment commander? That bomb-crazy jaw-forger?
“Eh?”
“I-Ian. Star? Wait, regiment’s not star?”
“Khuhuhu, impressed? This head ain’t soft, you Commie punks. Salute, what’re you waiting for?”
“H-Hell no! Age before rank!”
“Y-Yeah! Great War, brass got shredded daily! Filled vacancies! Special ops—ranks didn’t matter!”
Professor pictured Ian in sharp uniform, medals gleaming. Black shades, cigar, “khuhuhu,” mashing big red button. Damn. Fits too well. Born for it.
Good. Regiment knows better than me.
“Alright. Help me out.”
“Hm? With what?”
“Game stuff. In-game, running a... special forces unit. Problems.”
Ian’s face fell at “game,” perked at “special forces.”
“Special forces. Numbers, types, objective?”
“Not shipped out, so maybe more, but ten core.”
“Ten plus... Platoon-scale. Objective?”
“Assassinate enemy supreme commander.”
.
.
.
.
“Huh?”
Yeah. Normal reaction.
Ian’s “what bullshit” look satisfied something deep. Nothing like others grasping your grind.
“Unrealistic, sure, but it’s a game. Heroes off to slay the demon king.”
“Uh, yeah.... Right. If all ten pack company-level firepower as superhumans, doable. Types?”
“Three frontliners—draw aggro, hold line, infantry-ish. Six mages—massive firepower artillery.”
Ian scowled at “infantry,” lit up at “artillery.”
“...Not bad? Full war, maybe, but assassination. Bait with three up front, lure the target, then artillery on standby predicts path and obliterates? Artillery’s key—I pass. Artillery’s god! God of the battlefield!”
Damn Korean vet, artillery water in his veins like a Yank. Yeah, thought that far. Problem starts now.
“Artillery’s useful, but flawed.”
“Flaws? Green?”
“Nah... Logistics issue. Picky eaters, big time. Hard keeping combat-ready dragging ‘em to the commander.”
Ian smirked. “Pfft, easy. Starve ‘em on march, feed after. They’ll lick the plate.”
“Nope. Watched ‘em—starve to death before eating anything else. Fish only, or seaweed. Water stuff.”
“...Even then?”
“Even then. Dried out? Performance drops.”
“What kinda trash is that?”
Yeah. Thought that during infiltration planning.
‘Gotta sneak through three enemy cities with these? Fresh fish and kelp every meal?’
Infiltration needs stealth, speed. Hardtack at max pace too slow—now fishing by water at mealtimes? No water nearby? Starve. Limits routes.
Mages cripple dynamic ops. Don’t fit.
“More problems.”
“Already doomed, what else?”
“Yeah. One ‘artillery’ (mage) is enemy commander. Black Mage.”
“Uh.... Commander? Defected? Or POW forced in?”
Let’s see. Church grabs Black Mages? Instant noose. But reforming instead of killing—not a sinner. Just Black Mage? But self-taught? Ties to Mutation Blood collaborators?
Professor pondered, shook head.
“Not confirmed, but not straight enemy POW. Possible spy.”
“No intel from above? Tells on POW treatment. He got treasures piled, three beauties on arm, living it up?”
“Nah... Stripped naked, head shaved, ‘mind reform.’”
“Oh god no.”
Ian waved dismissively.
“Hero treatment, buried in cash—why? Make defector feel secure to cooperate. But stripped and shaved? Instant betrayal. Ditch him in shadows first op. MIA him. Artillery? He’ll blab base, torch ammo dump, bolt.”
“Hmm... Black Mage too risky...”
Hold off. Talk in-game.
“Next issue.”
“More?”
“Minor. Most squad Lordric natives—super racist place. Two discriminated races.”
“Oh god, racism? For guys watching each other’s backs in enemy lines?”
“One’s low IQ. Learns hard, but no complex ops.”
“Fuck that! No way! Scrap it! Militia easier!”
Mentioned werewolf Borca and Notum—Ian quit.
“Anyone sees it ain’t viable! Accepting that? Sane? Quit now!”
“Can’t. Or die.”
“That mess, and ‘can’t or die’?”
“Whew. Hepburn, tough break.”
Click, hiss—
Puff—
Bex patted Professor’s back; Ian lit a smoke from his pocket.
“Yeah. Real sorry, no help. Truly stumped. Coup with the squad instead? Hope there.”
“Right. Zhuge Liang’d blow out candles and quit.”
“Pfft! What’s that, idiot.”
‘No solid plan, but lighter inside.’
Professor chuckled, downed the last water.
“Didn’t want solutions—just venting. Ranting with others helps.”
“Better?”
“Nah, faced cold reality, pissed to world’s end.”
“Khuhuhu. World’s like that. Can’t plan perfect from start—adapt. You’ll figure it. My experience: even shitshows work out with you.”
“Yeah. Won’t fix digging holes.”
Professor grumbled, stood from couch. Ate, head clearer.
“Back in?”
“Gotta hustle. Thumb’s gone. Not mine.”
“...Yeah. Grind. We’ll poke around too. Traders might know game folks.”
“Good. Hope so. Today? Shelter, or out?”
“Yeah. Loop 47 District.”
“No 43-style wandering! Got my notes?”
Ian pulled pocket notebook crammed with tiny script.
“No worries. Check every ten.”
“No, tell Bex. Bex, you got it? Guard well.”
“What, I ain’t dropping a notebook...”
“Not book. The metal-jaw action controlled from spine, not brain.”
“...You bastards?”
“Kihit. Best effort. Best.”
Professor gripped Bex’s hand firm—entrusted—headed to pod room.
‘Set rest times. Start morning, till sunset. Syncs with outside.’
No rage-quits. Remember. No time, Professor.
[Hehehe. Slow down, it’s fine.]
‘Shut it.’
Hiss—clunk.
Professor lay in pod, closed eyes.
‘First, ID limits. Grab map, retrace route. Enemy intel... Moon Shadow?’
Sigh before start. This game. Stressful as fun—no complaints.
Whoosh!
Familiar login chime—Professor’s mind flew back.
***