Chapter 34

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Translator: MadScientist

Chapter: 34

Chapter Title: Future Plans

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Postscript.

It's a bit ambiguous to call it an afterword.

We beat the living daylights out of every last raider scum selling people to the mutants and made it back to the shelter.

I was on pins and needles the whole time, terrified the mutant flower might get wrecked, but luckily the freezing weather—or maybe the raiders fattening it up with all those human sacrifices—kept it safe.

That covers everything up to now: looting every scrap the raiders left behind, from spoils and food to ammo, firearms, and even their generator-rigged truck. We swept it all up nice and tidy.

Thanks to that, our dirt-poor shelter suddenly overflowed with abundance.

It took a solid two days just to sort through the haul and cram it into every nook and cranny of the shelter.

We filmed an insane, never-before-seen mad movie, but I put on a heroic performance that even surprised myself.

FBI-level high-rise infiltration, ninja-turtle-style stealth entry, even pulling off a Gatling with a rifle.

Even I have to admit it was badass.

'Come to think of it, I even deflected a grenade.'

The Heavenly Mechanism Calculation Method kicked in automatically against some gorilla-looking bastard's grenade launcher.

It has the drawback that I can't trigger it on purpose, but in exchange, it activates on its own without my input, letting me dodge unpredictable crises.

I never imagined I'd catch a flying grenade and quick-turn it right back.

Anyway, point is, my condition was beyond perfect—better than words could describe.

But that wasn't what my master was worried about.

I figured that's what it was.

Looks like my master was worried about my mental state.

'Well, yeah—she was there with me when it happened.'

We saw the raiders feeding live humans to the mutants.

Sure, we looted their spoils after the victory, but that wealth came at the cost of those sacrificed lives.

The raiders? Who cares if they die. But the victims? We watched them die with our own eyes—that hits different.

So it's only natural my master would think I'd feel uneasy or guilty using their bloodstained belongings.

But,

How much of a newbie does she think I am that she needs to baby me like this?

By Martial God Gallery standards, yeah, I'm a newbie—but I've been around the block in this world.

Not that I have much room to talk—I've wiped out entire survivor groups just because they rubbed me the wrong way.

Truth is, this world's laws and justice lost their anchor ages ago. No point looking back now.

The law of the jungle might be this world's justice, and maybe I'm just an outlaw defying it to survive.

I've lived in this hopelessly broken world, repeating thoughts like that countless times.

And at the end of it all, I reached this conclusion—

This came after plenty of pretentious, drawn-out pondering, you know.

What "human" really means is still up in the air, but I've decided not to overthink the rest.

By that standard, inheriting the dead's belongings doesn't warrant extra guilt.

They probably wouldn't have wanted that anyway.

After that, I got a ton of headpats.

In this depressing world, headpats from the realm's top SSS-rank cool beauty like my master? Pure power-up fuel.

Even my slightly deflated mood perked right up.

Once I started feeling energized, my master asked about my future plans.

Hm, future plans, huh.

Yeah, that was the real issue.

The victims' belongings? Just internal baggage—no immediate material threat.

But I had real, skin-crawling dangers closing in.

The shattered world's power structure? Split between mutants and raiders.

I knew they were growing stronger, but named bosses on a national scale? Didn't see that coming.

At this point, I almost feel like the villain.

Not some grand mission like rescuing survivors somewhere.

Or slaving away to rebuild a world that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠might still have hope.

Like always, I just reach as far as my arms stretch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and advance as high as my legs push me.

But here's the problem.

This world's collapse was way too thorough.

The axis of the world tilted their way and toppled.

Mutants dominating the world? Fine.

But raiders swelling ranks at a terrifying pace too?

When I roamed, they lurked in shadows, dodging remnant government forces.

Now? They've bulked up so much, those guys look like the "small government."

This is ridiculous.

Humans adapt to anything—even mutants.

It's not about peak potential.

My peak might win out eventually.

But the world might shatter before I get there.

My master nodded in agreement at my worries.

Then she said,

Maybe.

Not holding my breath, though.

Sure, we can learn martial arts via sparring matches,

but we're noobs from another dimension.

No direct help means limits either way.

Still, no sense suffering alone—I posted on the gallery.

And bam, comment notifications rolled in right away.

What the—

Growing frustrated with me, Anger Control Expert snapped back even more exasperated.

No way.

No freaking way, right?