The Origin of the Nectar Spring

If the Dessert Desert had nothing but rocks in place of the Nectar Spring—and even that wasn’t necessarily bad for the jelly life forms now—the single greatest advantage of Oswald’s desert was, of course, its oasis.

The ecosystem surrounding that oasis was extraordinarily rich. It was now a jelly paradise, yet the area still spanned a full five square kilometers. For a desert, nearly half of it was covered by water.

Oswald had used that blessed terrain to farm, fish, raise livestock, and steadily build a formidable army.

“The plants growing naturally around this oasis weren’t created by Oswald, were they?”

“Correct. They are organisms that existed from the moment the game began. The fish and the rest of the oasis ecosystem appear to have been only lightly touched by the player. They’ve all been devoured by the jellies now, of course.”

In other words, if the special privilege of my rock-only desert world was the Nectar Spring, then the privilege Oswald had received for his desert world was this bountiful oasis itself.

I glanced at the oasis. It seemed my jellies hadn’t wiped out every living thing in the lake after all. The original fish, frogs, water plants, and aquatic grasses were still surviving in the gaps between ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the jellies.

The real drawback was that Oswald’s own created species couldn’t eat them. Why had he chosen to make human-like races instead of aquatic ones that could live in the oasis and feed on the water plants? It made no sense to me. If it had been my world, I would have instantly created frog people or hippos and declared myself ruler of the lake.

To balance the ecosystem, I exercised my Divinity.

“You’re evolving the fish and frogs here as well?”

“The freshwater jellies currently have no natural predators. They’re still the most primitive forms—dirt jellies and gravel jellies that don’t even have the ability to protect themselves with sand. We need predators to control their numbers and increase ecosystem diversity.”

I left the rest of the evolution to nature. Some jellies would gradually harden by incorporating sand, while the Jellygulpers would develop tougher teeth and sturdy scales.

The Jellyhoppers, rather than evolving to eat hard prey, would adapt to consume soft, fast-moving jellies. They would gain incredible swimming speed and digestive power.

As I had explained to the angel earlier, it was better to phase out the existing water plants. I held no particular grudge against pure vegetation, but other players could adapt to them too easily. Preserving only the original jelly life forms was the most appropriate choice.

Using Divinity, I inserted the photosynthetic genes of “plants” into the Waterweed Jellies living in the Nectar Oasis so they could adapt to freshwater. They were now True Waterweed Jellies.

“So the original waterweed jellies were fake?”

“Biological naming is always like this. Waterweed jellies are simply jellies that mimic the ecology of water plants. These true waterweed jellies possess chlorophyll-based photosynthesis on top of their jelly traits. They’re plants and jellies at the same time, I suppose…”

True Waterweed Jellies absorbed sunlight and water while expelling carbon dioxide and magic power.

At the same time, they absorbed sunlight, carbon dioxide, and water while releasing oxygen.

The end result was a creature that consumed enormous amounts of water and exhaled both magic power and oxygen. The increased oxygen levels they provided would greatly help the fish and frogs survive in an ecosystem stripped of ordinary water plants.

And the carnivorous puddings like the Meat-Eating Pudding, which currently had nothing to eat, would hunt these fish and frogs. The fish, frogs, and puddings would accelerate one another’s evolution, growing larger, faster, and more aggressive until they ultimately became aquatic ecosystem destroyers capable of toppling any life form near water.

“This game does let players evolve organisms freely, but you’re the first I’ve seen who uses invasive species deployment as an active strategy.”

“In an extreme Life build, there isn’t much else you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can do in the early game. Besides, this approach has its limits too.”

The angel stared at me as if I had said something absurd.

“You call this a build with limits?”

“Once you cross a certain point, civilization developed through Technology or Mystery surpasses the growth rate of pure Life. A life-centered build is incredibly strong and efficient when specialized in one direction, but because it fundamentally relies on evolving species into stronger ones, sudden changes in direction are extremely difficult. Even I have no Faith at all, so although there are many creatures I’d like to evolve, a large number of them are currently left unattended.”

Eventually, the day would come when the jelly legions I had sown could be destroyed by the civilization’s own power.

Of course, that day was not today. In the next world—perhaps even the one after—I would still be able to crush the opposing ecosystem with jelly deployment and win.

But starting from the fourth collision it would become somewhat difficult. From the fifth it would be precarious, and from the sixth onward the opposing world’s civilization would almost certainly be able to repel the jelly legions using only its own capabilities.

By the seventh collision—roughly average level seven, with high-level entities at eight or nine and nothing below five—even the greatest civilizations would find it hard to respond to the ecological destruction caused by jelly deployment.

Whether they mobilized manpower to physically crush them, used magic for removal, analyzed the jellies’ structure through technological advancement, or even evolved natural predators using holy power—there were many ways.

“So you’re not saying you’ll beautifully build an ecosystem and then lose spectacularly in the seventh fight, right? Does that mean you’re finally going to create a civilization?”

Ah. No.

Why was she so obsessed with building civilization? Winning through ecosystem destruction wasn’t the only strategy. There were other strategies for that time.

Anyway, I put considerable effort into shaping the freshwater ecosystem. Removing the water plants, introducing the true waterweed jellies, and carefully adjusting things so the existing creatures wouldn’t be wiped out was quite a tedious task.

At the same time I had to monitor the Nectar Oasis, ensure the two ecosystems didn’t negatively influence each other when they interacted, remove the livestock that had been eating the water plants, slightly modify the animals and birds native to Oswald’s desert so they could eat jellies, and so on.

While I was busy with the jelly-removal work, a sudden question occurred to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me.

“Hey. Something just occurred to me. Where does the water for Oswald’s oasis come from? With the sun beating down like this, shouldn’t it dry up? Is it magic?”

“First, to be precise, the official term is not ‘magic’ but ‘mystery.’”

Ma. Gic.

“In any case, the answer is… If you adjust the divine viewpoint and check underground, the answer should become clear.”

I lowered my viewpoint and looked beneath the surface. What I saw left me genuinely shocked.

An oasis is originally formed when groundwater accumulated over tens of thousands of years of rainfall rises to the desert surface. The mechanism is not fundamentally different from a spring or hot spring, only on a different scale.

Oswald’s world possessed such a massive underground aquifer.

Well, well. Oswald really drew an incredible terrain card. He would never have had to worry about water until the game ended.

“Yet he still lost in a single match.”

That part doesn’t matter. With this much water available, merging the Nectar Oasis with Oswald’s lake would be excellent in the long term.

A vast wetland would form. One side would be extremely diluted nectar in freshwater, while the other side would become an ecosystem filled with relatively rich nectar.

Let’s see… I could use rock-jelly-type organisms to break through the physical barrier of desert between them. Essentially building a canal.

“If I developed a civilization, I could do it quickly…”

Ah. Damn. This wouldn’t work. I currently had neither Faith nor Politics, so I couldn’t issue commands to living creatures. I would have no choice but to wait for the two isolated ecosystems to merge through natural expansion.

“Couldn’t you simply create a species with strong faith and social tendencies?”

I had gained quite a useful insight. Satisfied with this discovery, I looked over my still-narrow ecosystem. There was still plenty of time until the next world collision, so a little more management should be enough…

But then a strange feeling came over me.

Oswald’s oasis existed because an aquifer underground pushed water to the surface.

Then what principle allowed the Nectar Spring to produce ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠nectar?

In the game it felt natural because it leveled up on its own, so I had simply accepted its existence without thinking. But now that I considered it, the terrain was extremely unnatural.

I used the underground-perspective function to examine the source that produced the Nectar Spring.

I wanted to know the actual principle by which this terrain produced a high-density energy source called nectar, not just this superficial description. If an underlying principle existed outside the game, perhaps I could make use of it.

I concentrated my Divinity to examine the principle. What I discovered was shocking.

“Is this for real?”

The angel answered as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Yes. It is a fragment of a god. Not only nectar, but many of the world’s mysteries and holy powers are the same. The Divinity authority possessed by players is nothing more than an imitation of the true god.”

No. That wasn’t what I was asking. I didn’t care about true gods or their fragments.

In short, this was an organ that operated through biological mechanisms.

I used a technique on the Nectar Spring that I had never even considered trying before.

“Huh? Wait a moment. Player? What are you doing right now?”

Evolution.

Light burst forth. I felt all the divinity I possessed being sucked away. The Nectar Spring greedily drank in the divinity, then emitted even more light than I had poured into it.

There was a brilliant flash.

My divinity returned. I was a little disappointed. From behind me the angel muttered as if it were obvious.

“Of course it doesn’t work. You can’t evolve an organ separated from the main body and turn it into a new creature, can you?”

“Plants can be propagated by cuttings.”

“This can’t.”

I was quite disappointed. I had thought a truly broken build might be possible.

“In that case, you should just create an intelligent being and…”

“Ah? Hold on.”

“What is it? You suddenly look like you’re having another sinister idea.”

Sinister? What does sinister mean?

I recalled a function I had assumed I would never need throughout the entire game.

It was a function that could explain strange entities that existed in fantasy outside of biological mechanisms.

The condition for this technique was that the target must possess Mystery, Life, or something equivalent.

I consumed a massive amount of Divinity once more and activated the technique.

“Eh?”

Along with the angel’s bewilderment, I felt all the divinity I possessed being sucked away once again.

Throb—!

The Nectar Spring began to pulse in response to the divine power.