Chapter Title: Diary of a Certain Survivor (1)
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It was flashy to the point of being astonishing.
About two spans long, it was midway between a dagger and a longsword in size, and its decorations were so tackily gaudy they were beyond the pale.
The hilt was adorned with plum blossoms fashioned from cubic zirconia, in such a dizzying array of colors that it called to mind the patterns on the baggy pants worn by old grannies.
The blade was no different.
Its edge was honed to a razor sharpness, but the metalwork was decorated with flower petals—all of them cubic zirconia.
It was such a failure of a piece that one could easily understand why the blacksmith had chucked it straight into the trash heap upon completion.
However, Jeron appraised it not through an Earthling's eyes, but from the perspective of a medieval noble.
"I'm not entirely sure, but it seems they like things that are flashy with lots of cubic zirconia studded on them."
Its extravagance was incomparable to something like a dragon ring.
At this level, wouldn't a count suggest presenting it to a high noble or even the king?
It might not just be treated as an heirloom—it could be regarded as a relic.
Of course.
Since he couldn't gauge the discernment of Karen Continent nobles, there was also the chance it would simply sell as a gem-encrusted sword.
Whatever the case, with its high potential to fetch a premium price, he crammed it into his backpack along with its scabbard.
After scoring this find at the forge, Jeron stepped outside.
Swoosh.
A cold gust of wind blew through.
With winter approaching, fallen leaves tumbled about, blending with the ruined world to create an intensely desolate scene.
Lightly armored, Jeron drew his sword and ventured into the street.
The streets, devoid of any human warmth, remained just as they were.
Here and there, desiccated mummies lay sprawled on the ground, while some inside vehicles had died in place, still strapped in with seatbelts they couldn't unfasten.
Lush weeds sprouted through cracks in the asphalt.
In streets empty of animals, the dry grass rustling against his boots sent chills down his spine.
His first destination was the seed nursery.
Back when he was surviving here, he'd passed it by without a second thought, but from the standpoint of a noble managing a vast territory, a seed nursery was a treasure trove.
What if he found even rice seeds?
Rice, with its tenacious vitality bordering on indestructibility, could be transplanted to his territory.
The staple on the Karen Continent was wheat flour, made into bread, but that didn't mean rice couldn't be turned into bread as well.
He was confident it would have far better texture than the coarse loaves ground from unrefined whole wheat.
He proceeded with anticipation, yet without letting his guard down even slightly.
Even the main roads in this rural village were barren.
Wrecked vehicles littered the roadsides.
Cars that had smashed into utility poles, their engines burned out, or those flipped over in rice paddies were commonplace.
Traces of violent explosions marked some spots, and spent casings rusted on the ground here and there.
Such sights were everyday occurrences on the ruined Earth.
Jeron finally arrived at his destination.
[Grand Farm Seed Nursery]
The dented, tilted sign was missing its 'ㅇ'.
All the windows were shattered, the exterior panels peeled away and soaked in blood—it was a miracle the sign was still hanging.
Jeron didn't bother with the door, stepping through the broken plate glass instead.
Crunch!
The sound of old glass crunching underfoot echoed.
Even that small noise stood out in the utter silence, so Jeron gripped his sword and focused intently.
Whoosh.
Only the whistle of wind entering and exiting somewhere drifted through the air.
"Have all the mutants really died off?"
He couldn't help but think so.
Even during the time Jeron had been surviving on Earth, low-population areas had been relatively safe.
In the end, he'd been torn apart and devoured by mutants, but he'd held out for several years—which suggested the mutants had dwindled over time.
It was too early to say for sure, but maybe it was safe as long as he avoided densely populated zones.
Step by step.
Jeron meticulously searched the nursery's interior.
All sorts of pesticides lay scattered on the floor.
Display racks had toppled over, and blood splattered the walls, evoking a scene from a horror movie.
Pesticides were essential for farming, but spraying them on the Karen Continent would be problematic. Exposure could make weeds even more resilient by building resistance.
What Jeron sought were seeds.
Seeds refined over thousands of years, at the pinnacle of vitality and yield.
"Ha."
Rummaging around, Jeron let out a sigh.
As expected, nothing in this world came easy.
It would be nice to find a massive stock of rice seeds in one go, but those were food sources too. All the edible crop seeds had been looted clean.
People thought alike.
Anyone might think to sow seeds on safe land and try farming for themselves.
Seeds for famine crops appeared to have been picked clean long ago.
At best, useless flower seeds lay scattered about—no one in this bleak world had bothered planting flowers, it seemed.
Well, sure.
Vibrant flowers stood out too much—who would plant them in their yard?
He was about to leave the nursery empty-handed when he paused to consider whether these long-bred, beautifully flowering seeds truly had no commercial value.
"No."
Turning back, Jeron began scooping up the flower seeds.
They were conveniently packaged in small pouches. Given Earth's superior packaging tech, they should still be viable even after a decade.
Canned goods hadn't spoiled and were edible, so it was hard to imagine flower seeds had gone bad.
Jeron grabbed whatever he could—roses in every color, carnations, chrysanthemums, hibiscus, you name it.
"Delphinium? Never heard of it, but it looks like it could sell well."
Just a hunch.
If even he, from the modern era, found these flowers beautiful, the women of the Karen Continent would go wild for them.
The continent had flowers of its own, but they were entirely different species from Earth's.
Common folk too busy scraping by wouldn't care about flowers, but even in that primitive medieval world, rich people existed.
The nearest rich guy was Count Hanes.
Beyond him, the county had merchants and middle-class folk aplenty. Few places in the kingdom were poorer than Pellow Territory.
A sales strategy was already forming in Jeron's mind.
History showed just how deep women's love for flowers ran—the Tulip Bubble was proof enough.
Men bought them to win women's hearts, after all.
"A high-end strategy like this wouldn't be bad."
Of course, this was just his thinking; he had no idea if flowers would actually sell well. Gaining this one possibility was enough.
On top of that, Jeron checked how much time remained on the Golden Key and wandered a bit more.
He didn't limit himself to shops like the nursery— he poked into ordinary houses for light scavenging and stopped by a jewelry store to see if any gems were left.
The goldsmiths had been cleaned out more thoroughly than expected.
This was the result of looters springing up as the government showed signs of collapse.
Bitter, but unavoidable.
If the world bent to his will, he'd have led his territory troops to raid military bases by now.
The Golden Key was steadily turning black.
He had barely over three hours left on Earth.
Not exactly an impressive ability at present.
Jeron quickened his pace.
The Golden Key began to flicker.
He hadn't scored anything earth-shattering, but the tacky cubic zirconia-studded sword, a few cans, and the flower seeds would still prove hugely helpful.
The last house on his scavenging route.
Somehow, he felt survivors might have lasted until the end in these remote rural corners rather than town, so he'd walked the country lanes hoping to find something.
It was a standalone house nestled under a ridge, with a stream running right up to the yard.
Whoever lived here had put in real effort, channeling stream water into the yard.
The fence was sturdy, but the front gate was the issue.
The gate was half-destroyed, plastered with black bloodstains—clearly, the residents hadn't made it.
The yard was overgrown with weeds.
No signs of anything moving about.
The 20-pyeong house's windows were all smashed, glass shards littering the ground.
It looked like they'd nailed wooden boards over the windows, but that wouldn't have held back mutants.
To properly barricade against mutants, you'd need to weld metal over the entire window.
Crunch.
The familiar sound of glass crunching underfoot rang out.
The living room furniture was in disarray, dark red blood splattered everywhere.
From this alone, Jeron could guess the fate of the house's occupants.
From his wandering so far, mummified corpses were scattered about, but not in great numbers.
'Did the mutants eat everyone and head to the big cities?'
He hoped the mutants had all starved to death, but he couldn't be sure.
Having seen so many die from letting their guard down while surviving on the ruined Earth, Jeron's vigilance remained sharp.
The kitchen resembled a trash heap, with furniture smashed and utensils strewn about.
But this, too, was par for the course.
Searching the kitchen nooks and crannies, Jeron found a single pack of ramen.
"Jackpot!"
After eighteen years of eating things unfit to call food, he'd often wished for just one proper bowl of ramen.
He'd craved that rich seasoning aroma.
And it was Nongshim Neoguri, his absolute favorite.
The biggest score of the day's scavenging.
Jeron opened the door to the attic connected to the living room and climbed up.
The wooden stairs creaked and groaned from years of neglect.
Upon reaching the attic, Jeron spotted traces of the survivor.
"Talk about a real jackpot."
There was a map painted in various colors, a diary, and even a sniper rifle.
Jeron checked the sniper rifle's magazine for remaining rounds.
"Six bullets."
A bit disappointing.
Still, six rounds meant he could definitely take out at least three in combat using the sniper.
A pistol would have been nice, but no such luck.
Picking up a sniper rifle while scavenging wasn't just about the few lives it could end—it meant he could repurpose the scope as a monocular.
Once the ammo ran out, he could just detach and carry the scope.
On top of that, Jeron thriftily grabbed the backpack the survivor had likely used.
With the Golden Key flashing rapidly, he knew his time here was nearly up.
He decided to thoroughly inspect the backpack of this "former survivor" once he returned to the Karen Continent.