Chapter Title: A Survivor's Diary (2)
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It was probably around midnight now.
Without a clock, I couldn't tell the exact time, which was incredibly inconvenient.
Today, Jeron had rummaged through a jewelry store and gone from house to house, putting all his effort into scavenging. He managed to find a few watches.
But the batteries in all of them were dead, so none of them worked properly.
Next time he went scavenging, he'd have to check convenience stores, stationery shops, or marts to see if any batteries were left.
Jeron emptied out the survivor's bag completely.
Rustle.
Various odds and ends spilled out.
A kettle set and a lamp burner, a lighter and a water bottle, two books, a few cans of food, a compass, and so on scattered across the floor.
"Not a bad haul."
The lighter and compass looked especially useful, even if nothing else was.
There was a Zippo lighter and a can of lighter fluid for refills, perfect for starting fires in the field during wartime.
The compass?
It went without saying.
In this primitive world, compasses didn't exist.
Most people navigated by the sun's rising and setting or by the stars. That's why guides were essential for travel.
With a compass, finding your way would be a breeze—what a game-changer.
"I should stop by a stationery store and see if they have any magnets."
Once he started thinking about how Earth's items could be used, ideas flooded his mind, freeing up his previously rigid thinking.
With just a magnet, he could rub it on a needle to make a makeshift compass.
Magnetize the needle to create north and south poles, float it on water, and it would act like a compass.
Sure, there was the hassle of marking the poles on the needle, but that was as simple as scorching the north end over a flame.
The items he had now could immediately become marching gear with a few additions. Not a bad result.
Jeron pulled out the diary, which seemed the least necessary.
Come to think of it, carrying a diary and pen around might be pretty useful too.
If he could grab some pens from a stationery store, those could be valuable commodities as well.
"Ideas are pouring in, just pouring."
At this point, he almost felt sorry for cursing the Guardian Dragon at first.
Even without heavy items, there were plenty of Earth goods that could help him.
Looking at them now, he marveled at how he'd survived eighteen years in this backward society.
Rustle.
Jeron flipped through the diary absentmindedly.
July 30, 2030.
The mutant incursions have intensified.
No, they're heading to the cities, and we're just prey they hunt along the way.
The things that ended the world have fewer numbers than before, but their physical abilities have grown stronger.
How does such power come from those emaciated bodies?
August 3, 2030.
Uncle Kim's team didn't return from foraging for food.
From the rooftop, I can still see mutants scurrying around.
A few seem holed up in this small neighborhood, hunting nonstop.
Have the mutants gained intelligence or something?
September 30, 2030.
Chae-hee said she saw a blue glow on a mutant during today's search.
A blue glow?
The damn things speed up instantly when that blue light flows over their bodies, like they've been injected with drugs.
The survivors think those monsters are starting to evolve.
I agree with everyone else.
…
July 2032.
Most of the survivors left in the village are dead.
For the past two years, I've been hiding and sneaking around to avoid the mutants still here.
It's an endless game of hide-and-seek.
A few days ago, another mutant entered.
The two fought, and the local one won.
The survivor went berserk, screeching and rampaging.
August 2032.
…Chae-yeon, honey, I'm sorry.
I don't think I can hold on much longer.
Soon, we'll be together again…
"Ha!"
Jeron let out a gasp aloud.
The diary was one man's record. A journal, essentially.
It roughly detailed what had happened on Earth after Jeron's death in his previous life.
The early entries strove for objective facts, but they grew more emotional toward the end.
They turned increasingly neurotic, tormented by loneliness, until he chose suicide.
The final entry was scrawled messily, the handwriting suggesting he wasn't in his right mind.
He'd probably gotten drunk and charged outside.
In the end, the village's last survivor didn't die from lack of food—he lost his mind to isolation and ended his own life.
Jeron could understand the man's heart completely.
After losing his family and living alone, Jeron had attempted suicide countless times himself.
But back then, he couldn't go through with it. He feared death, and even that hellish life seemed better than the afterlife.
After a moment of silent tribute to the journal, Jeron jotted down a brief summary in Korean of Earth's situation.
1. The mutants all flocked to the cities, sweeping up survivors in the surrounding areas.
2. Their numbers decreased, but they evolved.
3. With fewer mutants, territories seem to have formed, like predators claiming their own domains.
4. Mutants may have started using mana.
5. Going to the city now is suicide. No telling how strong the ones that survived this long are.
"Good thing I didn't head to the city."
Rural villages were likely safer.
He had no idea if any mutants still lurked in the cities, but Jeron saw no reason to risk his life.
Unless he somehow gained mana and led a knight order-sized force, farming in the city right now was suicide.
***
A warm energy permeated the entire territory.
Over the past month, Jeron had alternated between scavenging on Earth and territory duties, steadily filling his own warehouse.
In that time, he'd scoured not just the town center but the whole neighborhood, gathering useful items.
The haul wasn't much—canned goods, precious metals, batteries, liquor, a few seed packets. When he was short on time, he'd grab sickles, hoes, or plows from the blacksmith.
It was about time to move to a new neighborhood.
The territory had seen upheavals too.
Baron Ark Pellow had truly handed over his position to Jeron.
He stepped down to become a retired lord, built a house by the lake, and declared he'd spend his old age with Ophelia.
In this era, one's forties counted as old age, but to Jeron, who'd lived on Earth, it was absurd.
The forties were prime adulthood—retiring already?
It was the disconnect from this world's short lifespans of around fifty.
Jeron had reluctantly inherited the territory and become Baron Pellow, taking full control of its authority.
Not that it brought any dramatic changes.
The territory was still poor, with no radical shifts yet.
The changes would start now.
"My Lord, I've brought the serfs!"
"We greet the Lord!"
The loyal old knight Sir Jenald had brought the serfs who farmed the lord's lands without question or hesitation.
Hundreds of them worked Jeron's fields.
War slaves were put to hard labor, while serfs lived on as generational slaves to the lord's family, causing no particular issues.
They knelt at Jeron's feet, trembling.
Meeting a noble's eyes without permission meant instant death.
With knights glaring menacingly, lifting their heads to Jeron was impossible.
"Village head."
"Yes, my Lord!"
The village head crawled forward on his knees.
Old and infirm, he practically groveled.
It was regrettable, but preserving customs was best for now.
"Take this and plant it."
"Yes, yes."
Jeron handed over the flower seeds.
No explanation needed.
Serfs weren't serfs for nothing.
Below even commoners, they were treated solely as the lord's property.
Questioning the lord was unthinkable.
"Don't overwater them. Grow them well, and I'll reward you handsomely."
"H-how could we fail?"
The village head kowtowed repeatedly, showing reverence.
The serfs carried off the seeds like precious golden jars.
Why wouldn't they?
A direct order from the lord—losing even one meant execution.
The other knights quietly followed Jeron, but Sir Garcia couldn't hold back his curiosity.
"My Lord, why are you personally handling farming? Leave that to the underlings."
"Is that a complaint?"
"Not a complaint, but come on? Captain, aren't you curious?"
"We don't question what the Lord does."
"You heard him?"
"Please, just tell us what it is."
"Nothing special—flower seeds. They'll be the territory's main product going forward."
The knights wore puzzled expressions.
They couldn't grasp how planting flowers would generate revenue.
In this era, flowers were near-luxuries, so selling them made even less sense.
But this was territory management, not something for knights to worry about.
After handing the seeds to the serfs, Jeron headed back to the manor.
Today, Viscount Romid from Count Hanes's domain would visit.
Over the past while, Jeron had steadily sold off the gold he'd scavenged from Earth, and today the first payment in food would arrive.
And today.
Jeron planned to unveil a "relic-grade" item to the baron.
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