Chapter 36: Redemption

Logan Lane stared at the numbers displayed on the stone pillar, frowning. He hadn't expected the end of the novice protection period to result in such high mortality in just one day. Originally, there were 100,000 "LP" (Life Points) in this district—not counting vassals—so at least 100,000 actual survivors.

By the end of the first three days, Logan noted only 184 total deaths. But now, on day five, there were 1,204 fewer survivors than the previous day. The toll had skyrocketed; more than 1,200 had died in just 24 hours.

Logan's face darkened. This was only day five. Worse, the novice fishing nets were about to vanish, leaving many people without tools to retrieve supply boxes from the Arcane Ice Sea. Materials were already scarce, and a vast majority hadn't broken through F-rank. The unrelenting cold rain would make them ill.

In ancient times—without penicillin—a simple cold could be fatal. Today's conditions were even more lethal. Even if someone found antibiotics, modern human resistance might demand stronger medicine that wasn't available in this broken reality.

Taking a deep breath, Logan realized the deeper reason why the world had scattered survivors, even those from the same country, ensuring they couldn't easily trust or unify. In a normal scenario, if large groups could consolidate materials, build centralized shelters, and distribute resources collectively, more people would survive. But here, no one dared trust each other enough to pool everything. Human nature was too selfish, and the system's isolation made it worse.

The day might come when powerful island owners emerged as new overlords in a later "district merge"—like ancient warlords dominating after a collapse. The strongest might devour others, leading to a survival-of-the-fittest monarchy. Logan didn't crave conquest, but he wouldn't be at anyone's mercy either.

He watched as the stone pillar's number dropped by one or two every ten minutes, an ongoing tragedy. Grimacing, he closed the interface and moved to his farmland. The D-grade soil bed, where he'd planted potatoes, watermelons, peppers, and the green vine, showed a new surprise: the peppers had ripened. He picked more than a dozen large, glossy red peppers. He could've extracted seeds to replant them in normal soil, but the D-grade field was too precious for mere peppers.

He intended instead to sow D-rank Green Spirit Fruit Seeds and use his F-rank Evolution Liquid on the potato, turning it into a higher-value staple. Once the special crops fully matured, he'd transplant all non-evolved produce—except the enhanced potato—onto regular island sand. He'd likely assign Rena Dane to farm duty.

With that done, Logan lugged a heap of stones to construct a simple platform for his A-rank Flame Dragon Cannon. Although the weapon looked small—barely a meter in size—it was, by the system's measure, truly A-rank. Possibly minimized for convenience, it still boasted lethal might akin to larger cannons of the same rank.

"Huh? What's this?" Logan muttered, noticing a tiny red dot etched onto the cannon, alongside minuscule script. "Some weird text? I can't read it."

He spoke aloud. Bella, his wood spirit, fluttered onto his shoulder, shielding him from the rain with her translucent barrier. Her beady eyes scanned Logan's confusion.

"Bella, you understand this?" Logan asked.

"Chirp, chirp-chirp-chirp! Chirp!" Bella squeaked.

Logan felt grateful for his telepathic link with Bella; otherwise, her chirps would be incomprehensible. She explained that the A-rank Flame Dragon Cannon was made long ago by an advanced civilization. The script was their ancient language. Bella's inherited memories allowed her to interpret it.

The system's description wasn't the cannon's whole story. Proper aiming required an auto-target device. Aside from an energy core, the user needed mental energy to control it precisely. That civilization had nearly reached a consciousness-based existence.

The Flame Dragon Cannon had a 1,300-li range, firing at one-hundredth of light speed. It used energy shells, but the recoil was massive. At minimum, a diamond-level fortress was needed to anchor it firmly, or the cannon might recoil off-target. Moreover, it could be fired thrice per ten-day period, or else delicate internal parts risked damage. The intervals were fixed—no usage tricks could bypass that cooldown.

Its firepower matched the system's stats, but one extra note: an S-rank foe lacking speed specialization wouldn't outrun it. However, S-rank defense often equaled near-invulnerability, so even a direct hit might only scratch them, hence the "chicken-rib" label.

Knowing all this, Logan sighed. Constructing a robust diamond turret was beyond him right now, nor did he have 100 Fire Spirit Stones for a single shot. Also, mental control was an issue—he lacked that level of psychic skill. While it could be fired manually, accuracy would drop without the specialized targeting apparatus.

"You really do know a lot," Logan said, patting Bella's fuzzy head.

"Chirp!" Bella chirped proudly, nuzzling against Logan's palm. She apparently enjoyed the warmth.

Hours passed before Kevin Lake, Anna Young, and Rena Dane returned with bedraggled expressions. The rain had eased somewhat, revealing their miserable states more clearly. Their leaf-woven outfits remained, but streaks of mud, blood, and rain covered them. Their feet bled from cuts—possibly from splintered crab shells scattered around.

Anna and Rena's hair hung in wet tangles, water dripping along their pale skin. Kevin likewise looked every bit the drowned rat, though he carried the Breeze Sword carefully.

Logan let his eyes flick over them. "Took you long enough," he remarked, setting the partially built turret stones aside. "I see the job got messy."

Trembling, the trio bowed. Kevin cleared his throat: "Island Master… we… cleared away all the shells. The edible parts—uh, we put them in crates, waiting for your instructions."

Logan nodded. "Well done. That crab meat is all rank-grade. We'll keep some, and possibly sell the rest. Now"—he turned to Kevin—"deliver on your deal. You can send 200 grams of cooked meat to your wife. Cook it carefully. No messing up the portion. Understood?"

Kevin's tired face lit up with relief. He prostrated himself briefly, voice thick with gratitude. "Yes, Island Master Logan. Thank you!"

Logan waved him off. "I need to maintain a certain standard. Didn't buy you so you could loaf around." Glancing at Anna and Rena, he pointed to a battered crate. "That's your pay. A few extra planks, some soup. Now go wash up again; you smell awful."

Overwhelmed with fatigue and cold, Anna and Rena nonetheless gave a grateful bow. Even a few scraps meant a lot in their current circumstances. Soon, they tottered away, hunched against the drizzle.

Logan Lane watched them go, Bella perched on his shoulder, her tiny wings fluttering gently to keep him shielded. A sense of grim satisfaction flickered in his eyes. Day five was here, and he'd survived comfortably. Meanwhile, the district numbers kept dropping. If he didn't do something soon, the population might plummet to the point that a district merge was triggered earlier than he'd like.

He sighed, stepping back to his half-built turret. Even if he never used the cannon soon, the mere act of building fortifications gave him a sense of security. The world around him was dark and savage, but he'd carve out a place for himself, no matter the cost.