I Picked Up the Fallen Earth

Chapter 9 A Survivor’s Diary (1)

It was shockingly splendid in appearance.

Being about two spans in size, it was midway between a dagger and a longsword, yet its decoration was so noticeably tacky.

The handle was adorned with plum blossoms made of cubic zirconia, their various colors dizzying enough to remind one of the garishly patterned pants worn by grandmothers.

The blade was no different.

Sharpened to a fine edge, it was embellished with clusters of flowers, also predominantly in cubic zirconia.

It was a fail of such magnitude that one could easily understand why the blacksmith had promptly tossed it into a heap of trash upon completion.

However, Jeron appraised it not through the eyes of a contemporary earthling, but from the perspective of a medieval noble.

“I’m not sure, but it seems like the more flamboyant and filled with cubic zirconia, the better they like it.”

It was a splendor incomparable even to a dragon ring.

Perhaps it was elaborate enough that a count might consider presenting it to a high-ranking noble or even a king?

For all one knew, it wasn’t just a potential heirloom but could even be treated as a relic.

Of course, the aesthetic judgment of the nobles on the Karen continent was unpredictable, so there existed a chance it could simply be sold off as a bejeweled sword.

Regardless, its high potential for fetching a substantial price warranted its being stuffed into the backpack along with its scabbard.

After scoring big at the blacksmith’s, Jeron stepped outside.

Swoosh.

A cold gust of wind swept through, signaling the approach of winter, as fallen leaves twirled amidst the desolation, adding an eerie ambiance.

Jeron, lightly armored, drew his sword and stepped onto the street.

The warmth of human life was absent from the streets.

Here and there lay desiccated mummies, others still strapped by seatbelts in cars, having met their demise right there.

Over the cracked asphalt grew rampant weeds, the rustle against his boots in the animal-empty street sent shivers down his spine.

His first destination was the seed repository.

To Jeron, in his previous life, it was something he’d overlook without much thought, but from the standpoint of a noble managing a vast estate, the repository was indeed a treasure trove.

Should he find even a grain of rice?

The hardy, tenacious rice would be transplanted to his lands.

While flour from wheat was the staple food of the Karen continent, used to make bread, it wasn’t that rice couldn’t be used for bread-making.

In fact, he was confident that bread made from rice might even offer a better texture than the roughly ground whole wheat bread.

With a mix of anticipation and a trace of caution, he pressed on.

The rural roads were desolate.

Broken vehicles littered the streets.

Cars that had smashed into utility poles and burned down to their engines were a common sight, as were those overturned in the ditches.

Signs of violent explosions were evident, and here and there lay rusted bullet casings, a very mundane sight in a world that had ended.

Jeron finally arrived at his destination.

[Daenong Seed Repository]

The crooked sign was missing an ‘ㅇ’, its windows all shattered, with the exterior stripped and stained as if soaked in blood, yet the fact that the sign still hung there was remarkable.

Jeron bypassed the smashed glass door without bothering to open it.

Crunch!

The sound of stepping on old glass echoed.

Even such a minor noise was pronounced in the otherwise silent environment, prompting Jeron to advance with his sword at the ready, focusing intensely.

Whoosh.

Only the whistling of the wind entering and leaving was audible.

“Are all the mutants really dead?”

It seemed like the only logical conclusion.

Even during Jeron’s time on Earth, regions with lower population density were relatively safe.

Although they ultimately fell victim to being torn apart and devoured by mutants, they managed to survive for years, suggesting a possible decline in the number of mutants even then.

It was still too early to say for sure, but it seemed like avoiding densely populated areas might be safe.

Step by step.

Jeron meticulously scanned the interior of the seed shop.

Various pesticides were scattered all over the floor. The stands had fallen over, and the walls were covered in blood, reminiscent of a scene from a horror movie.

While pesticides were essential in agriculture, it would be impractical to take them to the Karen Continent and use them there, as exposure could lead to the development of resistance, making weeds even more tenacious.

What Jeron was looking for were seeds.

Seeds that had been improved upon for thousands of years, reaching the pinnacle of vitality and yield.

“Sigh.”

After rummaging around, Jeron let out a sigh.

It seemed there was no such thing as an easy task in the world.

He wished he could find a large amount of rice seeds all at once, but such seeds were ultimately food. All the viable crop seeds had been completely taken.

People think alike.

It was a thought anyone could have – to find safe land and sow seeds to cultivate crops directly.

It appeared that seeds of famine-resistant crops had been completely taken a long time ago.

At best, he found useless flower seeds scattered about, seemingly no one had thought to plant flowers in such a barren world.

After all.

While vibrant flowers were eye-catching, who would plant them in their yard?

As Jeron was about to leave the seed shop, having found little of value, he reconsidered the potential worthlessness of these beautiful flowers that had been refined over a long time.

“Wait.”

Jeron turned back and began collecting the flower seeds.

The seeds were conveniently packaged in small parcels. Considering Earth’s advanced packaging technology, the seeds would still function properly even after 10 years.

Considering canned food could last without spoiling, it was hard to imagine that the flower seeds would go bad.

Jeron scooped up roses, calla lilies, chrysanthemums, and hibiscus, whatever he could find.

“Delphinium? I’ve never heard of it, but it seems like it would sell well.”

It was just a hunch.

To Jeron, who had lived in modern times, if these beautiful flowers would enchant the women of the Karen Continent, then it was clear.

The continent wasn’t devoid of flowers, but the species were completely different from those on Earth.

The common people, struggling to make ends meet, wouldn’t care about flowers, but even in the uncultivated Middle Ages, there were wealthy individuals.

The closest wealthy person he could think of was Count Hanes.

There were also merchants and middle-class people engaged in trade within the Count’s domain. Few places within the kingdom were poorer than the Farrow barony.

Jeron’s mind was already drafting a sales strategy.

History showed with events like the Tulip Bubble that women’s love for flowers was immense.

And men would buy them to win the hearts of these women.

“Going with a premium strategy might not be a bad idea.”

Of course, this was just Jeron’s thought; how well the flowers would sell was yet to be determined. Nonetheless, obtaining even the possibility was enough.

Besides, Jeron checked the remaining time for the golden key and continued to wander around.

Not just specialized shops like the seed shop, but he lightly farmed ordinary houses with that mentality, and even checked jewelry stores for remaining gems.

Surprisingly, the jewelry shops were cleanly looted.

This was the result of looters appearing as signs of government collapse became apparent.

It was a bitter reality, but inevitable.

If things went as planned, Jeron would already be leading his territorial army and looting military bases.The golden key was gradually becoming stained black.

There were only about three hours left to stay on Earth.

At the moment, it could hardly be considered an immense power.

Jeron’s steps quickened a bit more.

The golden key flickered slowly.

While he hadn’t found incredibly significant items here, acquiring even the gaudy, overly cubic-zirconia-encrusted knife along with several cans and flower seeds would still prove quite helpful.

The last house for farming.

There was a notion that survivors might have lived to the very end in some remote countryside rather than in towns, and with that thought, he had walked down the rural road.

It was a single-family home nestled below a ridge and beside a valley.

The survivor who had lived here seemed to have taken considerable care, having redirected stream water to the yard.

The fence was very sturdy, but the gate was the problem.

The gate was half-destroyed, and judging by the black blood stuck on it, it was clear that the people who lived here had been attacked.

The yard was overgrown with weeds.

There were no signs of anything moving around.

All the windows of the single-family home, which was no more than 20 square meters, were shattered and strewn about.

It appeared an attempt had been made to barricade the windows with wooden boards, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough to stop a mutant.

To properly block a mutant, the entire window would have needed to be welded shut.

Crack.

The familiar sound of stepping on broken glass echoed around.

The living room was a mess with furniture scattered about, and sure enough, dark red blood was splattered everywhere.

From this alone, Jeron could guess the tragic end of the person who had lived here.

Throughout his explorations, although he had come across quite a few mummified corpses, the numbers weren’t very high.

“Did all the mutants eat the people and move to the cities?”

He wished the mutants had all died of starvation, but that was uncertain. Having seen too many die carelessly in this doomed Earth, Jeron’s vigilance had not faded.

The kitchen was a dump, with furniture broken and utensils scattered everywhere.

Yet, this was a common scene.

Jeron rummaged through the kitchen here and there, eventually finding a packet of ramen.

“Jackpot!”

Having eaten things that could hardly be called food for 18 years, he often thought how he would wish for nothing more if he could just properly cook and eat a single packet of ramen.

He occasionally missed the strong aroma of seasoning.

The type of ramen was Jeron’s favorite, NongSam Neoguri.

It could indeed be considered the greatest find of today’s farming.

Jeron opened the door leading to the attic connected to the living room.

The wooden stairs, neglected for so long, creaked and screamed under his step.

Upon reaching the attic, Jeron could see signs of a survivor.

“This is really incredible.”

There was a map painted in various colors, a diary, and even a sniper rifle.

Jeron opened the magazine of the sniper rifle to check the number of bullets.

“Six.”

Though slightly disappointing, six bullets meant that he could certainly claim the lives of at least three people during a war if he had to use the sniper rifle.

He wished for another handgun, but such luck was not on his side.

Finding a sniper rifle while farming wasn’t just about the potential to take lives; the scope could be used as a monocular.

Once the bullets were gone, he could simply detach the scope and carry it around.

Besides, Jeron thriftily packed up the backpack that the survivor must have carried.

Seeing the golden key flashing rapidly indicated that his time here was running out.

Jeron decided to move on to the Karen Continent to further examine the backpack of the ‘former survivor.’