Oversseer System: I Shall Recreate This Civilization
Chapter 33: Expedition (1)

Chapter 33: Expedition (1)

Dahr was born in Mila, the capital of Sarr, situated within the deepest fortress ring. Because of this, he naturally grew up as someone who did not believe in the existence of Magical Creatures.

’A tentacled fish attacking the coast?’

Wouldn’t that actually make things easier for the fishermen?

’Why is everyone running away in fear?’

His disbelief only solidified further when his father, Salmen—considered the weakest among his uncles—returned completely unscathed from an expedition.

"I’m sure Uncle Khaedros could easily behead one or two of those ugly creatures."

Khaedros, his father’s elder brother, was a towering man of immense strength, standing over two meters tall. A lineage as formidable as his should have been passed down well—if only his children weren’t girls.

From his marriage, Khaedros had only two twin daughters, Sahmira and Lazhra.

Both of them were, in truth, monsters of the same caliber. The only difference was that they were much less expressive. Unlike their father, neither Sahmira nor Lazhra ever spoke in public—or at least, not in Dahr’s presence.

They only did so at their father’s funeral.

Yes, despite all his strength, Khaedros had indeed perished—and in a gruesome manner.

Only his severed head was retrieved, already half-rotten.

His crew insisted on tossing it into the sea, but Salmen—Dahr’s father—who, somehow, had ended up as captain, firmly refused and demanded that they learn to accept it.

Salmen arranged for a proper funeral. He even went to great lengths to summon their extended family, who then crafted a wooden effigy to serve as Khaedros’ body, stuffing it with cotton to make it appear lifelike.

The ceremony was held in the year 263 Post-Diaspora, by the coastline. Dahr’s mother, the only one in their family capable of wielding elemental magic, set the pyre ablaze, burning Khaedros’s ’body’ to ashes.

The mourning ritual was so dry and impersonal that Dahr nearly asked his father to say a few words in farewell.

However, his older brother, Rashven, stopped him.

"A soldier who dies in battle is a failed soldier."

The best way to honor him was to erase all traces of his death and carry on as if he still lived within them.

But Dahr could never understand that kind of thinking.

"Isn’t that just running away from reality?"

Yet before he could say more, the silence was shattered by a pair of deafening screams.

Not from one person, but from two.

Two figures standing at the very front—figures with the largest physiques among everyone present, and still growing.

Lazhra and Sahmira cried endlessly, their wails cutting through the solemn air, until their father was reduced entirely to ashes.

*#*

Rashven had always inherited their father’s frail body.

"Hope’s blood runs faintly in our lineage."

It was said that before the Great Diaspora, the Hope tribe had brought forth great destruction, invoking divine wrath.

As punishment, they were cursed never to wield magic for all eternity.

Though the curse had been weakened through intermarriage with the Alhamera tribe, even their descendants were not particularly strong—especially in their resistance to magic seed.

Various ailments arose from this lineage, the rarest of which had now afflicted Rashven: mana membrane swelling.

His body had accumulated an excess of toxic magical residue, which was now eating away at him.

Fever, diarrhea, nausea, and constant disorientation.

At first, his symptoms were mistaken for malaria.

But their 79-year-old great-grandfater quickly recognized it for what it truly was.

He claimed Rashven had the same illness that had once struck both his wife and their ancestor—Dahr and Rashven’s great-grandmother.

"I actually went through it too," Salmen admitted one evening, his voice trembling.

Looking as though he were on the verge of collapse, he turned to Dahr.

"In every generation of our family, at least one person suffers from this. When it was my turn, I thought maybe that was a good thing. At least none of my children would inherit this curse. But it seems fate never works as we wish."

Salmen let out a dry chuckle.

"It’s not just fate," Dahr interjected.

"Hm?"

Salmen looked at his son, startled.

"I spoke with Great-Grandfather. The reason you and Great-Grandmother lived longer and seemed fine was because Sarr’s pristine environment kept magical contamination to a minimum. The people there abhor conflict, so there was never enough magical residue to accumulate."

"But sooner or later, the contamination from the eastern side of the continent will sweep into Sarr—along with the horrors it carries—"

"Still!"

Salmen fell silent.

"Isn’t that far better? Rashven and you could live longer. Uncle Khaedros would still be chopping wood instead of dying in that foolish expedition."

"Death is inevitable—"

"Even with that mindset, you still ran away like a coward. Whether here or there, it’s all the same if we’re going to die anyway."

"I can’t argue with that," Salmen muttered. "But death there is something far more painful. No, you might experience something even worse..."

"Khaedros was the greatest man I ever knew. And even he was powerless against that creature. I saw it myself—how it split the sea with a mere flick of its hand, how it turned day into night with a single command."

"Are you talking about the Kaovren? That’s just a ridiculous ghost story."

"I’m not talking about the insults people hurled at Hope tribe. It’s not a tribe to begin with. It’s just a person ...

"... if there’s a name that fits it best, it would be the Devil."

*#*

Salmen thought his warning would stop Dahr, but Dahr’s resolve was firm.

"This land not only curses us with nightmares but also erodes the sanity of those who think."

Besides, with Salmen’s new status as a retired explorer, their family had lost its main source of income.

Fishing alone wouldn’t be enough to cover the ever-increasing tribute fees.

Joining the military wasn’t an option either—Intayan’s selection process was far too strict.

’Besides, who would even want to serve this filthy land?’

So, on the morning of the 12th day of the fourth month, year 267 Post-Diaspora, Dahr, now an adult, boarded a special exploration vessel.

Among the passengers, he recognized many faces—mostly veterans ranging from their thirties to fifties.

If there was one thing they all had in common, it was that they were all men.

Which is why, when he noticed a single woman among them, she stood out.

Especially since her body was far larger than any of the men present.

Dahr approached the group that had gathered around her in confusion.

It was his older cousin, Sahmira—the elder twin.

’Is she offering her life on a silver platter?’