About Being Found and Adopted by Talula Chapter 1

About Being Found and Adopted by Talula

Author: Ink-Stir-Fried Squid

Synopsis:

Scathie, beloved by calamity; Ghost Shark, torn between madness and reality; an unchanging, suffocating "daily life" like the depths of the sea—finally shattered by an unexpected visitor.

"You... carry blood similar to ours. No, blood even more 'abnormal' than ours."

The visitor from the deep sea said this to Orson.

Catastrophes, Seaborn, the deep sea, Oripathy, and... flush toilets.

When Orson came to his senses, he found himself inexplicably dragged into another incident. All he could do was brace himself and follow that taciturn Orca to an unknown land.

The only problem was:

"Could you stop rubbing against me all the time... Miss Scathie...?"

"I'm not going to cosplay a nun, Ghost Shark!"

"Whoa, Second Lieutenant is so tall..."

—The Deep Sea Hunters really were all so strange, weren't they!?

Prologue—Newborn of the Snowlands

Prologue

Winter stretched on as though it had no end. No matter when he looked, the scenery before his eyes never changed.

He had been in this village for half a year now. Or had it been three months? Five?

Thud!

Orson split a log in two and wondered whether he should find some way to keep track of the days.

When Orson first realized he was on Terra, in the world of Arknights, he had indeed been excited for a while.

Transmigration, gaining powerful abilities, flirting with all sorts of girls, traveling the continent, making a name for himself in another world like every other transmigrator.

But Orson quickly noticed the problem—

He had no idea where this remote, desolate village he lived in actually was, and the world-destroying powers he had fantasized about never appeared.

Never mind heading to Lungmen to live it up with the girls from Penguin Logistics, or going to Rhodes Island to build a harem with the operators. He had already exhausted every ounce of strength he had just trying to survive in this frozen village.

He had no ability to leave the village, no cheat-like system, no information about this world, and no money to improve his quality of life.

After transmigrating, Orson's only beginner's benefit was his current identity as an unremarkable civilian who drew no suspicion. The other villagers did not suspect him, but neither did anyone treat him as family. Everyone simply lived in silence. That was all.

Repetitive farm work, endless labor, food supplies that never accumulated.

Perhaps he would spend his entire life like this. Or perhaps he would die alongside this village in some cold snap.

Just when Orson thought things would continue this way until his death, the deathly silent village stirred.

Orson set his axe aside and went over to watch. He discovered that the source of the disturbance was a group of around twenty drifters.

No... not drifters, but "Infected."

It was not only Orson. The other villagers noticed it as well, and the earlier commotion fell silent again.

"If you want food, then come with me. There should still be some spare grain in the granary for you."

In the end, the village chief spoke first. Smiling, he led the Infected pleading for food toward the granary.

—There was nothing in the granary at all, was there?

Orson hesitated briefly, then immediately understood what the village chief intended to do.

This village... no, Ursus as a whole was extremely hostile toward the Infected. It was not merely because of Oripathy's infectiousness, but also because of the government's harsh attitude toward them. It was said that even the slightest connection to the Infected could bring the Enforcement Team to one's door to confiscate everything.

"..."

Orson said nothing. The other villagers remained silent as well.

The village chief's actions were correct. They were the best way to protect this already crumbling village. The Infected were not considered "people" by Ursus. Their lives and deaths were not something he needed to care about.

In this unchanging white hell, simply surviving had drained all passion from people. An ill-timed spark would only burn oneself.

Orson glanced at the group of Infected who still did not know their fate. Then his gaze met that of a little girl in the group, no more than eight years old.

There was no fear in the child's eyes over what she was about to face, nor any hatred for this world. The only thing Orson saw was a pair of eyes clearer and more transparent than ice, like gemstones.

"..."

Orson looked away and told himself that this happened every day. This was how the continent worked: the strong exploited the weak, and those with nowhere left to turn were exploited by the weak.

Click!

The granary door was heavily bolted shut. The terrified screams and howls of the Infected inside were unbearably harsh to Orson's ears.

"Um... do we really have to do this?"

Orson asked quietly, only to receive cold, questioning stares from the villagers beside him that stung like needles.

"Forget I asked."

Orson closed his eyes, as though doing so could deny the murder he had just witnessed and that was taking place at this very moment.

Life was not a scarce thing on this continent.

When Orson saw an old man from the village starve to death in bed, when he saw a young man around his own age freeze to death outside the village, when he saw the hunter uncle who had warmed himself by the fire with him yesterday dragged back with only half his body left,

he knew very clearly that life was worthless on this continent.

He understood that, but Orson could not accept it.

Life should reach its end in a more reasonable way. Not like this—deceived, reaching the end amid despair and hunger.

He was no saint. He could not change this land, but at the very least, he could try to change a meaningless death.

That night, Orson took the key he had stolen from the village chief's room and quietly made his way to the granary entrance.

—I really have gone mad.

"Hm...? Are you that strange big brother from before?"

The girl locked inside the granary, still not understanding what had happened, noticed Orson through the crack in the door and asked softly.

"Keep it down. I'm here to get you out. Just hold on a little longer!"

Orson held the ring of keys before the granary lock, trying them one by one in search of the right key.

Not this one, not this one, not this one, not this one either...?

When he had tried every possible answer on the key ring and the granary lock still did not budge, Orson vaguely realized something.

"Are you looking for the key?"

"—!?"

The village chief's voice came from behind Orson. In that instant, he felt as if all the blood in his body were flowing backward.

"W-Wait! I can—ugh!"

The other villagers had no intention of listening to another word of Orson's explanation. They knocked him to the ground, carried him to the skylight directly above the granary, unlocked it, and without hesitation threw Orson into that hell.

"Cough! Wait... wait a second!!"

Orson fell from a height of roughly three meters. Enduring the burning pain in his back, he reached toward the skylight, but that sole source of light was shut and locked again without the slightest hesitation.

"..."

Countless gazes focused on Orson. The Infected who had realized they had been deceived and would starve to death in this tomb all watched the villager who had been thrown inside without a word.

Anger, panic, confusion, and most thoroughly of all, despair.

"Big brother... why were you thrown in here?"

Among those countless stares, Orson saw that child again—the girl with gemstone-clear eyes.

"Because I... anyway, it's fine. It's fine. Things will definitely get better. Trust me, they'll get better—"

Orson hugged the child and prayed that the gods of this world would grant even the slightest blessing to this remote corner that no one cared about.

The first day—the Infected visibly moved and shouted less.

The second day—many bloody handprints appeared on the walls and floor. They were the futile struggles of desperate people trying to escape.

The third day—more and more Infected closed their eyes. From outside the granary, the villagers' mocking conversations could occasionally be heard.

The fourth day—Orson began hallucinating. The Infected still alive tried to eat the bodies of the dead. But after waking from unconsciousness several times, Orson understood that it was not a hallucination. To protect the girl in his arms from being caught up in it, Orson forced himself awake from unconsciousness time and again, shielding her with his body from those people's final madness.

The fifth day, the sixth day, the seventh day—

The eighth day.

"..."

Orson looked at the girl in his arms, whose heart had long since stopped beating and whose breath was gone. He opened his cracked lips, but could not say anything.

Because of the low temperature, the bodies had not rotted. Those savage, twisted faces of death still remained upon the corpses.

As the last living thing in the granary, Orson was numb, despairing, furious, sorrowful, lost.

—Why did they have to do this? Just because they were Infected? But she was only a child, a child who had done nothing wrong.

—I did nothing, and I even got myself killed like an idiot.

—Why did it turn out like this? Was it because I had no power?

—If I had power, if only I had power...

Orson used the last of his strength, but not to curse the villagers, nor to clench his fists. Instead—

He raised his hand and closed the eyes of the girl in his arms.

He had no power at all, and it seemed there were no gods in this world.

At the moment before he lost consciousness, Orson suddenly felt something immense, something like death given form, seem to tear itself out from within his body.

But Orson had no strength left to open his eyes wide and confirm what had happened.

Amid endless resentment and shackled death, Orson closed his eyes as well—

"Did you do all this?"

...What?

Like someone suddenly awakened from a dream, Orson opened his eyes again and found himself kneeling in the center of the village, surrounded by what had become ruins.

A longsword was held to his neck. At its other end, Orson saw a girl in an aristocratic military uniform, with short pale hair and a pair of dragon-like horns.

Illustration available here after updating to the latest version

Drowsiness washed over him again, threatening to swallow Orson whole. He did not even have the strength to make sense of the situation.

At the edge of fading consciousness, Orson recognized the girl. Then he opened his mouth.

"My wife..."

Then he fell unconscious again.

Prologue—The Man Surrounded by Others

01. The Man Being Questioned

Orson opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was an unfamiliar environment.

There seemed to be white canvas around him, like the walls of a tent. The only light came from sunlight filtering through the fabric and a lantern on the table giving off a dim glow.

This was definitely not the village where he had lived before, nor was it his hometown from before he transmigrated.

After a brief moment of confusion, Orson tried to sit up, but a force restrained his arm. The sound of chains rang especially sharp.

"Huh...?"