Kays Translations

Chapter 48: Even This Otherworld Lacks Talent

Musa had not lied. The truth was plain to see within the fractured crystal shards that pieced together this strange plane of projection. The grand world once encompassing the entirety of White Sand City had crumbled away. What remained was but a fraction of the whole—so small, it was almost pitiable.

If one imagined White Sand City in its entirety as a complete circle, then within the surviving projection shard, the world preserved was scarcely a fifth of that size. And that fragment was nothing more than the slums—the poorest, most broken part of the city.

To walk straight in any chosen direction was to eventually encounter the “edge of the world.”

At this edge, everything—houses, roads, walls—was cut at jagged, unnatural angles, as if some colossal blade had sheared through existence itself. Standing there and gazing outward revealed only a boundless abyss, a black void that swallowed sight and thought alike.

“I say…” Marlon muttered, his voice a touch unsteady as he stared into that endless darkness, “if I were to leap into that abyss… would I just fall forever and never return?”

The void made his skin crawl. His stomach turned, as if vertigo itself seeped from that gaping maw. A primitive fear, deep-rooted and irrational, clawed at his chest.

“It won’t happen,” Musa replied calmly, shaking his head with certainty. “I’ve tested it myself. Jumping out is no more than committing suicide. You’ll be revived soon after.”

“You what—?!” Marlon’s heart leapt into his throat. He spun toward Musa with wide eyes, utterly horrified by the man’s casual tone. “Damn it! There has to be a limit, even for a lunatic like you! Testing death with your own body?! Next time, you’d better find someone else for that kind of madness!”

Musa Mein only shrugged, unconcerned. “And who else could I possibly ask? Besides…” His voice grew more serious, tinted with the calm cadence of a scholar quoting doctrine. “According to the theories my father left behind, aside from using predetermined weapons designed for suicide, there is no way for the soul to escape from a crystal sphere so long as its magic crystal energy continues to flow. I now suspect this property isn’t exclusive to intact spheres. Even these fractured shards that record images should follow the same principle.”

As his explanation neared its end, Musa fell silent. His words were cut short, not by hesitation, but by the sudden descent of sound from above. From the dark heavens came a sharp, triumphant melody—a marching song.

“This,” Musa explained, lifting a finger toward the source of the sound, “is something I recorded on a small shard. The March of the Armored Soldiers. If a shard is inscribed with a crimson rune array to stabilize its energy intake, then once enough power flows in, the shard will play back automatically—broadcasting music across the area.”

Marlon tilted his head, listening. The martial rhythm echoed through the air with strange clarity, as though an invisible orchestra had descended upon their fragment-world. He peppered Musa with questions, probing for flaws. Yet Musa answered each one steadily, leaving Marlon at last with a look of genuine relief, the tension easing from his shoulders.

Only when the final note of the March of the Armored Soldiers faded into silence did Musa Mein beckon Marlon forward once again. He led him through the fragmented streets until they stopped before the mouth of a narrow alley.

“Look inside,” Musa instructed.

Marlon did as told—and his eyes widened in astonishment. Within the alley unfolded a vision unlike anything he had expected: a battlefield scene frozen in projection. The divine descendant Nephthu-Acramond, child of the goddess Eshilia, was there in blazing glory, cutting down the false god Balto’s projection. The battle played itself out in vivid detail as though the alley were a stage.

“This,” Musa explained, his tone brightening, “would count as what you call a cut-in edit, wouldn’t it? Since we’re within the projection shard, it plays seamlessly here. But if viewed from an external projection, the scene would suddenly cut from one flow of images to this battle. That seems close to your definition of editing.”

Marlon closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in thought. After a pause, he asked, “Musa, what if the crystals were cut into long strips? Or into thin round discs? If we could measure the precise time progression of each shard’s imagery, then we could paste smaller shards—those with the cut-in scenes—onto the main strip or disc exactly where they belong…”

His words came quickly, tumbling over each other. He described with surprising clarity the principles of film reels, cameras, and even laser discs. He spoke of lenses that could zoom, of focus that could bring images closer or push them away—all foreign ideas to this world.

Musa’s eyes lit up, burning with sudden revelation. “Yes! Exactly! Why didn’t I think of this before? Cutting them into long strips or discs—it would be so much more practical than clumsy rectangular blocks! Marlon, your perspective is truly extraordinary!”

His excitement surged, spilling into words. “Give me one month. Just one month! I can build what you’ve described. But I’ll need help: a goblin gem-smith skilled at polishing crystal lenses, and a dwarf smith to craft the metal instruments I’ll design.”

“No problem,” Marlon replied without hesitation. “Tomorrow, I’ll have workers recruited for you.”

The prospect of what lay ahead stirred something inside him. If Musa truly succeeded—if in one month he could create crystal film reels, crystal cameras, and even crystal discs—then the greatest technical hurdle barring the birth of holographic movies and immersive games would be overcome.

From then on, the challenge would no longer be technology—it would be artistry. Directors and special-effects masters would wrestle with creativity, not mechanics. As for games, another layer of complexity remained: how to represent the unique abilities of equipment, the enchantments and effects that shaped gameplay. But Marlon brushed the thought aside. That was a problem for the future. Now was too early to worry.

“Musa,” he asked thoughtfully, “will you need an independent laboratory, or should I have one set up within my Flower Court? And how many assistants will you require?”

He knew well enough that the makeshift lab they currently occupied—the old paladin’s bedroom—was serviceable only for the short term. Long-term? It was utterly inadequate.

“An independent lab,” Musa answered firmly. “Built as solid as possible. And guarded—well guarded.” His voice betrayed a lingering lack of security, a scholar’s paranoia rooted in too many secrets and too much knowledge.

Marlon, of course, had no reason to refuse. He was already planning to register the DreamWorks Film Company the following day, and Ivna had just paid him two hundred and fifty thousand Lants. Money was not an issue.

Better yet, the mayor had already promised him a tract of land designated for a film city. Why not use it? On that land, he could build Musa Mein a secure, fortified research center—an ark for innovation.

And then… yes, then the next question would arise: what film to shoot first?

But wait—film alone would not suffice. He would need cinemas, actual theaters, to screen the works. A network of them—two dozen, maybe thirty—strategically placed in crowded districts. A chain. The DreamWorks White Sand Cinema Network.

That would demand more than builders; it would require managers, business minds, skilled hands to oversee an entirely new industry. Construction could fall to the White Sand Crane Dance Company, under the old paladin’s guidance. But DreamWorks itself—an enterprise of film-making and distribution—was an untouched frontier. He, Marlon, might be forced to wear too many hats: scriptwriter, director, theater chain manager…

His head spun. Where in this world could he find enough talent to make it all work?

Following Musa Mein’s request, his imagination had wandered far, unraveling in every direction. And in that moment of clarity, Marlon realized the bitter truth of this foreign world—its greatest scarcity was not land, nor gold, nor even magic.

It was talent.

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