23 April 2018

Takarakuji de 40 Oku Atattanda kedo Isekai ni Ijuusuru. Chapter 94

Translator Corner
Minasan Oidemasu! This is Yukkuri demasu!

Another Lieze chapter… When Valetta will return?


As always,
DISCLAIMER: There is no guarantee that my translation is 100% correct. Please correct me if I was wrong.

すずの木くろ (Susunokikuro)
Yukkuri Oniisan
Online Grammar Editor

Chapter 94: Phalanx and Lead Bullet

Entering that gable-ended Spouter-Inn, you found yourself in a wide, low, straggling entry with old-fashioned wainscots, reminding one of the bulwarks of some condemned old craft. On one side hung a very large oil-painting so thoroughly besmoked, and every way defaced, that in the unequal cross-lights by which you viewed it, it was only by diligent study and a series of systematic visits to it, and careful inquiry of the neighbors, that you could any way arrive at an understanding of its purpose. Such unaccountable masses of shades and shadows, that at first you almost thought some ambitious young artist, in the time of the New England hags, had endeavored to delineate chaos bewitched. But by dint of much and earnest contemplation, and oft repeated ponderings, and especially by throwing open the little window towards the back of the entry, you at last come to the conclusion that such an idea, however wild, might not be altogether unwarranted.

But what most puzzled and confounded you was a long, limber, portentous, black mass of something hovering in the centre of the picture over three blue, dim, perpendicular lines floating in a nameless yeast. A boggy, soggy, squitchy picture truly, enough to drive a nervous man distracted. Yet was there a sort of indefinite, half-attained, unimaginable sublimity about it that fairly froze you to it, till you involuntarily took an oath with yourself to find out what that marvellous painting meant. Ever and anon a bright, but, alas, deceptive idea would dart you through.—It's the Black Sea in a midnight gale.—It's the unnatural combat of the four primal elements.—It's a blasted heath.—It's a Hyperborean winter scene.—It's the breaking-up of the icebound stream of Time. But at last all these fancies yielded to that one portentous something in the picture's midst. That once found out, and all the rest were plain. But stop; does it not bear a faint resemblance to a gigantic fish? even the great leviathan himself?

In fact, the artist's design seemed this: a final theory of my own, partly based upon the aggregated opinions of many aged persons with whom I conversed upon the subject. The picture represents a Cape-Horner in a great hurricane; the half-foundered ship weltering there with its three dismantled masts alone visible; and an exasperated whale, purposing to spring clean over the craft, is in the enormous act of impaling himself upon the three mast-heads.

The opposite wall of this entry was hung all over with a heathenish array of monstrous clubs and spears. Some were thickly set with glittering teeth resembling ivory saws; others were tufted with knots of human hair; and one was sickle-shaped, with a vast handle sweeping round like the segment made in the new-mown grass by a long-armed mower. You shuddered as you gazed, and wondered what monstrous cannibal and savage could ever have gone a death-harvesting with such a hacking, horrifying implement. Mixed with these were rusty old whaling lances and harpoons all broken and deformed. Some were storied weapons. With this once long lance, now wildly elbowed, fifty years ago did Nathan Swain kill fifteen whales between a sunrise and a sunset. And that harpoon—so like a corkscrew now—was flung in Javan seas, and run away with by a whale, years afterwards slain off the Cape of Blanco. The original iron entered nigh the tail, and, like a restless needle sojourning in the body of a man, travelled full forty feet, and at last was found imbedded in the hump.

Crossing this dusky entry, and on through yon low-arched way—cut through what in old times must have been a great central chimney with fireplaces all round—you enter the public room. A still duskier place is this, with such low ponderous beams above, and such old wrinkled planks beneath, that you would almost fancy you trod some old craft's cockpits, especially of such a howling night, when this corner-anchored old ark rocked so furiously. On one side stood a long, low, shelf-like table covered with cracked glass cases, filled with dusty rarities gathered from this wide world's remotest nooks. Projecting from the further angle of the room stands a dark-looking den—the bar—a rude attempt at a right whale's head. Be that how it may, there stands the vast arched bone of the whale's jaw, so wide, a coach might almost drive beneath it. Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

Abominable are the tumblers into which he pours his poison. Though true cylinders without—within, the villanous green goggling glasses deceitfully tapered downwards to a cheating bottom. Parallel meridians rudely pecked into the glass, surround these footpads' goblets. Fill to this mark, and your charge is but a penny; to this a penny more; and so on to the full glass—the Cape Horn measure, which you may gulp down for a shilling.

Upon entering the place I found a number of young seamen gathered about a table, examining by a dim light divers specimens of skrimshander. I sought the landlord, and telling him I desired to be accommodated with a room, received for answer that his house was full—not a bed unoccupied. “But avast,” he added, tapping his forehead, “you haint no objections to sharing a harpooneer's blanket, have ye? I s'pose you are goin' a-whalin', so you'd better get used to that sort of thing.”

I told him that I never liked to sleep two in a bed; that if I should ever do so, it would depend upon who the harpooneer might be, and that if he (the landlord) really had no other place for me, and the harpooneer was not decidedly objectionable, why rather than wander further about a strange town on so bitter a night, I would put up with the half of any decent man's blanket.

“I thought so. All right; take a seat. Supper?—you want supper? Supper'll be ready directly.”

I sat down on an old wooden settle, carved all over like a bench on the Battery. At one end a ruminating tar was still further adorning it with his jack-knife, stooping over and diligently working away at the space between his legs. He was trying his hand at a ship under full sail, but he didn't make much headway, I thought.

At last some four or five of us were summoned to our meal in an adjoining room. It was cold as Iceland—no fire at all—the landlord said he couldn't afford it. Nothing but two dismal tallow candles, each in a winding sheet. We were fain to button up our monkey jackets, and hold to our lips cups of scalding tea with our half frozen fingers. But the fare was of the most substantial kind—not only meat and potatoes, but dumplings; good heavens! dumplings for supper! One young fellow in a green box coat, addressed himself to these dumplings in a most direful manner.

“My boy,” said the landlord, “you'll have the nightmare to a dead sartainty.”

“Landlord,” I whispered, “that aint the harpooneer is it?”

Dense Kazura is Dense.

That’s all for Takarakuji this week.
Tomorrow will be Mira’s LN.
FUN FACT I inserted a funny poem about chicken and egg in the hidden text. Try to find it if you can.

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chignon_(hairstyle)
[2] Many cities in Europe are basically established first as Roman Army Encampment, so Kazura isn’t wrong.
[3] In the RAWファランクス隊形and重装歩兵密集方陣 …… basically a comparison between the Greek term and the Japanese native term for it.


  1. Thanks for this new chapter !!

  2. Do they actually call it a bullet?

    1. Who, the Romans or the author of this story? Regardless, yes they did. Bullets fired from guns were not the first bullets in history, if that’s what you’re thinking. Google “sling bullets” or “roman bullets” for a plethora of results. Larger artillery projectiles were ballista balls, but for the more common smaller projectiles they were called bullets, made of stone, ceramic, and lead of varying sizes from acorns to egg size, to fist size. Some had holes in them that made them whistle in flight, while others had sarcastic jokes on them like “this is a tough nut to crack” or “here’s a sugar plum for you”

  3. Seems like this setting is primarily based on ancient Rome/Greece...though that should have been obvious from the type of armors they’re wearing in illustrations. Although they did use viking shields at one point in illustrations. I wonder if Belville are “barbarians” to them?

    1. Belville is the Rome of the series. They have a central government with a professional army equipped by the state.

      Belville in turn in harassed by "Barbarians" to their north, very much like the Romans.

    2. Nope, It's Ancient Greece, somewhere about Alexander of Makedonia's time (Bronze weapons, Phalanx formation) and reign of Roman Empire were at Iron age, they had iron and steel weapons, and used tortoise formation.

  4. 。  
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       ┃    ┣┫  ┗━━┓ Nepu!!!
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  5. "Perhaps they were targeting the soldiers, there were many shops like small restaurant or clothing stores lined up around the facility."? Lol, no. Try "Bars and Brothels", instead.

    "According to Lieze's explanation, a fort like this place will be constructed as near as possible to the largest river". Again, no. Fortifications are built on high ground overlooking lines of communication and supply, like rivers and roads.

    Phalanx drill, especially advancing in phalanx under combat conditions, is something that requires a great deal of practice. But Isteria is supposed to have a conscript army. Do the conscripts act as skirmishers instead and leave the heavy lifting to the house troops?

    1. The Heavy Infantry and Cavalry is done by the Nobility or Upper Class or their Private Army. The archer is mixed, while the Skirmishers and Light Infantry are conscript.

    2. Actually John, it depends on what the base is for. If it is to present a 'force in being', block a ford or act like a supply base, then it would make sense to put it by a river. The 'overwatch' bases you're thinking of would be for interdiction and delay. Guess in the end it all boils down to 'what is the fortification for'.

    3. Yeah, it all comes down to size. I imagine palisade forts to be small and cheap like a blockhouse, more suited to controlling access against raids and smuggling.

      The fortress they're building, on the other hand, seems much more like something designed to stop an enemy army. From their earlier rationing estimates, it's clearly not being used as a supply depot and doesn't appear to have access to a river.

  6. It's been awhile, i really miss this novel. Thanks for new chapter!

  7. I notice a dissonance in the writing during their conversation. They think Kazura is Greysor the God, so why is there the question of 'What spears do you use in your country?' unless you're assuming the Gods form phalanx and use spears. I would think a 'God' would use fire from the sky, thunderbolts, plague and windstorms.

    1. Only the villagers of Grisea Village, Nelson, Zirconia. Isaac, Havel, his cousin Root, and Eira who thought Kazura as God. Lieze and the others only know that he is a noble of some country and Nelson's friend.

  8. I think I should warn you that the footnote markers are messed up. They point to places in the word document on your seconday hard drive.

    1. Also:
      「In that case, then the Reserve Unit including the Noble Guards stationed behind the Heavy Infantry will counter attack the,. Since the Reserve Unit is the army’s most elite units, as long as the rear attack was that overwhelming, the attacks won’t be able to break through.」
      ^-the attack

      Thanks for your work.

  9. Pay attention to the crispy chicken,
    the crispy chicken is the most clucky domestic fowl of all.
    Cooked, chopped, crispy chicken.
    Does the crispy chicken make you shiver?
    does it?

    Pay attention to the poor pullet,
    the poor pullet is the most rooty hen of all.
    Does the poor pullet make you shiver?
    does it?

    The cunning, perfect pumpkin sings like an eye
    Never forget the crafty and cute perfect pumpkin.

    A zygote, however hard it tries,
    Will always be big.
    Does the zygote make you shiver?
    does it?

    The cover that's really hardy,
    Above all others is the empty eggshell.
    An empty eggshell is robust. an empty eggshell is sturdy,
    an empty eggshell is rugged, however.

    How happy is the femaly, original ovum!
    Does the original ovum make you shiver?
    does it?

    A chopped chicken, however hard it tries,
    Will always be clucky.
    Cooked, curried, chopped chicken.
    Does the chopped chicken make you shiver?
    does it?

    The volaille that's really rooty,
    Above all others is the poor pullet.
    Does the poor pullet make you shiver?
    does it?

    Pureed pumpkin is eye.
    eye is pureed pumpkin.
    Are you upset by how flocculent it is?
    Does it tear you apart to see the pureed pumpkin so woolly-headed?

    Zygote is, in its way, the bigots of cell.
    Down, down, down into the darkness of the zygote,
    Gently it goes - the humorous, the fool, the cuckoo.

    I cannot help but stop and look at the hardy, empty eggshell.
    Are you upset by how stalwart it is?
    Does it tear you apart to see the empty eggshell so doughty?

    The gamete that's really femaly,
    Above all others is the ovulated ovum.
    Does the ovulated ovum make you shiver?
    does it?

    How happy is the clucky, chopped chicken!
    Cooked, curried, chopped chicken.
    Does the chopped chicken make you shiver?
    does it?

    I cannot help but stop and look at the rooty, pretty pullet.
    Does the pretty pullet make you shiver?
    does it?

    One afternoon I said to myself,
    "Why isn't the plastic pumpkin more large?"
    "Bumpkin", said the plastic pumpkin,
    And "bumpkin" then "bumpkin" again.

    A zygote, however hard it tries,
    Will always be zany.
    "Not", said the zygote,
    And "not" then "not" again.

    I cannot help but stop and look at the hardy, enormous eggshell.
    Are you upset by how stout it is?
    Does it tear you apart to see the enormous eggshell so robust?

    Pay attention to the ovarian ovum,
    the ovarian ovum is the most femaly gamete of all.
    Does the ovarian ovum make you shiver?
    does it?

  10. Wait, guys is this the real chapter? Why do I seems read a wrong novel?
    It's also short and the story describes a inn or bar..