Famine 63: Starship-Cola Rail Cannon

Anderson clutched his head, collapsing on his knees atop the city wall.

Scenes overlapped and twisted before his eyes, instantly flooding his mind. He walked past the blacksmith’s shop—ten thousand blades pierced his body; he plunged into an oil vat—scalding oil bathed his eyeballs; he gripped reins—his limbs broke in agony…

Over the channel, Zhong Yanqing’s voice called out sharply, urgent and filled with anxiety: “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real! Anderson! Anderson!”

Anderson’s hands clenched around the brim of his hat, his body shivering ever so slightly.

Not real? If only it truly weren’t real.

But no one knew better than Anderson himself.
This was his fate.

Anderson was a mild and gentle man. When he left the Northern Phantasm team, he left with a smile, telling everyone not to worry, since worrying would do no good. He always claimed he was walking the right path, and any sacrifice for it was worthwhile…

…But only Anderson himself knew how much he feared, deep down.

Now, at last, [Funeral Misfortune] had brought upon him tens of thousands, even billions of ways to die—a hopelessness where all roads led to death, crashing down on him like vast mountains and seas.

When he ate, chopsticks jabbed into his throat; when he walked, the ground tripped him into a pool of blood; even when he reached for a pen, its pointed edge would, without fail, stab into his flesh…

The shadow of death hung perpetually above, misfortune after misfortune crowding in, until the whole world seemed to turn against him.

Anderson had done everything he could, cautious in the extreme, treating sky, ground, and crowd alike as hypothetical foes, moving like a rabbit—nervous, dodging through seams in the phase itself.
He fought desperately, just to live another day. Just one more day.

But no matter how careful, new wounds would always open, fresh blood welling.

Little by little, even Anderson forgot the meaning of his struggle.

If not today, then tomorrow—or the next day—death would come for him eventually…
All he could do was wait as that inevitable, preordained end inched closer and closer.

Such was fate.
An unshakable, absolute despair.

Anderson’s head drooped lower and lower as he knelt upon the wall. His throat was dry; his eardrums throbbed with sound before he realized—

Ah, it was he himself who was howling.

“…!!…!”
“…!…”

He thought Lin Qiushui was calling out for him, perhaps trying to summon him back, but Anderson could no longer hear her.

His vision shifted, scene after scene dissolving into emptiness until all that remained was a vast, black “Death” character. Countless corpses—his own bodies—were sprawled across the roadside, paving a path of blood.

Stumbling, Anderson trod upon the corpses he was destined to become, shuffling forward.
He walked on, knowing the end of this road would be nothing other than “death.”

Now, at last, the road had come to its end.

What would death feel like, he wondered?

Anderson was exhausted. In the deepest reaches of hell, at the dark end of the road, atop the mountain of corpses, something blurry seemed to await, something dim and indistinct.

His body gave out; he half-knelt atop the corpse-mountain, raising his head to see the thing that would end his journey.

Closer… closer still… its outline began to take shape.

It was…
A can of cola.

…

Wait, a can of cola?!

Anderson’s eyes widened in disbelief.

He snapped back to himself, finding that the can was already in his hand, the tab already popped. Fizzy, sweet liquid bubbled and foamed—fffssssssss—overflowing from the rim.

It was the kind of cola just pulled from the fridge, brimming with carbonation; the moment he took a sip, that sparkling, icy fizz rushed up his nose, carrying a hint of ice and that unique sweetness rolling down his throat, fine bubbles bursting across his tongue.

—!

Anderson jolted, raising his head in shock, and realized he was now kneeling safely beneath the colossal Bonegnaw Fatewheel, calmly awaiting his own destruction.

With phase movement, Anderson could go wherever he wanted—nobody could hope to stop him.

Now the Bonegnaw Fatewheel was rumbling closer—if he waited two seconds longer, he would have been crushed to pulp.

In his hand was a can of cola, and before him hung a familiar silhouette, floating above the mist, stooping down with a hand outstretched:

“Are you alright?”
Si Zhiyan’s voice was soft.

“Do you still have the strength to fight? Help me with something.”

Anderson stared upward, the despair that had drowned him receding like a withdrawing tide.

That’s right. How could he have forgotten?

Whether it was the world of Don’t Starve, or Funeral Misfortune, he had struggled for so many days, endured so much suffering.

But this road did not end with death.
Its conclusion was a warm, cozy farm.

A cottage bathed in warm light, a fire crackling in the hearth, the air rich with the scent of fresh coffee.
The farm master’s slender figure lounged on the couch, lifting her beautiful red eyes in calm greeting:

[Your curse of misfortune,
Mr. Anderson, are you perhaps interested in becoming an employee at my farm?]

…

Slowly, Anderson reached out, bracing himself on her hand, pushing himself upright.

“…Ma’am.”
Anderson accepted the farm master’s support, lowering the brim of his hat single-handedly, his voice softer than a dream; no—

“I will give you everything I am capable of.”

“Excellent.” Si Zhiyan inclined her head, glancing to the massive Bonegnaw Fatewheel. “Now, take me above it. As soon as my countdown hits zero, get me away, back to the wall.”

Anderson bowed, doffing his hat; white doves took flight.

A flash of blue, doves’ wings fanned wide, and Si Zhiyan appeared abruptly right above the Fatewheel.

“Three, two…”

With both hands, Si Zhiyan gripped an unopened can of cola, and with a hiss, popped the tab.

“One.”

Suddenly, Si Zhiyan disappeared.
Anderson’s phase magic was, as always, precise and efficient.

Crash—!

In that instant, a vast, deep brown waterfall erupted, plunging from the heavens.

A torrent three thousand feet high, spectacular and immense, as though a river had fallen from the reaches of space itself.

[Starship-Cola Rail Cannon]
The Periscope had been stationed in deep space for three years. The crew’s supplies were plentiful, but each day was spent cramped in tiny cabins or wandering a planet no wider than a hand, unable to move freely.
Life became so oppressive that many fell ill with claustrophobia.
Endless days of tedium passed, until a clever corporal came up with a brilliant idea.

“Since the rail cannon uses liquid fuel, why not fill the ammo hold with cola and fire a shot— see what happens?”

Everyone agreed unanimously.

So, the corporal stood on the ground, popping open a bottle of cola as a beacon to mark the strike zone for the railgun.

But he forgot one crucial thing.
—Even if the ammunition is cola, a rail cannon is still a rail cannon.

Everyone cheered and laughed as they fired. Game over.

[Instructions]
After purchase, a can of cola will grow on your farm. Open the can, shout a three-second countdown to guide the starship rail cannon’s coordinates.
Within a 100-meter diameter, foam will fly—pray for your own survival.
The rail cannon’s cooldown is 24 hours.

[Starship-Cola]
Special cola for interstellar use: never goes flat, refreshingly tasty, stimulates alertness, mildly addictive. Cheap caffeinated beverage.
When the can is opened, every creature within line of sight is instantly attracted to it.
After drinking, immediately shake off any depression, entering a euphoric state for 120 minutes.

[Warning]
Fully tech-aligned city defense item, incompatible with cursed/wraith-based defenses. Using both at once will result in mutual negation and suppressed effects.

As the rail cannon thundered down, searing light erupted. The ground was gouged open, leaving a massive crater. Within a hundred-meter radius—including the Bonegnaw Fatewheel—everything twisted in a piercing cold glare, was obliterated, and crumbled away into dust.

Apart from Anderson, many others on the wall had been weeping. Now, all at once, they finally came back to their senses.

As the explosion’s radiance faded, all that remained was the cola waterfall.

Cool, ice-cold bubbles danced and rolled, cola splattered, unreal and dreamlike, pulling everyone’s minds firmly back to reality.

Many bubbles drifted up from the waterfall, floating onto the wall.

“…Holy—” Zhong Yanqing stared, dumbfounded at the cola waterfall. “This is unreal… Wait, is it safe to drink?”
Wang Jianguo muttered, “Should be, right?”

Si Zhiyan lowered her hand, leaning against the city wall, surveying the colossal crater left by the cola rail cannon, and let a smile slip.

A defensive item of this power would sell for far more than 500,000 points in the shop.

The [Starship-Cola Rail Cannon] was so cheap only because, as a joke-type item, it came with two serious limitations—

First, a living person must open the can, acting as the beacon. Before the rail cannon hits, the marker has no way to leave the danger zone—every use is nearly a human sacrifice.
Second, it’s incompatible with esoteric/cursed-based defenses; the mutual suppression is significant.

Coincidentally, neither of these drawbacks mattered to Si Zhiyan.

With Anderson the phase magician, the sacrifice was entirely avoidable; and its anti-cursed nature meant it countered even the most powerful wraith-type threats in this world.

With such sweeping, indiscriminate AOE, not even the thickest mist-wraiths stood a chance…

It was perfect—Si Zhiyan had been drawn to it at first glance.

And its performance didn’t disappoint.

Cheers rang out on the wall, voices calling Si Zhiyan’s name in celebration.

The starship rail cannon blasted a nearly hundred-meter crater. The cola waterfall still poured down and, outside the farm, a whole cola lake began to form.

At some point, Wang Jianguo’s Siberian tiger bounded outside, drinking boldly from the cola waterfall. Even Anderson blinked over to the falls.
On the wall, young Yun Zhong watched, longing evident in his eyes. He leaned over the parapet, waving his cup at Anderson: “Mr. Anderson! Can you fill up a bottle for me?”

“No problem.” Anderson generously blinked over with cola in hand and flashed back.

“That’s the way!”
“So sly!”
“Wang Jianguo! Brother Jianguo! I want some too!”

In an instant, shouts and laughter resounded all along the wall.

Si Zhiyan could only shake her head, laughing.

She tossed the can in her hand—if not for the countdown and the twist of the tab, her own cola would refresh upon emptiness, not summon the rail cannon, just be a simple cola.
She could stock more for the farm restaurant and store—they’d sell well.
…Of course, just to be safe, better use a different bottle.

Still, such a miracle would likely only come once.
Si Zhiyan checked through the shop again—other items of similar power to the railgun cost several million points at minimum.

In twelve days, [Eye]’s vengeance would strike.

When that day came, who could know how many similar cursed attacks would descend? The [Starship-Cola Rail Cannon] alone could never suffice.

Points, points!
Where to find more points?

This time they’d gotten lucky; the enemy just happened to be a single giant, easily solved by an anti-ship gun. If there were more scattered wraiths…

Both points and fighting power ultimately depended on population, especially those who could fight.

The Spring Grass Mercenary Group’s matter had to be settled soon; it was also necessary to look to other settlements.

So much still needed doing—Si Zhiyan massaged his brow.

She looked down to see the bustle below, the people circling the cola lake, and smiled.

Well, in any case, everyone survived tonight. That’s a good thing.

But wait—just like that, did the Bonegnaw Fatewheel really disappear?

Suddenly, out the corner of her eye, Si Zhiyan glimpsed a palm-sized shadow, hovering behind the cola waterfall.