Chapter 11

“That’s actually reasonable.”

Kraft thought his cousin really had a talent for being a bard in a tavern—he remembered William’s story with remarkable clarity, even weaving in details he’d heard about the sea and the ice plains, integrating them naturally into the tale as if he’d personally accompanied William on that ice journey.

Too bad he had only Kraft as an audience. In a tavern, a story like this—filled with sea voyages, exotic lands, and the Church’s absurdities, the hottest elements of the day—plus some artful additions about human primal urges, would have earned him free drinks all night and could’ve sustained a month-long solo performance.

But Cousin Ryan hadn’t yet realized this business opportunity; he pulled out his water flask, took a long drink, and continued his tale.

…

…

In the cold wind, Frank stood frozen. In an era without television or Bear Grylls, few besides the ice dwellers knew humans could defeat the wild with bare hands.

Even many ice tribes that hadn’t produced a shaman in generations would soon begin to doubt whether anyone could complete the ritual—until another legendary brute emerged to restore their simple faith.

Yet one man’s face was even paler than Frank’s: his attendant. Others might assume Frank had given up, but he knew Frank well—silence didn’t mean he was heading home; it might mean Frank was seriously considering the feasibility.

Before they set out, the attendant had already imagined many terrible possibilities: terrible living conditions, hostile locals, how to build a church from nothing. The worst of these had been Frank emulating some hardcore figures from Church history and building his own church by hand—he’d been prepared to follow through.

But reality was far more absurd. If Frank truly intended to participate in the ritual, would he go himself—or would his attendant go in his place? There was no essential difference: either Frank would die and the attendant would kill himself, or he’d freeze to death sooner.

“The Holy Scripture records that Saint John walked barefoot across burning iron without harm. To spread the Lord’s voice, I too shall accept His trial.” Frank raised his head, his gaze fixed firmly on the stone marking the starting point. “When can we begin?”

William froze. The sailors who’d come with him froze. Even Bjorn was stunned. The ice dwellers still unloading sleds looked utterly bewildered—they didn’t understand Norse and had no idea what was happening.

Before William could react, Bjorn quickly dropped his casual smile, removed his fur hood, and regarded Frank with solemn seriousness. After receiving Frank’s equally resolute gaze in return, he slowed his speech—as if afraid Frank wouldn’t hear—and enunciated each word clearly in Norse: “This is not a joke.”

Frank nodded.

Beside him, William could clearly read on Bjorn’s face—painted with mineral dyes—an expression of solemn respect he’d never seen before. It terrified him into silence. He adjusted his beard, reached his left hand behind his back toward the single-bladed axe he carried, and William nearly thought he was about to sacrifice Frank to the Stone God.

But Bjorn didn’t grasp the axe handle. Instead, the notched blade sliced across his palm. Blood dripped from his palm, yet he seemed unaware. He raised his bloody hand, spread his arms, and roared toward the distant mountains: “Helghes!”

Now the ice dwellers understood. Their faces twisted into indescribable expressions. Without hesitation, they dropped everything they held—even the unsecured barrels that rolled away unnoticed.

“Helghes!” All present ice dwellers roared in unison, a deafening sound that burst open every door in the settlement. Men and women, young and old, clad in different furs, abandoned their tasks and hurried toward the gathering, quickly forming a vast semicircle around them.

One ice dweller, as tall as Bjorn, pushed through the crowd to make way for an elder even half a head taller. William recognized them: one was Bjorn’s father, the tribe’s chieftain; the white-bearded elder was the tribe’s ancient shaman—the very man who had stood here thirty years ago.

The shaman stepped slowly forward to stand before the surrounded Frank. He said nothing, raised no question about Frank’s short stature, and simply drew from his coarse fur garment a stone knife.

Like Bjorn, he drew the stone knife across his left palm. The wound was deep, yet only a small amount of dark, viscous blood seeped out. The old shaman reached out and smeared a streak of black-red pigment across Frank’s face, then turned to look at Bjorn.

“The ancient shaman acknowledges your courage. We have announced your arrival to the mountains. Strip away all external things beneath the stone, and you may begin.” Seeing Frank’s hesitation, he added, “A warrior to witness the ritual will be chosen immediately. Whether you succeed or fail, your honor will be preserved.”

….

…

“So… uh…” Kraft was utterly speechless. “Do they even bury the bodies out there?”

“I have to say, he really is a true man,” Ryan chuckled with malicious amusement. “But you’re wrong—he didn’t die. When William and the others went to look for him the next day, they found he was still alive.”

“What?!”

“Not only alive, but they found him unconscious five full kilometers from the stone, buried in the snow. When they found him, he’d lost weight all over—his body was burning hot, as if he’d burned every ounce of fat in one night.” Ryan touched his own face, which was slightly round—he couldn’t imagine what he’d look like if it happened to him. “Anyway, he survived by accident. One of the witnessing ice warriors was Bjorn, who mocked his god’s weakness but didn’t stop them.”

“I declare this the biggest plot hole in the whole story. Are you making lard? Toss it in the pot and it shrinks?”

“But it’s true,” Ryan shrugged, expressing his disdain for his ignorant cousin.

Kraft was now indignant: “You probably heard this while William was drunk. Do you have proof?”

“I do. Doesn’t the name Frank sound familiar? Think—who in Wen Deng Port Academy is named Frank?”

“That Professor Frank from Shenxue Academy? Impossible—he’s got wrinkles sagging down his face, at least sixty years old!” Kraft knew the man well—Anderson had told him they were on terrible terms. At the academy, Frank, backed by Shenxue Academy’s power and naturally incompatible, had constantly marginalized Anderson and others studying anomalous phenomena.

He disliked outsiders entering the academy, especially looking down on the Wood family—“country nobility” with no culture. Ryan and Kraft sometimes had to avoid him when delivering letters to Anderson’s acquaintances.

Ryan let out a hiccuping laugh. “I paid William three bottles of wine to learn his dark history—even Anderson might not know. Those aren’t wrinkles—they’re loose skin from his drastic thinning. Otherwise, how do you think he still has golden hair at his age?”

“Alright, we’re almost at Wen Deng Port. Go ask a Shenxue Academy student when Frank arrived. I bet he stayed because he was too ugly to go back.”

Thanks to the good weather, their pace was far faster than on the way here. By the time Ryan’s story ended—told in fragments over two days—the distant horizon revealed blurred structures, far larger than any village they’d rested in. Among them, a tall, slender building stood out prominently: the academy’s bell tower, built by Church funds and naturally located within Shenxue Academy’s grounds.

The wind carried a faint fishy odor. The bell trembled faintly. Kraft knew: they had returned to this rare city in the kingdom’s northern reaches—Wen Deng Port.