Chapter 79

"The sea view is quite nice?"

"Indeed, it feels completely different from watching it from land." He brushed off the damp hand on his shoulder, stepped aside to make room on the bow, and straightened his neatly dressed attire, "It would be better if there were less rocking."

A gagging sound came from behind; a man in attendant’s garb leaned over the rail, weakly vomiting a bit of acid. The dry bread he’d eaten that morning had not even digested before being fed to the fish—his stomach now held nothing left.

He tried several times to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but his concern for his brand-new clothes stopped him. A thick hemp rope was tied around his waist, lashed to the mast, to prevent him from being swept overboard by a rogue wave.

The sailors passed him without a glance, adjusting sails, scrubbing the deck, the ship moving with orderly precision.

"Ha, this isn’t even rocking." The bearded captain rolled up his sleeves, revealing thick, weathered arms forged by battling storms—his skin bore a sprawling tattoo of ocean waves stretching from wrist to elbow, unmistakably the mark of a man with a story.

Most passengers would be drawn to the tattoo, sparking half a day of idle chatter and boasts, passing the endless boredom of sea life, and picking up colorful anecdotes from travelers of all walks.

But this passenger paid no attention to the captain’s eagerness to talk; instead, he gazed at the boundless sea, where beneath the cloud cover, the water blended deep blue with leaden gray—a gloomy, ominous hue merging into the horizon.

The lingering chill from the North Sea ice fields was pushing them southward, but no matter what, they couldn’t escape the coming rain.

The captain had seen many passengers; no matter their status, once on the open sea and facing the approaching storm, they all doubted the frailty of their little boat, gripped by an inevitable dread.

"No need to worry. It looks terrifying, but it’s just rain." He pointed to the left rail, where the horizon vanished, as if he could see distant land, "Besides, we’re not far from shore. Even if something goes wrong, I could row you to land with one hand."

"That’s truly reassuring," the passenger ran his fingers through his wind-tousled hair, smoothing it back into place, still staring at the rolling waves. His tone gave no clue whether he was sincere or merely humoring.

The captain couldn’t fathom what he was looking at. They’d been at sea three days—monotonous scenery should have worn out any young man’s excitement long ago. And now, there was nothing remarkable: only biting cold wind, a gray haze where sea met sky, and the illusion, after staring too long, that the ship stood still.

A slender finger pointed toward a distant speck, guiding the captain’s gaze. "What’s that?"

"Hm?" The captain followed the finger. A tiny speck did exist on the water, faintly glinting. "Probably a piece of drift ice."

"Drift ice here?"

"Lucky for us—I haven’t seen any in days. It came from the Ice Sea. There aren’t many large pieces out there, and even fewer survive the journey without melting. We call it the Lucky Star."

This piqued the passenger’s interest. He gave the drift ice one last glance as it vanished into the waves, then turned as the captain hoped. "How so?"

"It’s what sailors on this route call it. Supposedly, a ship caught in a storm lost all its fresh water and beer." The captain licked his thick beard, a tale that made even him feel parched.

"Then one of them, sharp-eyed like you, spotted something shimmering on the water—like white crystal, or a morning star. In despair, they took it as a sign and decided to gamble."

"Of course, it wasn’t white crystal or a fallen star—but its value far surpassed either." The captain paused just right, saw his listener hanging on every word, then delivered the punchline.

"A block of freshwater ice—two full casks’ worth. It drifted from the Ice Sea, possibly even farther south. Unbelievable. So everyone on this route considers seeing drift ice a sign of luck."

"I can imagine," the passenger nodded. He’d never heard this tale—he might add it to a story collection someday. Then, suddenly, he remembered something. "So you’ve been to the Ice Sea?"

"Of course. I used to deal with those ice-dwellers. Those little bits of ice were everywhere—I never felt particularly lucky." The captain always enjoyed sharing his experiences—this trait mirrored the talkative drivers from the other world.

Whether on a ship or in a tavern, being the center of attention was irresistible. Your ticket price might even include an unlisted story fee—no need to buy drinks until he’d talk, like in a tavern.

"No big icebergs, then?"

"No. Just lots of small drift ice. Even the tallest ‘mountains’ couldn’t be reached from the rail—calling them ‘mountains’ is a stretch."

The passenger looked disappointed, unsure what he’d expected, his mind replaying some imagined scenario. "Really? Not even one?"

"Usually, there aren’t any large icebergs." The captain didn’t close the door—any seasoned sailor knows how to keep a story alive. If there was “usually,” there was always a “but.”

The listener obligingly picked up the thread: "Like the drift ice in the south—rare?"

"Yes. So rare almost no one’s seen one—and the meaning is the exact opposite." The captain glanced at the endless, dark sea, stepped away from the rail, as if reluctant to continue here. He turned to his passenger. "It’s a long tale. You won’t want to hear the rest in the rain. Come below for a drink?"

"Sounds more interesting than beer." The passenger accepted gladly.

"Water’s fine too. You’ve got to drink something."

…

…

About five years ago, a well-established ice trade route suddenly went vacant, tied to a distant ice tribe with whom contact had long been maintained.

Normally, this was impossible. A tribe willing to trade with outsiders implied an extremely stable, secure exchange relationship.

When a captain finally chose to leave the sea, he’d only introduce his closest heir to the tribe—like passing down family wealth—to ensure a continuous stream of profit.

That middle-aged captain, Becker, was willing to sell this opportunity at a steep discount—even the intact, empty ship—and convert it into fixed assets in Wenden Port, plus a generous cash payout to dismiss his crew.

The discount came at a cost: Becker refused to personally introduce the buyer, offering only a few “tokens,” and wouldn’t even send a single crewman familiar with the ice people.

This naturally raised suspicion—he must have quarreled with the ice people and was using this to make one last profit.

But after quietly probing drunken sailors in taverns, those intrigued reached a negative conclusion: unless every sailor could remember the truth while snorting snot-laced beer, the story didn’t hold.

During brief moments of sobriety, they refused to speak on the matter—ordinary sailors to first mate—all clearly stated they wouldn’t sail that route again, no matter the pay.

Rumors spread of a cursed ship, but that didn’t stop a few young heirs with their own vessels and a taste for adventure from competing for the chance.

After a series of struggles, one of them secured all of Becker’s tokens, along with secret knowledge of customs and communication rituals.

He didn’t set sail immediately. Instead, he waited and observed—until the crew members addicted to vice had spent their last coins and fallen into debt, forcing them to meet sober in exchange for payment.

From one sailor, threatened by loan sharks with losing his fingers, he extracted—by paying part of his debt—a garbled, delirious account of the voyage.

Even then, the sailor would rather lose a finger than ever return to the Ice Sea.

Only days before departure did he piece together the scattered, fragmented testimonies, reconstructing roughly half the story.

From the sailor Siman’s perspective.

The return journey began as always, with Captain Becker leading the crew back, hauling furs and metal ores.

The crew stopped teasing Siman about his name sounding like Saint Simon, climbed the mast, and watched the approaching black dot—the returning party.

A few ice people had hauled part of the cargo on sleds. Their leader chatted merrily with the first mate, and before leaving, handed both the captain and first mate a raw gemstone from their land, claiming they’d simply found it while hunting.

Rarely did the ice people remember the Nordics’ tastes. Captain Becker smiled from boarding to anchoring, turning the stones with their beautiful crystals in his hands, discussing whether they held material suitable for large jewelry.

Siman understood nothing of gems, only gazed enviously, then returned to unloading cargo.

Sailors had to assign cargo positions in the hold: heaviest ores evenly distributed to the bottom, stacked with ballast.

Furs were stored in the driest spots, spread out with ample space—any minor flaw could slash a perfect pelt’s value. If that happened, the captain would flay them alive.

The work was exhausting, but thankfully, they’d received fresh meat from the ice tribe. As usual, the captain generously added it to the rations. After soothing his belly, battered by two months of sea rations, Siman returned to his cabin and fell asleep amid the ship’s rocking.

Sleep at sea was never good. In the middle of the night, he faintly heard footsteps and murmurs on deck. The companion beside him cursed, rolled over, and covered his ears. A commanding voice silenced the commotion—likely the night watchmaster.

Then silence returned. He slept soundly through the rest of the night and took over watch the next morning.

The deck felt strange. Siman opened his mouth to complain about last night’s noise, but was silenced by a glance. He took the rope, looked over—and saw the watchmaster’s grim face.

"Don’t ask," the man whispered. "It’s just an iceberg. Nothing serious."