Chapter 80

Siman took the rope without understanding why and adjusted the sails under the bosun’s direction.

Last night, everyone on deck was replaced in turn; a new crew took over the night watch, and finally, the first mate emerged from the cabin, yawning, assuming command of the ship.

The bosun, exhausted from the night’s labor, did not immediately go below to rest—he pulled the first mate aside at the stern and whispered something.

“Huh?” the latter replied with indifference, not taking it seriously.

Perhaps the bosun himself thought he was overreacting, so he shook his head and left, going below to call up the lazybones still hiding in the cabin to get some cold air. Having reported the only notable disturbance of the night, his duty was done.

After one night and half a day of sailing, most tasks were complete: cargo secured, sails properly filled with wind, yet not fully unfurled—on the ice sea, speed must be carefully controlled, or even a medium-sized floe could cause serious damage.

This ship wasn’t in a hurry; its cargo—ore and furs—wouldn’t spoil if delayed by ten or fifteen days.

With clear weather and steady winds, the idle sailors were granted permission by the first mate to gather in small groups on deck to rest.

Normally they’d scrub the deck, but before leaving the ice sea, water on deck wouldn’t dry naturally—it would freeze into a slick, thin layer of ice, so this tedious chore was waived.

Siman was no exception—he found a few familiar sailors and felt the urge to gamble. But these latecomers claimed they had no interest for now, fully absorbed in a new topic, even abandoning their shared hobby.

In the idle chatter, two words were repeatedly mentioned: “last night” and “ice mountain.”

If you counted those massive floes taller than the ship as ice mountains, then such things were common in the ice sea—hardly worth any special attention.

“Aren’t ice mountains everywhere? Why make such a fuss?”

Someone nearby quickly clamped a hand over his mouth and glanced toward the first mate—the acting captain hadn’t noticed them.

Such a tense reaction piqued his curiosity. Onboard, aside from the captain’s absolute authority over navigation, there were few strict rules. As long as you didn’t openly challenge him, even muttering curses behind his back went unnoticed—only tales of ghosts or spirits that could shake morale warranted such caution.

Like ghost stories told at midnight, the bosun’s overreaction stemmed from how easily such tales spread—the more terrifying, the more people wanted to hear. Siman slipped into the tight circle, pressed close to the huddled heads, and lowered his voice to join the discussion.

“What kind of ice mountain did the ones below tell you about?”

After years at sea, sailors had developed a touch of bards’ flair. The one who’d clamped his mouth now leaned close, lips brushing his ear, whispering in a voice barely louder than wind-blown ice crystals:

“A ‘real’ ice mountain.”

The word “real” was emphasized heavily. Siman froze, then understood the implication.

He looked up at the surrounding sea—white floes drifted in the waves; the largest one in the distance was no bigger than two men could embrace. For one of these small floes to qualify as a “mountain” was indeed strange.

Having sailed with this ship for four or five years, Siman swore he’d never seen a real ice mountain. As far as he knew, no one on any other ship bound for the ice plains had either—if they had, it would’ve become tavern gossip, known throughout the trade.

Yet he still didn’t understand: “Why is the bosun acting like this—just because of an ice mountain?”

The circle fell silent. The sailors who had been so animated moments ago suddenly clammed up. Siman spun around in alarm, checking the first mate—he was still resting in place, no high-ranking figure approaching unseen.

“Damn, I thought I’d be punished with another deck scrubbing. If they think we can handle it now.” He pounded his chest dramatically, feigning fright. His companions exchanged glances—no one laughed. They seemed to be silently deciding who would answer.

“Huh? You’re weirder than I thought. It’s not even the captain giving orders—why fear a bosun? I thought I was talking to a bunch of ice plain rabbits.”

“Tsk. Look at you. It’s not that we don’t want to tell you—it’s because that guy didn’t explain anything clearly.”

“Yeah, he just shoved us up to relieve the watch,” someone chimed in—apparently, those who went below hadn’t had time to say much either.

They assured each other they weren’t silent out of fear of the bosun, then gave Siman a flimsy excuse: they’d heard it from the previous watch on their way up:

【Someone said it wasn’t an ice mountain.】

Seeing the topic was dead, everyone silently dropped it, shifting to whether they could sneak a drink later and boast about having seen the unprecedented ice mountain.

Unfortunately, joy was fleeting—they quickly exhausted the novelty of this rare event, and the wind began to shift.

The first mate noticed the wind weakening and changing direction, calling the sailors to adjust the sails—unfurling them wider, turning their angles.

Everyone rose to handle the rigging, turning the winches. As Siman and his companion strained together to turn the main sail, a commotion erupted at the stern.

“Lazy bastards,” he grunted, adding strength to finish faster so he could go see what was happening.

After securing the sail’s new position, the noise had drawn everyone’s attention. Siman and the others followed the first mate, who had just confirmed the course, to the stern. They shoved aside the sailors leaning on the rail, clearing a space large enough for the first mate and them to see clearly.

In the direction the crowd pointed, Siman squinted toward the distant horizon. At the edge of the clear sky, a small, unnatural gap appeared along the straight line.

None of the sailors’ eyes could discern what it was—its general shape wasn’t another ship, and its size far exceeded any vessel they knew, possibly even taller than the masthead.

“What the hell is that?” The first mate braced his hands on the rail, leaning half his body over. Since the Northerners arrived, the two-masted schooner had firmly held the title of largest object on the ice sea—nothing had ever challenged it.

No one answered. The sailors’ gazes were all locked on the thing on the horizon, estimating its size by crude instinct, speculating what it might be.

In the silence, Siman heard someone murmur a word—its voice was snatched away by the wind, but due to the unusual quiet, most still caught it.

“Ice mountain?”

Ice mountain? Siman was certain the first mate heard it too. The first mate turned and dispersed the onlookers, using his authority to force them back to duty. The witnesses left without a word—no one knew how many had linked the thing to last night’s events.

Before leaving, Siman glanced back at the sea—the gap on the horizon, possibly an ice mountain, had carved a small notch into a thin strip of twilight.

Seeing the rumored giant ice mountain brought no curiosity, no imagined excitement—only doubt about whether they truly understood the ice sea at all.

The shortest-serving sailor aboard had been here over three years; the captain had spent nearly a third of his life navigating these ice-choked waters, convinced he knew them inside out.

Yet today’s sight delivered a sharp slap to their foolish confidence. Such a massive object, floating openly on the sea, had never once been recorded.

A sense of bewildering unfamiliarity rose in Siman—he realized he was operating in a realm he utterly didn’t understand, mistaking his narrow route and meager observations for the whole truth.

He returned to his post—there was nothing to do, really. The first mate had ordered them to fully unfurl the sails, then left the deck.

Everyone sat where they were, pulling their collars tight, chatting about old, worn-out topics—criticizing the roasted fish they’d eaten too often in Wenden Port, a shared memory they all complained about.

No one mentioned the ice mountain again.

Siman endured an unpleasant day on deck; when returning to the cabin at dusk, he cast one final glance toward that direction.

The sinking sun poured crimson light, staining the sky, the water, the thick clouds—and the horizon, as if the sun’s submerged half dissolved and blurred along that line, reinforcing its boundary, making it stand out even more.

Amid the warm glow, it was the sole, distinct anomaly—the red light outlined its shadowed contours clearly. This time, Siman saw it much better: the shape of a mountain, narrow at the top, broad at the base, edges irregular.

Under the setting sun, its snow cover gilded its edges in gold and red, just like a winter mountain peak, contrasting sharply with the dark, gloomy side facing away from the light.

Footsteps from the cabin signaled the next watch’s arrival, snapping Siman from his trance. The man behind him, whom he’d blocked on deck, didn’t hurry him—his eyes reflected the red of the sunset, staring in the exact same direction Siman had just been watching.

“Stop staring. It’s just a bigger piece of ice—haven’t you seen enough ice already?” He tugged at his dazed companion, pulling him downward—but couldn’t budge him.

“No… something’s wrong.” The companion looked upward—the main sail, swollen by wind, taut with ropes; the night’s stronger ice wind still pushed the ship forward, everything on deck normal.

In that brief delay, darkness deepened. Half his face lay in shadow, the other half glowing crimson from the afterglow. His face, hardened by years of ice wind, no longer flinched at storms—but now it was streaked with panic utterly unfit for a seasoned sailor.

“When did we fully unfurl the sails?”

Siman recalled the time the first mate had left earlier that day. “Around noon?”

“When did we first see it?”

The question carried no modifiers—but Siman knew exactly what he meant, remembered the time. It sounded less like a query and more like self-doubt seeking confirmation.

“Also in the morning. Earlier.”

“Then how are we still seeing it?”