Chapter 82: Ice Mountain

"Wake up all the young men—we must jettison the cargo." Because they were closer, Siman heard Becker's order to the newly arrived boatswain.

The boatswain, still stunned by the sudden fog, thought he was still dreaming when he heard the captain's words: "We have enough supplies; there's no need to…"

"Rouse everyone, jettison the cargo, and wake up the first mate. I know he just fell asleep—tell him if he doesn't want to sleep in the sea, he'd better get up." His hands trembled slightly from the cold as he gripped the helm; Becker repeated the order, and an inexplicable urgency spread from him to every man on deck.

"Siman, go aft and keep watch—don't let them crowd together."

Even old sailors could sense the wind speed; the captain would be even more sensitive. Years of seafaring gave him more insight than anyone else: this speed was far too slow—not nearly enough compared to the speed of that thing approaching.

Jettisoning the cargo was the judgment they made. They needed to go faster, even at the cost of losing months of effort and vast amounts of supplies—perhaps even more could be sacrificed.

It didn't matter what it was. When something taller than the mast approached across the sea, what it was no longer mattered.

The boatswain, trained to obey the captain's orders without question, moved at once. Sleepy-eyed sailors were roused, then given orders they couldn't comprehend, shoved en masse into the hold to drag out cargo that had only been stowed two days prior.

The first mate climbed onto the deck, clutching his knee, limping over to the captain. "What's going on? This cargo's substantial—we'd need at least two more trips to make up for it!"

"Better to help than talk. Start by dumping the ore." Becker removed his still-warm fur-lined cap, exposing his salt-and-pepper hair to the cold—a sight matched only by the experience and authority that could silence anyone on board.

Chests of ore were tipped overboard; chunks of rock packed with metal and crystal particles sank into the waves, spraying endless splashes—thud after thud, no different from tossing silver coins into water. Siman watched, his heart aching.

Watching the first chest of ore vanish into the sea, the first mate released his knee and clutched his chest instead—loss made brutally visible. The sounds of dragging and lifting heavy loads beneath the deck never ceased; the sailors didn't care about this money, they only wanted to flee.

"What if we dump only half…"

Before the words finished, a massive, muffled splash echoed. The first mate scanned the deck, searching for some idiot who'd dropped a whole crate overboard.

Everyone froze. Crewmen exchanged glances; the two sailors who'd just tipped out a chest held empty crates, also searching for who had thrown a large object directly into the sea.

Then they realized—the sound hadn't come from the ship's side. It came from farther away, echoing through the cold fog, the spray taking two breaths to return to the ocean.

For a moment, they felt as if they'd been pulled back to the barren ice plains—the far end of dark mountains, the towering cliff overlooking the frozen sea. Ice that had formed over years cracked open black rock; both plunged into the crashing, ice-choked surf, shattering the surface.

Anyone who'd seen it once could never forget: when shattered ice and spray rose to their peak, the roar of water thundered in.

The people of the ice plains told them that ships passing nearby had been overturned outright, sucked into whirlpools formed as seawater rushed back into hollows, swallowed by the frozen sea before they could even cry for help, along with splintered wood and floating ice.

Since witnessing it, Becker had deliberately kept far from those ice-laden cliffs along the coast.

They'd been sailing for over two full days; those cliffs and falling ice were beyond the horizon—but the sound was undeniable. Something tall and steep was moving in the fog, shedding glaciers from its surface.

"Don't stand there—jettison everything!" Becker was the first to react, roaring at the crew huddled in trembling fear—even though his own hands gripping the helm had gone stiff and uncontrollable.

The entire ship operated at unprecedented speed. Sailors rushed in and out of the hold, hauling every crate of ore and dumping it into the sea. Everything nonessential was thrown overboard—anything possible to lighten the vessel.

A second thunderous splash echoed, then a third, then a fourth—as if some colossal entity was moving, awakening, shedding glaciers that had accumulated over centuries.

Several terrified sailors muttered prayers no one understood, even attempting to drag the lifeboat into the water. The first mate drew his blade, shoving them back with his back pressed against the rail. "This is the Ice Sea—without this ship, none of you survive!"

He looked at Becker; the captain nodded in approval.

The hold held not a single ore chunk left. The sailors threw away the empty crates, tore off precious furs, and tossed them all into the sea, ignoring how minuscule the speed gain was.

Had Becker not stopped them, they might have thrown a few men screaming and sobbing overboard too.

Siman stared fixedly at the fog behind the stern—he clearly heard the echoing splashes coming from the side and rear.

And closer now—the sound of waves crashing against something hard. Waves shattered, spraying into mist. Vast, cold, and unyielding—possessing every trait of those ice-covered peaks, which should stand on the wasteland, among their kind.

The ship had reached its maximum speed. Crewmen argued over jettisoning fresh water and food; different men shouted their demands. Those who could no longer bear the invisible, soundless threat in the fog begged the captain for a lifeboat to die alone; most wept and prayed, regretting why they'd ever sailed to this place beyond the gods' gaze for money.

These voices blurred and faded in Siman's ears. He heard the sound of fragments hitting the water—same as dumping ore, but higher-pitched, as if stones rolled down a steep slope, clinking like pottery.

But the ore was already gone. Even the crates had been thrown overboard.

He realized this was an omen of arrival. Terrified, he stared at the churning, thick white fog, his feet rooted like nails driven into the deck. His only thought: warn them in time—as if that might give them a chance to escape.

Everyone arguing on the foredeck heard the scream from the stern—distorted by terror into something inhuman. As if years of suppressed dread toward the northern seas and mountains had been violently squeezed from the chest, lungs emptied, throat torn open to spew it forth.

This scream awakened in the outsiders the primal fear they'd felt upon first arriving here—the awe before endless icy waters and rolling mountains, realizing their decade of safe sailing had merely been a minor oversight by that thing.

A few still brave enough—or blindly obedient—turned and saw the last light in the fog dim. A cold, majestic shadow moved through the white chaos. Large chunks of ice broke free from its surface; the ship nearly capsized in the towering waves, hurling the tiny crew up and slamming them down.

No mind or body could continue watching it through such unnatural chaos. They clung to the nearest fixed object, burying their heads, praying until they collapsed from exhaustion.

…

…

"And then? What happened next?" Kraft sipped the sweet fruit wine the captain had given him—it reminded him of carbonated drinks the otherworldly souls liked, though less fizzy, perfect with the tale and candlelight.

"They returned to Venden Port, sold the ship and trading rights. Becker handed the proceeds to his son to manage, then set off for his rural hometown inland."

"The other crewmen spent their days drunk in taverns, frequenting places that bred unspeakable diseases, or shuttling between drinking tables and gambling tables—most were bled dry of their last copper before forgetting the voyage."

Perhaps finding this ending too bleak, the captain opened a new bottle of pungent liquor. After Kraft politely declined, he filled his own cup, swallowed a large gulp, and added.

"Burp… Some sold the story to curious buyers a few times, kept a little money to live on, and mostly headed inland." Outside, night had fallen; heavy rain pattered on the deck. The wind was light, perfectly setting the mood.

The story had ended, but the listeners remained captivated. Kup, who'd spent the day nauseated, entered and caught the latter half. Whether from weakness or fright, he shivered. From his gaze, he clearly wanted to hear more.

Kraft voiced his unspoken question: "That's it? How did they escape?"

"That's all. They came back alive—some were as good as dead, and none of them lived well." The captain shook his head, sighing. As fellow men of the sea, they shared understanding—who could guarantee today's fate wasn't tomorrow's?

So the story truly ended. No brave captain or clever sailor outwitted a monster.

It was just a group of men driven mad by a fog-bound thing they never even saw—the event ended abruptly, they returned to port, and spent their miserable remaining years, the misfortune's echo refusing to let them go even after they'd left.

Such a distinct style reminded Kraft of another tale he'd heard about the northern ice plains. He'd been at the academy so long, yet never found a chance to ask a student from the Divine College whether his cousin's story was true.

Inspired, he revived the idea of compiling a collection of stories—perhaps he could dedicate a whole volume to the mysterious, savage lands north of Venden Port.

"If you allow it, I'd like to write this story into my book. Where did you hear it?"

"Ah, it's a long tale." At this, the captain swallowed another mouthful of wine. The sharp liquor burned like it had gone down his windpipe, making him cough until tears streamed down his face. Unconsciously, he'd gotten drunk, his manners slipping.

"Guess who bought the trading rights—the second-generation captain?"

"Uh… May I ask how I should address you?"

"William. Big Beard William."