Chapter 9: Chapter Eight: The Medieval Gospel Warrior

The captain Ryan met at the tavern was named William, known as Bigbeard William, a native of Venden Port, from a well-off family. This was probably an understatement.

He had a full beard, yet he was barely in his early thirties. At that age, owning a ship—and a two-masted sailing vessel capable of long voyages—was the classic profile of a rich heir, whose family savings far exceeded those of most minor nobles.

William's route ran back and forth between Venden Port and the Ice Plain, carrying goods the local tribes needed—alcohol, wheat, and the like—in exchange for furs and other odd items acquired when luck ran thin.

To those who had never seen the other side of the sea, it was a terrifying wasteland, where hairy, blood-drinking savages chased every living thing across the ice-covered plain—whether giant white-furred bears or outsiders who strayed into the land.

William would repeatedly explain that some tribes living along the edge of the Ice Plain had long been assimilated by trading ships, even building small ports and learning the language of the Norse Kingdom, exchanging furs and ores for steady grain supplies, and doing arithmetic faster than nine out of ten people present.

At this, his listeners would say: "Ah yes, yes, you're right, tell us more about the other tribes?"

Thus, he found it hard to recruit sailors, let alone hitchhikers.

But there were always exceptions. Besides brave merchants seeking to open new commercial frontiers, occasional passengers to the Ice Plain were church missionaries.

Those familiar with the Church might know that, in its logic, converting souls counted as merit—not recorded in a book kept in the church, but inscribed in heaven, directly determining whether one's soul could return to the Father's embrace after death, and what treatment one would receive there.

Don't be fooled by the Church in this godforsaken place like Venden Port, which seemed as lifeless as a salted fish—even prayers earned you no eggs. That's because their main market wasn't among these poor folk; sailors at sea still had high conversion rates, and some large ships even kept a clergyman aboard long-term, which greatly helped maintain spiritual stability during extended voyages.

You laugh at how they can't even clean the seagull droppings from their squares; they laugh at you for not wondering how they managed to buy the land to build those squares in the first place. Behind it all were the contributions of countless people who made their living on the sea.

As for the man who originally established this diocese, he had long been canonized. The true worth of that sainthood is unclear, but his earthly honors need no elaboration—he naturally returned to the Lord's embrace, journeying to the lush land flowing with milk and honey, surrounded by winged beings, listening to holy music, privileged to serve the Supreme Authority. Decades ago, he came alone to this land, where no tradition of faith had ever existed, spreading the Gospel to countless sailors. Such a legend served as a model for many low-born clergy within the Church.

So now there's a small problem: where should young missionaries seeking to emulate their predecessors go? Though the Norse Kingdom was not small, every region had already been divided into dioceses of various sizes. Even Venden Port, a remote outpost, had become a diocese decades ago—proof of how hard it was to establish a new one.

The rare passenger before Captain William gave the answer: the Ice Plain.

He was a remarkably young missionary, clutching a holy scripture bound in dark leather and metal ornaments, its cover centered with a golden-foil emblem of the iconic double-winged ring. Behind him, equally young, trudged a servant with a gloomy face, carrying luggage for two.

"Yes, we're going to the Ice Plain. You don't need to bring us back. If possible, just drop us off at a port without a church." The lips, still unshrouded by beard, calmly uttered an outrageous request. The servant's gloom deepened further, his eyes pleading toward William, hoping he would refuse this job.

William had initially refused to take such a passenger.

This young clergyman, accompanied by a servant, was likely the second son of some noble family, discarded into the Church. Without incident, such a man would climb to a respectable position, at least managing a small chapel.

If he took him there and the man vanished on the Ice Plain, whether by his own wish or not, it would inevitably bring trouble later.

Either this man had been blinded by too many legends, or he'd acted on a sudden whim after quarreling with his family—no sane person would wear such impractical priestly robes and carry a lavishly bound scripture to preach on the Ice Plain.

It was clear he'd tried his best to appear ordinary: the long robe reaching his calves was probably mass-produced by the academy, utterly mismatched with the scripture in his hands and the servant behind him. This entire spectacle opened William's eyes to a new kind of human absurdity—did such fools truly exist?

Out of a desire to avoid trouble, plus a sliver of conscience and the pressure of the servant's pleading gaze, William tried to dissuade this man whose mind seemed filled only with the double-winged ring: "Your faith inspires me, but the people of the Ice Plain worship their savage false gods. This is no place for someone of your station."

William felt he had done well—respecting the man's dignity while clearly explaining the reality. Forget what they worshiped; the competition was fierce, and this wasn't a place for someone who couldn't lift a heavy weapon.

As soon as he finished speaking, he saw hope ignite in the servant's eyes, and the servant's bent back straightened slightly under his burden.

Unfortunately, they had clearly underestimated a man whose mind was unhinged.

"God guides the truly devout. I cannot bear His children being deceived by devils disguised as false gods. My family approves of my choice. Even if I am called to die prematurely on this path and ascend to the land flowing with milk and honey, you need not fear their blame."

Perhaps recalling the stories of saints facing trials, the beardless missionary lifted his head firmly, his smooth hair gleaming in the sunlight, radiating holiness, making his servant appear even more dull by contrast.

"But…" William was stunned. He considered himself a minor believer—he prayed before every voyage and had met many priests—but he had never seen such a display in his life. "Please reconsider. This is just too…"

He had seen the pagan priests of the Ice Plain—men with arms thicker than his thighs, capable of draining blood from live beasts in sacrifice. Sending this man to compete with them was a burden on his conscience.

"I can offer at most eighteen gold coins. I mean, castle gold coins."

Castle gold coins, originally named Westmin gold coins, were the official currency of the kingdom, minted by the king and several great nobles. The obverse bore the royal Sword-in-the-Stone emblem; the reverse, the distinctive broad-sloped walls and twin towers of Westmin Fortress—hence the name. They were high-purity hard currency.

"Of course, if you're unwilling, could you recommend another captain?" The young missionary looked disappointed as he watched William freeze.

…

…

Several days later, on the deck of the Bingshan.

"Father Ferrank, isn't the North Sea beautiful?" Having learned the man's name, William now addressed him as "Father." After all, he was going to build a church—calling him that in advance was harmless, and the patron's happiness mattered.

…

"Eighteen gold coins? Just to rush to the Ice Plain to die?" Kraft's eyes widened. Poverty had limited his imagination.

"Don't interrupt me." Ryan was enjoying his story; he gestured for Kraft to slow his horse so he could continue, "That's not the point of the story."