Chapter 9: Chapter Eight: The Medieval Gospel Warrior

The captain Ryan met in the tavern was named William, known as Big Beard William, a native of Hegang with a decent family background—though that was probably an understatement.

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

William’s route ran back and forth between Hegang and the Ice Plain, carrying goods the local tribes needed—alcohol, wheat, and the like—in exchange for furs and other odd items, the latter used as filler when luck ran thin.

To those who had never seen the other side of the sea, it was a terrifying wasteland, where fur-clad savages roamed the ice-covered plains, hunting every living thing—whether giant white-furred bears or outsiders who strayed into the land.

William always repeated: 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 their arithmetic outpaced nine out of ten people present.

At this, his listeners would reply: “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 exceptions existed: besides brave merchants seeking to open new markets, occasional passengers to the Ice Plain were church missionaries.

Those familiar with the Church knew that converting souls counted as merit—not recorded in church ledgers, but inscribed in heaven, directly determining whether one’s soul would return to the Father’s embrace after death, and the quality of that embrace.

Though the Church in Hegang seemed as lifeless as a salted fish—offering no eggs even for prayers—it was 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 stabilized the crew’s mental state during prolonged voyages.

You laugh at how they can’t even clean the gull droppings from their squares; they laugh at you for not wondering how they afford the land to build those squares in the first place—all thanks to the labor of countless people making their living on the sea.

The man who originally established this diocese had long been canonized. The true worth of that sainthood is unclear, but his earthly honors need no elaboration; after death, he naturally returned to the Father’s embrace, journeying to the 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 became a model for many low-born clergy within the Church.

So now, a small question arises: where should young missionaries seeking to emulate their predecessors go? Though the Norse Kingdom is not small, every region has long been divided into dioceses. Even Hegang, a remote outpost, became a diocese decades ago—proof of how hard it is to establish new ones.

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 winged circle. Behind him, an equally young attendant bore a gloomy expression, 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 at a port without a church.” The lips, still unshrouded by beard, calmly uttered an outrageous request. The attendant’s gloom deepened, his eyes pleading toward William, hoping he’d refuse this job.

William initially had no intention of accepting such a passenger.

This young clergyman, accompanied by a servant, was likely a second son from a noble family with no inheritance, sent to the Church to carve out a future. Without incident, such a man would rise to a respectable position—perhaps even 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.

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

It was clear he’d tried to appear ordinary: his knee-length clerical robe was likely mass-produced by the academy, utterly mismatched with the scripture in his hands and the attendant behind him. This baffling display opened William’s eyes—he truly existed, such a fool?

Out of a desire to avoid trouble, a sliver of conscience, and the attendant’s pleading gaze, William tried to dissuade this man whose mind seemed filled only with winged circles: “Your faith moves 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’d done well—respecting the man’s dignity while making the reality clear: regardless of what they worship, the competition is fierce, and this isn’t the field for someone who can’t lift heavy things.

As soon as he finished, he saw hope ignite in the attendant’s eyes; his bent back straightened slightly under the weight.

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

“God guides the truly devout. I cannot bear His children deceived by devils wearing false gods. My family approves my choice. Even if I am called to die early and join the land flowing with milk and honey, you need not fear their blame.”

Perhaps recalling stories of saints facing trials, the beardless missionary lifted his head firmly, his smooth hair gleaming in the sunlight, radiating holiness—and making his attendant seem all the darker by contrast.

“But…” William was stunned. He considered himself a minor believer—he prayed before every voyage, met many priests—but he’d never seen such a display, “Please reconsider. This is too….”

He’d seen the pagan priests of the Ice Plain—men with arms thicker than his thighs, capable of slaying live beasts for blood sacrifices. Sending this man to compete with them felt like a betrayal of conscience.

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

Castle gold coins, originally named Westmin gold coins, were the kingdom’s official currency, minted by the king and major nobles. The obverse bore the royal sword-in-stone crest; 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 William stared, speechless.

…

…

Several days later, on the deck of the Bingshan.

“Father Ferrank, isn’t the North Sea beautiful?” Having learned his name, William now addressed him as Father. After all, he was going to build a church—better to use the title early; the gold donor’s happiness mattered most.

…

“Eighteen gold coins? Just to rush to the Ice Plain and 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, “This isn’t the point of the story.”