Chapter 97 Bartholomew

The outskirts of Kalanfor.

A light breeze passed through the fields, setting nameless wildflowers swaying.

Their delicate petals looked especially vivid against the surrounding green.

At the foot of a nearby wall, the mushroom growing there had become noticeably larger than before. Looking closely, two tiny clusters of fungus had sprouted beside the roots buried in the soil.

The small wooden cottage still stood among the flower beds.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

A month had passed since the Halfling and the young adventurer had visited.

Today, the cottage received another guest.

A broad, rugged-faced barbarian.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Forgan tapped lightly on the door.

A few pieces of grass stuck to his arm shook loose and drifted onto the stone step below.

Slow, heavy footsteps sounded from inside.

Creak…

The hinges scraped unpleasantly as the door opened.

A gaunt, stooped elder stood on the other side.

His single eye was dull and murky as stagnant swamp water.

Yet there was not the slightest hint of surprise in it.

It was as though he had known all along that the barbarian would come.

A strange smile spread across his ancient face, disappearing into layers of wrinkles, sagging folds, and age spots.

“You came?”

He stepped aside and opened the way into the cottage.

“Come in. It’s much too cold outside.”

It was midsummer.

Nightfall had lowered the temperature somewhat, but no reasonable person would have called the evening cold.

At the moment, however, neither of them cared about such details.

Forgan entered without expression, squeezing his massive frame through the narrow doorway like nothing more than a traveler making an ordinary visit.

“Sit down. I’ll pour you some tea.”

The elder shuffled to a cabinet and pulled out a wooden cup.

Forgan said nothing.

He also made no move to sit.

His gaze, cold enough to freeze boiling water, swept across the cramped but comfortable sitting room.

“So this is the helper you found?”

His hoarse voice carried the rasp of wind blowing across the frozen wastes of the Northlands.

Forgan’s eyes settled beside the fireplace.

A priest sat peacefully on the sofa.

His robes were cut in the style of a judge’s, and his kindly face wore a mild smile beneath half-lidded eyes.

A reddish-brown wooden staff rested in his hand, crowned with a brilliant yellow crystal.

Around his neck hung a holy symbol of the sun, swaying gently with each breath.

“Working with this kind of trash…”

Mockery entered Forgan’s voice.

“Has Amaunator really fallen this far?”

The priest did not seem offended.

His expression remained warm.

“The Lord’s radiance shines equally upon all living beings.”

Forgan had no interest in arguing theology with a zealot who was little better than a madman.

He turned his attention back to the elder, who stood calmly holding a steaming cup of tea.

“Are you ready?”

The elder did not answer.

Instead, he slowly lowered himself onto the sofa with visible effort and released a comfortable sigh.

“I’m old now. Even going into town to have a cup of tea with a friend leaves me exhausted.”

He smiled faintly.

“Sorry to make someone come all the way out here for me.”

The priest sitting across from him nodded with a gentle smile.

Evening light streamed through the window and struck the crystal atop his staff, scattering into brilliant colors.

Only then did the elder seem to notice that Forgan was still standing.

He waved toward the empty seat beside him.

“What are you still standing there for? Don’t tell me my house is too small for you.”

A bone-chilling wind suddenly tore through the warm room.

Forgan stared at the two men with eyes like frozen blue lakes.

His thick arm lifted.

His hand reached toward his waist.

Five fingers closed around the Obsidian Handaxe.

“I asked you…”

His voice sank lower.

“Are you ready?”

The elder sighed.

He gently placed the teacup on the table.

“You’re a highlander. You should know this.”

“In the Northlands, there’s a plant called the Ice Crystal Flower.”

“Unlike most plants that grow there, it develops quickly. It doesn’t even need to root itself in soil to draw nutrients.”

“Give it a handful of snow, and six days later, it matures.”

A faint purple stain had appeared on the wooden table beneath the tea set.

At some point, tiny strands of fungus had begun spreading across its surface.

“But unfortunately…”

The elder looked down.

“It’s almost like the Goddess of Nature made it carelessly and left it unfinished.”

“The Ice Crystal Flower lives for only seven days.”

“Once it blooms, it begins to die.”

The fungal threads writhed as if alive.

They twisted around one another, climbed the sides of the cup, and slowly crept upward.

“Now that I think about it, that rather suits you Northlands barbarians.”

“I remember some tribes even worshipped the plant as a totem.”

He glanced at Forgan.

“Am I wrong?”

The elder’s expression turned nostalgic, like a retired adventurer reminiscing about old travels in front of a younger generation.

“I saw quite a few of them back then.”

“No offense, but you barbarians truly do lack a spirit of inquiry.”

“A plant that barely cares where it grows and reaches maturity in seven days, yet none of you ever thought to cultivate it. Study it. Improve it.”

“Hundreds of years. Thousands.”

“You just kept placing the things on altars and worshipping them.”

He shook his head.

“What a waste.”

The mammoth-tusk bone spike buried in Forgan’s chest suddenly throbbed with pain, as though it wanted to pierce straight through his heart.

The crossed wolf jaws over his chest seemed to become a vortex of pale flame, clawing at flesh and soul alike.

With every breath, the bone-fang pendants around him clicked softly together.

The thin iron chain around his neck seemed to retain the warmth of a girl.

It grew hotter.

Hot enough to feel as though it might melt through his skin.

“So?”

Forgan’s massive body remained perfectly still.

His eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his heavy brow, burned like two ghost-blue flames.

“Did you succeed?”

“I came very close.”

For the first time, regret appeared on the elder’s rough, barklike face.

He raised one withered finger and pointed at the cup on the table.

The fungal threads had already swallowed the entire wooden surface.

As though drawn by something invisible, they twisted toward his fingertip and extended tiny, fleshy tendrils.

“If I’d succeeded, I wouldn’t have needed to come here looking for those Greenskins.”

Forgan’s voice did not change.

“And the people who died on the icefields?”

“Necessary sacrifices.”

The elder shrugged.

Just like that, the regret vanished from his face.

Every life that had been lost because of his work seemed to matter less to him than a few withered Ice Crystal Flowers.

Whoosh!

A freezing gale exploded through the room.

The dark purple spores quietly gathering in the air were instantly scattered.

A long, terrifying wolf howl rose.

Behind Forgan, the shadow of an enormous beast emerged.

At the same time, the sacred radiance carrying the Sun God’s power was forcibly pressed down.

On the dark surface of Forgan’s axe blade, another image seemed to appear.

A ruined tribe.

A sacred flame deep within the wreckage, flickering on the verge of extinction.

Crack.

The faint sound of thawing ice.

Beneath the howling wind and the cry of the wolf, something that had been buried under layers of frost for countless days and nights finally stirred.

Rage.

“Looks like you’re ready…”

Forgan’s voice rumbled through the cottage.

“Bartholomew!”