Chapter 36: Arrived

Time moved strangely when every day was spent inside a carriage.

Five more days passed after Sigurd’s evening hunt with Captain Hartwin, and by the end of them he had developed a new appreciation for how enormous Varangia truly was.

The convoy continued from sunrise until late into the day, stopping only when the Grimhorn Warsteeds required proper rest or when night made continuing unnecessarily troublesome. For the soldiers, servants, and drivers, the journey was routine.

For Sigurd, it was becoming an extended lesson in boredom.

He filled the hours however he could. Some mornings were spent across the chessboard from Ottilie, who stubbornly continued challenging him despite losing far more often than she won.

She had improved enough to punish him whenever his attention wandered, which at least forced Sigurd to think instead of moving pieces automatically. When chess stopped being entertaining, he cultivated.

Sitting cross-legged inside the spacious carriage, he circulated Vis through his body and slowly nurtured his First Core, never forcing the final distance toward the Ascended Stage despite how close it had become.

Osric had spent years hammering patience into him, and Sigurd wasn’t going to ruin a foundation he had carefully built simply because several days of travel left him desperate for something interesting to happen.

The rest of his time went into reading. He went through the information he possessed on Helheim until entire sections became familiar enough to recall without opening the pages, then returned to the thick book Sylvia had placed in his hands before his departure.

That one lasted considerably longer. His mother had been thorough to a degree Sigurd found both impressive and slightly frightening.

Names, ages, family affiliations, known Martial Souls, accomplishments, rumors, temperament, relationships between households, and observations about children likely to enter Helheim alongside him filled page after page.

Some entries were only a paragraph because reliable information was scarce; others covered several pages. Sigurd didn’t treat everything as fact, especially where Sylvia had clearly marked information as unconfirmed, but the book gave him a useful picture of the generation waiting ahead.

Even that couldn’t occupy every hour.

Eventually there were periods when Sigurd simply sat beside the window and watched Varangia pass. Mountains became plains, plains became forests, forests gave way to cultivated territories and distant cities before the landscape changed again.

He occasionally saw Martial Beasts carrying travelers through the sky or enormous merchant caravans moving in the opposite direction. Once, they passed a fortress built directly into a mountainside, its walls crowded with soldiers who saluted the Grandel convoy below.

Sigurd complained internally, but boredom itself wasn’t unfamiliar to him.

Compared with certain assignments from his previous life, this journey was almost luxurious.

Nikolai had once spent three days hidden inside a ventilation shaft waiting for a target whose schedule had changed unexpectedly. The space had been barely wide enough to turn his shoulders, movement risked producing noise, and leaving would have destroyed weeks of preparation.

He’d had water, a small amount of food, and exactly one viable firing opportunity when the target finally entered the room beneath him. Three days of waiting had ended with one suppressed shot and less than two seconds of actual work.

Remembering that made Sigurd glance around his carriage one afternoon and reconsider his definition of suffering. He had a cushioned seat, proper meals, books, chess, enough room to cultivate, a personal maid, and an entire armed escort protecting the road around him.

Perhaps he was becoming spoiled.

The possibility amused him enough that he kept it to himself. Ottilie would agree far too enthusiastically.

By the fifth morning, however, something finally began changing outside.

Sigurd noticed it first through the window while reading one of Sylvia’s profiles. For most of the journey, other travelers had appeared intermittently along the roads: merchants, farmers, patrols, messengers, pilgrims, and occasional noble convoys.

Now another carriage traveled ahead of them, followed by a second farther down the road. Several mounted groups passed in the opposite direction before noon, and when Sigurd looked back sometime later, he could see another convoy approaching from behind.

The numbers continued increasing.

Roads from neighboring territories gradually joined the main route, pouring more travelers into the same direction. Wagons carrying supplies rumbled alongside elegant noble carriages.

Armored escorts surrounded vehicles bearing unfamiliar crests, while mounted families traveled with children who looked close to Sigurd’s age.

Children leaned from windows or rode Demonic Beast mounts beside older relatives. Servants, guards, merchants, craftsmen, and travelers filled the spaces between them until the broad road that had seemed almost empty several days earlier became increasingly busy.

Sigurd lowered Sylvia’s book onto his lap and watched.

He didn’t need anyone to explain the reason.

Helheim.

Not everyone on the road would be heading toward the Academy, but its presence clearly affected the surrounding region.

A place receiving students from across territories under Grandel authority required food, weapons, medicine, clothing, training resources, accommodation, transportation, and countless other services. Wherever thousands of people gathered, commerce followed.

By afternoon, the transformation became impossible to ignore. Small roadside settlements appeared more frequently, followed by larger towns connected to the main route by branching roads.

Inns stood beside stables built for creatures far larger than horses. Merchants had erected stalls outside several settlements, their signs advertising everything from preserved food to weapons and cultivation supplies. Patrols became more common as well, with armored riders maintaining order among the steadily thickening traffic.

Even the road changed. What had already been broad expanded until several large carriages could travel beside one another comfortably. Stone markers appeared at regular intervals, engraved with distances and directions, while towering lamps lined sections likely to remain busy after sunset.

The mountains that had been distant shapes days earlier now dominated the horizon, enormous ranges layered behind one another until their highest peaks vanished above the clouds.

Somewhere within that mountainous region was Helheim.

Sigurd found himself paying increasingly less attention to his books.

Ottilie noticed. She sat opposite him sewing a tear in his glove, occasionally glancing toward the window whenever Sigurd shifted to get a better view.

Her gentle smile suggested she understood perfectly well why the boy who had spent days complaining about boredom had suddenly become incapable of sitting still.

As evening approached, the traffic became heavier still.

The convoy slowed.

For the first time since leaving the estate, they couldn’t simply maintain whatever pace the Grimhorn Warsteeds were capable of. Carriages surrounded them in both directions, some luxurious enough to belong to important households and others plainly constructed for ordinary travelers.

Mounted guards called instructions while traffic separated around intersections. Sigurd spotted children wearing crests he recognized from Sylvia’s book, although the distance and movement made identifying individuals difficult.

More than once, people noticed the Zierghardt crest displayed across Sigurd’s central carriage and immediately looked again, curiosity spreading through nearby groups.

Sigurd ignored the attention.

He was far more interested in what lay ahead.

The carriage continued forward for another stretch of time before his thoughts drifted inward again. He wondered what Helheim itself would actually be like. Written information could tell him rules, history, admissions requirements, and reputations, but none of it could reproduce a place.

Osric’s description had mostly consisted of calling it hell and looking entertained whenever Sigurd asked for details. Sylvia had been more useful, though even she couldn’t tell him what his own experience there would become.

Sigurd rested his cheek against one hand and stared absently at the page open on his lap.

Then the carriage stopped.

The sudden halt pulled him from his thoughts. It wasn’t violent, but after hours of constant motion, the absence of movement was enough to make him look up immediately.

The Grimhorn Warsteeds shifted outside, harnesses clinking while the sounds beyond the carriage seemed considerably louder than before. Voices overlapped with wheels, footsteps, distant animal cries, bells, and the general roar of an enormous crowd.

Three knocks sounded against the window.

Captain Hartwin’s familiar voice followed from outside, carrying easily through the reinforced glass. "Tenth Young Master, we’ve arrived at Helheim."

Sigurd’s eyes lit up.

The book was forgotten instantly.

He crossed the carriage, released the latch, and pushed the window open before leaning his head outside. Cool mountain air struck his face first, carrying unfamiliar smells and the noise of thousands of people. Sigurd looked forward, following the line of carriages and travelers toward whatever had brought the convoy to a halt.

His eyes widened.

For several seconds, he simply stared.

A flicker of genuine shock crossed his iron-grey eyes as the scale of the sight before him destroyed whatever image he had constructed during the journey.

Behind him, Ottilie rose from her seat and approached the open window. She looked past Sigurd toward the sight ahead, and unlike him, her expression carried amusement at his rare loss of composure.

The head maid rested one hand against the window frame and smiled.

"Welcome to Helheim City, Young Master."