Chapter 95: Flames Beneath The Ice

“Foggon.”

It means “flame beneath the ice.”

It is neither in the Common Tongue, nor one of those obscure and incomprehensible Northern Territory slangs.

It is said to come from an epic passed down through the Frost Throat Clan for generations.

In his childhood, Foggon was never satisfied with his name.

In his little head, “flame” ought to be the mightiest thing in this world, second only to the chieftain.

It could drive away the cold and bring rare warmth to the clansmen amid snow, ice, and frost.

Even those once rock-hard chunks of meat that made his teeth chatter with cold would, after being roasted over the flame, turn soft, tender, and juicy—so delicious he felt he could swallow his own tongue.

And once he learned from the warriors in the tribe that those powerful barbarians protected by their ancestral heroic spirits also had the fiercest rage burning within their hearts,

he grew ever more dissatisfied with his own name.

Flame should blaze bright and unrestrained,

not be buried beneath layers of ice.

Thus, when he was young, although he had the sturdiest body among his peers, he rarely introduced the origin of his name with the same pride as the other children.

He only used the muscles on his arms and a feigned air of nonchalance to steer the topic away.

But he was, after all, still a child with an immature mind, longing for his companions’ recognition.

No matter how indifferent he acted outside, whenever night fell silent, he would always cling to his mother before sleep, repeatedly asking whether his name had some other meaning.

Digging to the root of it with perseverance enough to melt even frost.

However, newborns of the Frost Throat Clan were almost always named by the chieftain through divination after their first month.

That plain and diligent woman, who had never left the Frost Moss Highlands since birth, knew no more about the meaning of “Foggon” than he did.

Nor could she trouble the busiest and most respected old man in the clan over such a small matter.

So she simply repeated, again and again, the meaning she had already told him countless times.

“Beneath the ice, a burning flame.”

“Ice, flame.”

“Ice, flame…”

And whenever she grew impatient with the child’s endless questions, she would bring out that same little story she had already told countless times.

“Disobedient children will be taken from their rooms at night by the winter spirit witch and turned into snowmen who can’t speak.”

It had to be said, children of the ice field really did respond to that.

Especially when they heard how the witch rode her dull gray broom, and with branch-like, hideous, shriveled claws grabbed children by the neck and dragged them from their blankets.

No matter how excited Foggon was, he could only shrink his head into the covers in fear and beg his mother not to extinguish the stove fire that night.

Time passed.

As his body grew stronger and his height shot up,

even his mother, who once had to crouch down to meet his eyes, now had to tilt her head up to speak to him.

The troubles of childhood were replaced by more youthful, tangled worries and expectations.

The cold gleam of an axe blade flashing through snow and ice; new scars on his arms; the hot breath spewed by a howling Winter Wolf… and the braid behind a girl’s head swaying in the wind.

Foggon no longer cared about the exact meaning of his name.

It was just a label.

“Clatter.”

He hefted the heavy backpack in his hand, stuffed full of all kinds of supplies.

On the still-youthful face of Foggon appeared a trace of helplessness.

“There’s no need to bring so much. You can buy things in the town outside.”

His small protest naturally could not overcome his mother’s worries.

He was more understanding now, knowing his family did not feel at ease with his imminent journey.

He did not complain. He just joked a bit, hoping to smooth the wrinkles on his mother’s brow, then secured the bundle firmly on his back.

Seeing him off, they walked him out the door.

“Ah…”

A girl’s startled exclamation came from beside his ear.

He looked over and saw only a figure agile as a snow rabbit, hurrying away on two strong, long legs.

She left behind a slender, pale blue braid leaping in the snowy light.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to her?”

At his side, his mother patted his shoulder lightly, a hint of teasing in her tone.

Foggon only shook his head and tightened the backpack on his back.

Just then, the hunting team returned.

Thick brown fur was caked with ice crystals, and a snowfield mammoth as massive as a hill was carried into the tribe by several muscle-bound, powerful barbarian warriors.

On the wooden sled behind, they hauled many pieces of prey of all sizes.

A great harvest under the protection of the heroic spirits.

With a haul like this, this deep winter would no longer be as hard as in past years for the Frost Throat Clan.

From both sides of the path, the joyful cheering of the clansmen poured into his ears.

Looking at those hunting team members who strode with heads held high and chests out, a glint of envy flashed through Foggon’s eyes, and quickly disappeared into the depths of his ice-blue gaze.

As the bravest warrior among his generation in the tribe,

he could have become one of them, except…

Foggon shook his head hard, flinging the hesitation from his mind.

Determination returned to his face.

A Winter Wolf that had followed with the team caught a familiar scent.

Tongue lolling, paws light, it came over.

It pressed its body against Foggon’s thigh, its furry head rubbing against his palm.

Its vigorously wagging long tail sent snow swirling up from the ground; its wolf eyes, which could terrify monsters, narrowed in contentment and ease.

From his palm came the cold, smooth touch of the Winter Wolf’s fuzz.

The sudden approach of his most loyal companion made the burly man at the head of the hunting team notice Foggon standing by the roadside.

After calling a few words to the teammates beside him, he strode over.

“Have you decided?”

“Yeah.”

“No regrets?”

Foggon nodded firmly.

The warrior before him, who would always recount tales of the past surrounded by the children after each hunt, was no longer young.

His temples seemed soaked in frost, completely white.

A thick, calloused palm landed heavily on Foggon’s shoulder.

“Good.”

“As long as you know which way you should go.”

There was not much regret in his words, only heartfelt comfort that the young man had found his path forward.

After a moment’s thought, the warrior took out a piece of mammoth ivory from his breast, its surface gleaming with a warm, bone-white sheen, and pressed it into Foggon’s hand.

“Go on.”

“As long as you wish, you can come back anytime.”

“The hunting team will always keep a place for you.”

“…”

Clutching the ivory in his hand, Foggon, accompanied by his mother, arrived at the final stop before leaving the tribe.

“Whoosh.”

Orange-red flames burned quietly, only letting out a few faint crackles when the cold wind swept past.

They had none of the so-called firewood known to others, merely resting silently upon ice-rock etched with complex patterns and exuding a savage aura.

They devoured the snow, ice, and cold in the highland air, as if turning them into fuel that made the flames surge and boil.

Behind the flame at the center of the altar stood a completely pitch-black totem.

The lines on its surface were ambiguous; even up close, one could hardly make out the carved patterns.

Some kind of flower?

Children not yet of age in the tribe were not allowed to approach, much less touch it.

And as they gradually grew up and lost their curiosity, they no longer paid attention to the totem’s carvings.

Foggon was the same.

As for this sacred fire said to be from ancient times, his only impression came from the chieftain’s smiling answer to his childhood confusion:

“This is the treasure of the Frost Throat Clan. As long as there is one clansman left alive in this world,”

“the flame will never be extinguished.”

Now, many years had passed since that day.

The chieftain still wore that same squinting smile; the old face that had been wrinkled since as far back as Foggon could remember seemed no different from before.

Perhaps there were a few more wrinkles, but he had not noticed.

Countless thoughts rose and fell, and under the shroud of the fire’s light, his surging heart gradually calmed.

He was about to depart.

The old man who had named him at birth would now represent the entire tribe and give him their final blessing.

“Voom!”

The previously quiet flames suddenly flared wildly; warm radiance intertwined with the dazzling halo beneath the clouds, and under the guidance of the pitch-black totem, condensed into a faint beam of light that shone down upon Foggon.

The old man’s lips moved, softly chanting an unknown hymn; ice-blue light rose at his fingertips.

Trembling, he traced savage yet sacred lines across the young barbarian’s face.

They flickered, then vanished.

The ice-blue glow seemed to seep into Foggon’s body, slowly fading away.

It was a blessing from the tribe’s heroic spirits.

Foggon slowly rose and bowed his head to the smiling old man before him, and then to the flame and totem behind him.

After today, he would leave the tribe entirely to seek his own path.

Suddenly, a stir came from the crowd of onlookers at his side.

Amid the kind laughter of the tribespeople,

the snow-rabbit-like girl with the long braid ran to him, panting.

As she drew nearer, her once hurried and messy footsteps grew heavy and hesitant.

A shy flush spread across her pale, soft cheeks.

She said nothing.

She simply cupped her hands and held out a slender chain she had woven herself, offering it to Foggon.

He reached out and took the necklace, gazing at the charming girl standing so close before him.

He opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something.

And at that moment, the world seemed to be frozen.

Snowflakes that had been drifting down and tendrils of flame that had been swaying were suspended midair; the bitter winds that circled year-round above howled no more, and the laughter of the crowd around them abruptly vanished.

The girl, the old man, his mother watching him from the crowd—all of them were frozen in place.

As though he already knew what was going to happen, deep in his subconscious, Foggon wanted to struggle and shout, yet he too could not move.

Hum—

In the next second, time suddenly sped up.

His already-strong muscles swelled further; the youthfulness of his face was replaced by maturity and the marks of wind and frost; coarse stubble grew along his jaw.

The girl before him shed her childishness as time rushed by; the old man’s hair grew even whiter; wrinkles spread to the corners of his mother’s eyes.

Then came that loathsome, nauseating dark purple glow that reeked of rot.

In air that should have been filled only with snow and chill, a smoke-like, almost imperceptible plant spore began to spread.

Carrying a deep-seated malice hidden in the heart of nature itself, the spores drifted down upon the clansmen.

They took root and sprouted, absorbing life vitality.

Skin that had never shown decay, even under the ravages of frost and wind, turned ashen as life ebbed, mottled blotches rising to the surface.

Mycelium writhed, spreading from beneath pores and between strands of hair, tangling and growing over one another…

Foggon had lived through this countless times, yet he still shut his eyes, not daring to look.

Those memories, sharper than any tusks, washed over his mind again and again.

Even though many years had passed,

he still remembered.

When he returned to the tribe, he found only ruins buried beneath snow and ice.

With his own hands, he dug through the frozen soil and snow to bury the corpses of his people beneath ice markers.

He peeled off the Winter Wolf’s already stiffened hide, pierced the wolf’s maw with bone nails carved from mammoth ivory, and embedded it in his chest.

He tore away the entwined thorns, set the fallen totem upright once more, picked up the shards scattered on the ground, and, with cold wind and ice crystals, forged them into an axe blade of flickering ghostly light…

He sat alone before the altar where only a weak flicker of flame remained.

In Foggon’s hand was a simple necklace that still seemed to hold warmth, steeped in the girl’s affection.

Even when facing the shadow of a dragon, his expression had never changed—cold as deepest frost.

Then he suddenly felt a scorching drop slide down.

And only in that instant

did he finally grasp the true meaning of his name.

“Foggon.”

“The flame beneath the ice.”

…

…

“Crackle.”

The moisture trapped in the branches was forced out of the wood fiber by the burning flame, letting out crisp sounds.

Foggon’s eyes snapped open; the biting chill surrounding him faded away as the nightmare dissolved.

The wolf’s maw crossed upon his chest, the cloak’s silver-white fur rippling lightly in the evening breeze; the fine chain at his neck hung with a bone tooth pendant reflecting flame light; the obsidian small axe at his waist slipped softly to the ground.

He sat beside the campfire, his rugged face still bearing that mask of ice-cold calm, as though covered in frost, unruffled by any waves.

As if he had only taken a brief nap with his eyes closed, and nothing had happened.

Yet the steadily rising warmth in the camp, and the ice crystals glittering with faint light in the air around him, betrayed the turmoil within his heart a moment ago.

The huge oak tree against which his back rested looked intact, with only faint glimmers of ice light flickering in the cracks of its rough bark.

In truth, from the massive roots deep in the soil all the way up through trunk and branches to the fine tips of the tree crown, everything beneath the bark had turned to ice.

“Achoo!”

Xia Nan sat across the campfire, shivering as he suddenly sneezed hard.

It was hard to imagine that in the hottest season of the year, wearing double-layered armor, he could still be frozen into a cold.

He extended his hands closer, warming them over the fire.

He lifted his head slightly and sneaked a glance at the silent Barbarian Foggon sitting opposite him.

Of course he knew the sudden change in the camp’s environment was related to Foggon.

Ever since they had found that mushroom in the Goblin Lair earlier that day, something had been off about him.

But since Foggon showed no intention of explaining, he had not asked.

Now that things had escalated this far, Xia Nan felt he could not stay silent.

After a brief hesitation, with some caution, he slowly spoke:

“Is there… something going on?”

The barbarian did not look up; the orange-red firelight was reflected in his ice-blue eyes.

“It’s nothing.”