Chapter 98: Bartholomew

Kalanfor, outskirts.

The breeze blew gently, nameless wildflowers swayed softly, and their delicate petals appeared especially vivid against the surrounding green plants.

The mushrooms at the corner of the wall had grown about two circles larger than before, and upon closer inspection, one could see that on both sides of its roots extending into the soil, two small clusters of miscellaneous fungi had sprouted.

Still the same wooden house nestled among the flowerbeds.

Quiet and peaceful.

Today, since the halfling and the young adventurer of one month ago, it welcomed another guest.

A barbarian with a burly build and rugged face.

“Knock, knock, knock.”

Foggon lightly tapped on the door, shaking loose the grass clippings clinging to his arm, which drifted down onto the surface of the stone steps before the door.

From behind the door came slow, dull footsteps.

Creak—

The hinge scraped, making a harsh sound.

A hunched old man with a gaunt face slowly opened the door.

As if he had long since known of the barbarian’s visit, there was not the slightest hint of surprise in that single eye of his, as turbid and dim as a mud puddle.

On his aged face, layered with folds of flesh and liver spots, an odd smile appeared.

“You’ve come?” He turned his body sideways, making way into the house.

“Come in, it’s far too cold outside.”

It was midsummer; the temperature might have dipped a little with approaching night, but it was in no way close to “cold.”

At this moment, no one cared about such trivial details.

Like a traveler making a casual visit, Foggon’s face was expressionless as he squeezed past the door frame and stepped inside the house.

“Sit down first, I will pour you a cup of tea.”

The old man greeted him, rummaging in the cabinet and taking out a wooden cup.

The barbarian did not reply, and he did not seem inclined to sit.

His gaze, cold enough to freeze boiling water, swept across the narrow yet cozy living room.

“This is the helper you found?”

A hoarse voice like wind from the depths of the Northern Territory resounded in the air.

Foggon’s line of sight stopped at the fireplace.

A cleric dressed in a judge-style robe, with a kindly face, was sitting peacefully on the sofa, eyes narrowed.

In his hand was a reddish-brown wooden staff inlaid with a bright yellow crystal, and the Sun Holy Emblem hanging at his neck swayed slightly with the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“Falling in with this sort of trash.” The barbarian’s tone carried a hint of mockery. “Has Amanata fallen this low?”

Unbothered by the scorn in the other’s words, the cleric’s expression remained benevolent as he smiled:

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

Not intending to waste words with such a mad fanatic.

Foggon looked ahead at the old man, who held a cup of steaming tea, his expression calm.

“Are you ready?”

Without answering, the hunched old man lowered himself with some difficulty into the soft sofa, letting out a comfortable hum.

“Old age, even going to town to have a cup of tea with a friend feels tiring.”

“And I still have to trouble others to come in person. Truly embarrassing.”

The cleric sitting opposite nodded with a light chuckle.

The evening light outside the window fell upon the surface of the crystal at the top of his staff, refracting into splendid colors.

He seemed only then to notice that the barbarian had not sat down.

The old man waved him over, pointing to the seat deliberately left open beside him.

“Why are you still standing there? Do you dislike how small my place is?”

In the warm interior, a piercingly cold wind suddenly rose.

Foggon’s ice-blue eyes stared coldly at the two before him.

His thick arm lifted slightly, reaching toward his waist.

His five fingers closed.

The obsidian axe was gripped tightly in his palm.

“I ask you, are you ready?”

The old man suddenly sighed.

He gently set the teacup in his hand down on the table.

“You are a highlander, so you should know.”

“In the Northern Territory, there is a plant called the Ice Crystal Flower.”

“Unlike other local vegetation, it grows very quickly and does not need to root in the soil to absorb nutrients.”

“With just a handful of snow and six days’ time, it can fully mature.”

On the wooden tabletop where the tea set had been placed, a faint purple hue had appeared at some unknown point.

It was fine strands of mycelium, sprouting and spreading.

“But sadly, as if it were a defective product casually pinched together by the Nature Goddess, the Ice Crystal Flower’s lifespan is only seven days in total.”

“After it blooms comes the withering.”

As though it possessed life and consciousness, the mycelium writhed and intertwined, gradually climbing upward along the bottom of the cup.

“To be fair, that does rather suit the style of you barbarians from the Northern Territory. I remember some tribes even took this plant as a totem.”

“Is that right?”

Like a retired adventurer reminiscing about former glory before a young man, the old man’s face showed a nostalgic expression.

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

“No offense, but I must say, you barbarians really lack a bit of a spirit for research.”

“A plant whose requirements for a growing environment are almost nonexistent, that matures in seven days, and no one thought to cultivate and study it.”

“For hundreds of years, thousands of years, you just left it on the altar as an offering. Such a waste.”

The mammoth ivory bone spike nailed into his chest brought a pain like it would pierce his heart; the wolf’s maw crossed upon his chest was like a vortex of pale flame, tearing at his flesh and blood and soul.

With each breath, the bone tooth pendant clinked softly, emitting a faint, clear lament; the slender iron chain encircling his neck seemed to still hold a girl’s lingering warmth, growing ever hotter, as if it would melt his skin.

“So then, did you succeed?”

The barbarian’s voice was incomparably low as his massive body stood motionless.

His eyes, shrouded beneath his high, overhanging brow, were like two wavering ghostly blue flames.

“Just a little short.”

On the old man’s bark-like, rough and deeply wrinkled face, a trace of regret appeared.

His fingers, thin and dry as kindling, slowly tapped the teacup on the table.

As if drawn by some invisible gravity, the mycelium that had already devoured the entire wooden cup twisted outward, stretching tiny tendrils like granulation tissue toward his finger.

“Otherwise I would not have come here to seek out those green skins.”

“What about the people who died on the Ice Field?”

“A necessary sacrifice.”

The old man, hunched and withered like a dead tree, shrugged carelessly.

The regret on his face had vanished, as though all those lives extinguished for this were worth less than a few Ice Crystal Flowers that had already withered.

Whoosh—

A wave of biting, frigid wind burst forth, scattering the dark purple spores that had silently spread through the air.

A long, fearsome wolf howl, along with the massive beast shadow that rose behind the barbarian, crushed down the holy light infused with the Sun God Power.

In the reflection on the pitch-black surface of the axe blade was the extinguishing Sacred Fire deep within the ruins of his tribe.

Crack.

The faint sound of melting ice and snow.

Amid the cold wind and wolf howl, beneath the ice was the rage that had been suppressed for countless days and nights.

“Looks like you are ready…”

“Bartholomew!”