The Road Home

Along the way, Isidore witnessed many wonders of the Sorrow Mountains.

Atop a peak that towered into the clouds stood a lone Obsidian Watchtower, clearly visible from afar. By day, it absorbed the sunlight and grew so dim it was almost invisible; by night, it shone like the sun.

He had thought it was a dwelling of the gods, but it was merely a watchtower built by the Thunder Titans in ancient times.

A volcanic crater as vast as a giant lake. When it erupted, the tremendous force and ash blotted out the entire sky, turning the world gray and conjuring an apocalyptic scene that even the most imaginative bard could never describe.

Narrow, inconspicuous fissures in the ground spurted streams of scalding, poisonous water. Even breathing in a little of the fumes made your lungs burn like fire. The fissures were like giant snakes spewing venom.

A broken, precipitous cliff, beneath which slept a dragon skull larger than the mountains. Looking up at it took you back to an age when humans were still ants and terrifying beasts ruled the world.

The days grew shorter and shorter. He watched the sun rise out of the darkness. Storms howled like the wrath of the gods, and thunderclaps tore the cliffs apart.

And now, he was about to witness another wonder of the Sorrow Mountains—the migration of a herd of mammoths.

From the cliff, Kas narrowed his eyes and watched the grassland below. The ground shook with a rumble as the mammoth herd trampled past.

No sensible person would ever try to stand in the path of a migrating mammoth herd, especially when a group of calves was traveling in the middle.

The highly vigilant adults saw any approaching creature as a threat. Their terrifying tusks could bore through mountains, and their limbs could crush a person into mince. They would destroy anything that threatened the future of their herd.

"Are the beasts of the Sorrow Mountains all this... huge?" Isidore's throat bobbed several times with difficulty. He stood on a cliff a hundred meters from the herd, yet it felt as if those beasts, their bodies covered in brown fur, were right in front of him.

The adult mammoths stood at least fourteen meters tall and were longer than a ship. Their broad, heavy bodies moved like living fortresses, and their terrifying tusks could pierce thick city walls.

He was watching the largest beast in the herd, a terrifying monster with a reddish-brown hide covered in scars.

The giant beast seemed to notice someone spying on it. It raised its head and bellowed toward the mountainside like a hurricane roaring.

Its bellow was so immense that it swept away the dark clouds, and a huge wave rolled across the grassland.

Isidore's body trembled. He was already starting to worry about what they might encounter next.

"Don't be nervous. Mammoths don't stray far from their calves during a migration. You're staring too intently, Isidore."

Kas hauled the Southerner off the ground, where he had collapsed, and pointed to the reddish-brown beast.

"We call him Blood-Colored Ramsdell. He's one of the mightiest beasts in the Sorrow Mountains. Plenty of War Chiefs dream of taming him, but most get trampled into mince by his hooves.

"His reddish-brown fur and scars are a badge of honor, earned in countless bloody battles."

"One of them? You mean there are lots of other giant beasts like him?"

Kas nodded and explained to the Southerner, who still hadn't gotten used to the Sorrow Mountains.

"Yeah. Mammoth herds are fairly mild. In most cases, when they come across a tribe of Rishiman People, they'll leave on their own after a shaman mediates.

"But some of the more extreme beasts, like the mammoths' close relatives—the Iron-Horned Beasts and Frost-Tooth Beasts—have had their brains scrambled by the northern winds. They'll attack any creature they see without hesitation, even though they don't eat meat.

"Shaman Hadi's mount, Big Moo, is a rare Iron-Horned Beast. None of us like his stupid nature, but we can't do without him."

"Why?"

"Iron-Horned Beasts are magical giants that feed on metal. They can find hidden ore in the mountains, then use their incredibly hard horns to bore into the rock and feast before heading back to their caves to sleep.

"We can follow Big Moo's tracks to find ore buried deep in the mountains and make a fortune.

"Some people who aren't afraid of dying even sneak into his cave to steal his dung, because Iron-Horned Beasts can't digest gemstones that are too hard...

"Well, getting caught has serious consequences, but plenty of people are still willing to take the risk."

Kas patted the stunned Isidore, knowing the Southerner might not be used to how the Rishiman People lived alongside beasts.

"Let's find somewhere to rest. The mammoths won't stay here long. They'll head farther south, where it's warmer, to spend the winter."

At the mention of somewhere warmer... Isidore clutched the blanket wrapped around him.

At first, he had thought Kas's insistence on heavy clothing was over the top. Three layers, wrapped around him from head to toe.

But after experiencing the bitter winds that could scrape flesh from bone and the shrill, freezing rain that made his soul shiver, he was glad he'd listened.

The conditions here were too harsh for humans to live in. It felt more like a demon's abode.

As they walked between the narrow cliffs, Kas said to Isidore over his shoulder, "Back to what we were talking about earlier. Does the southern world divide professionals into nine ranks?"

"That's right. They range from rank nine to rank one. Beyond that are legends you can only hear about in stories. But there's no doubt that in our world, professionals are assessed according to a clear and precise ranking system."

Isidore asked curiously, "What's your profession? I heard that most of the Rishiman People are brave warriors, but you seem more like a wise mage to me—rational, objective, and fair."

"No need to flatter me. I don't know what profession I am, or even if I'm a professional." Kas pulled out the chattering skull, whose mouth had been stuffed with cotton.

"Old thing, say something. I know you can talk even with your mouth stuffed. After all, dead people don't have throats either. Are you a professional?"

"..."

Morse was pretending to be dead as usual, as if he had never returned to this world.

Kas shook his head hard until the Ancestor couldn't take it anymore and roared, "I'm the legendary Iron Bone Morse, not some damn professional from the south!"

After that, he returned to his deathly silence. No matter how Kas called to him, he showed no sign of responding.

Kas shrugged at Isidore, who had grown used to the skull talking.

"Fine. I guess there are a few small differences between our worlds."

Isidore shrugged helplessly too. He was starting to get used to the strange way the two men of the Zagwell Clan got along.

They chose a campsite on a slope sheltered from the wind. The high mountain was covered in moss and lichen, and its exposed rocks were sharp as knives. There was almost nothing they could burn.

Kas tossed the firewood they had collected along the way into a prepared stone ring, then took a fire starter from his tool kit. He carefully blew a spark from the tinder fungus into some dry fluff, and a little flame soon sprang to life.

There was no point hoping for much food. The few sticks of firewood were too precious to waste. As usual, they had nothing but barley bread and dried meat.

It should have been around four in the afternoon, but the sky over the Sorrow Mountains, in the far north of the world, had already turned a hazy gray.

It was like the interval between dusk and nightfall. A pale gray, faintly illuminated everything, leaving only blurry outlines and shadows.

The "daytime" of the polar night wasn't pitch-black darkness. Instead, twilight blanketed everything. The dim light made it almost impossible to keep track of time. People who spent long stretches cooped up in cramped wooden huts to escape the bitter cold and storms often developed hidden symptoms of depression.

That also explained the Rishiman People's self-destructive impulses. For forty days a year, they lived under the polar night. One glorious death would let them enjoy themselves in the Vagha Temple. Who would want to stay in a mortal world full of sorrow?

The three of them had clear roles throughout the journey. The frail Isidore carried only his own belongings.

Kas carried the heavy food, while Seneya was responsible for the odds and ends and the two men's bedding.

Kas took two blankets out of his pack and wrapped Seneya up snugly, like a caterpillar. He merely slung his own blanket over his shoulders, then began preparing dinner.

"Once we've eaten, we'll rest for five hours and then get back on the road."