The Road Home

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

High above the clouds, a solitary Obsidian Watchtower stood clearly visible atop a towering peak; it absorbed the daylight to appear dull and dim, yet at night, it shone as brilliantly as the sun.

He had assumed it was the dwelling of a god, but it was merely an observation tower built by the Thunder Titans of the ancient era.

The volcanic craters, resembling giant lakes, would shroud the entire sky in violent shockwaves and ash during eruptions, staining the world in a gray gloom that felt like a scene from the apocalypse—a sight no bard, however imaginative, could ever truly describe.

From inconspicuous fissures in the ground, jets of scorching, toxic liquid would spray; a mere whiff was enough to make one's lungs feel as if they were burning, the cracks resembling giant serpents spitting venom.

In the shattered, precipitous cliffs lay the skull of a dragon larger than the mountains themselves. Looking up at it, one felt as though they had entered an era where humanity was still but an ant, a time when those terrifying beasts held dominion over the world.

The days grew shorter, and he watched the sun rise from the darkness, with storms howling like the wrath of gods and violent thunder tearing the cliffs asunder.

And now, he was about to witness another miracle of the Sorrow Mountains: the migration of a mammoth herd.

Perched on a cliff, Kas squinted to observe the movement on the grasslands below, the thunderous, earthquake-like tremors echoing with every stomp of the mammoths.

No sensible person would ever attempt to stand in the path of a migrating mammoth herd, especially when there were calves in the center of the group.

Highly vigilant adult mammoths would treat any creature that approached as a threat; those terrifying tusks capable of piercing mountains and limbs that could trample a man into pulp would crush anyone who threatened the future of their kin.

"Are the beasts of the Sorrow Mountains all this... massive?" Isidore's throat bobbed with difficulty. He stood on a cliff a hundred meters away from the herd, yet he felt as if those beasts, covered in long brown fur, were right before his eyes.

The adult mammoths were at least fourteen meters tall, their bodies longer than a ship. As they moved, their thick, heavy frames resembled living fortresses, their formidable tusks capable of piercing thick city walls.

He was observing the largest monster in the herd, a terrifying creature covered in scars and deep reddish-brown fur.

The giant beast seemed to notice someone spying on it; it raised its head and let out a roar that sounded like a hurricane, directed at the mountainside.

The roar was so immense that it tore through the dark, heavy clouds, sending a massive ripple across the grasslands.

Isidore trembled, his body shivering; he was already beginning to worry about what he might encounter next.

"Don't be nervous. Mammoths don't stray far from their calves during migration, and your gaze is too direct, Isidore."

Kas pulled the paralyzed Southerner up from the ground and pointed at the reddish-brown giant:

"We call it 'Blood-Stained' Ramsed. It is one of the most powerful beasts in the Sorrow Mountains. Many War Chiefs have dreamed of taming it, but most have been ground into meat paste by its hooves.

That reddish-brown fur and those scars are the honorable proof of countless battles soaked in blood."

"One of? You mean there are many such giant beasts?"

Kas nodded, explaining to the Southerner who had yet to adapt to the Sorrow Mountains:

"Mm, mammoth herds are relatively gentle. In most cases, if they encounter a tribe of the Rishiman People, they will leave voluntarily under the mediation of a Shaman.

But some more extreme beasts, like the mammoth's close relatives—the Iron-Horned Beasts and the Frost-Tooth Beasts—have had their brains addled by the northern winds. They will attack any creature they see without hesitation, even if they don't feed on meat.

Shaman Hadi's mount, Big Moo, is an extremely rare Iron-Horned Beast. None of us like its dim-witted nature, but we can't do without it."

"Why?"

"The Iron-Horned Beast is a magical giant beast that feeds on metal. They can accurately locate ores hidden within the mountains, use those incredibly hard giant horns to chisel through the rock, and then return to their caves to sleep after a big meal.

And we can follow Big Moo's tracks to find the ores buried deep in the mountains and make a fortune.

Some people who don't fear death even run into its cave to steal its dung, because the Iron-Horned Beast cannot digest the high-hardness gemstones...

Well, although the consequences of being discovered are severe, many are still willing to take the risk."

Kas patted the stunned Isidore, knowing the Southerner might not be accustomed to the way the Rishiman People interacted with beasts:

"Find a place to rest. The mammoths won't stay here long; they are heading to the warmer south for the winter."

Speaking of warmer... Isidore tightened the blanket wrapped around him.

At first, he had thought the heavy clothing Kas demanded was an exaggeration—three layers inside and out, wrapped from head to toe.

But after actually experiencing the freezing wind that could scrape flesh from bone and the piercing, icy rain that made his soul tremble, he had to be thankful he was a man who listened to advice.

The harshness of this environment didn't feel like a place for humans to live; it felt more like the dwelling of demons.

Walking between the narrow cliffs, Kas said with his back to Isidore: "Back to the topic from earlier, the Southern world categorizes professionals into nine ranks?"

"That's right, from the initial Ninth Rank to the First, and above that are the legends one only hears about in stories. But there is no doubt that in our world, there is a clear and precise ranking system for professionals."

Isidore asked curiously: "What is your profession? I've heard that most Rishiman People are heroic warriors, but you give me the feeling of a wise mage—rational, objective, and fair."

"No need for flattery. I don't know what my profession is, or even if I am a professional at all." Kas pulled out the chattering skull that had been stuffed with cotton:

"Old thing, say something. I know you can talk even with your mouth blocked; after all, the dead don't have throats. Are you a professional?"

"..." Morse was playing dead as usual, as if he had never returned to this world.

Kas shook his head vigorously until the Ancestor couldn't take it anymore and roared:

"I am the legendary Iron Bone Morse, not some bullshit professional in the mouth of a Southerner!"

After saying this, he returned to a state of deathly silence, ignoring any further attempts by Kas to call out to him.

Kas shrugged at Isidore, who had already grown accustomed to the talking skull:

"Well, it seems there are some minor differences between our worlds."

Isidore shrugged helplessly as well; he had already begun to adapt to the peculiar way the two men of the Zagwell Clan interacted.

The campsite was chosen on the leeward slope, where the high mountain's exposed rock, covered in moss and lichen, was as sharp as a blade and offered almost no usable fuel.

Kas tossed the firewood he had gathered along the way into the stone ring he had built, took the prepared fire-starter from his tool kit, and carefully blew the embers from the tinder fungus into the dry grass, quickly igniting a small flame.

There was no need to think much about the food; the few sticks of firewood couldn't withstand a long burn, so it remained the same unchanging barley bread and dried meat.

It should have been around four in the afternoon, but here in the Sorrow Mountains, located at the extreme north of the world, the sky had already taken on a hazy gray hue.

Like the gap between dusk and nightfall, a pale gray light shrouded everything, leaving only blurred outlines and shadows visible.

The "daytime" of the polar night was not pitch-black, but rather a twilight that blanketed everything; this dim environment made the concept of time extremely vague, and those who stayed in narrow wooden cabins for long periods to avoid the bitter cold and frost commonly suffered from latent symptoms of depression.

This also explained the self-destructive impulses within the Rishiman People; with forty days of polar night each year, and the promise that an honorable death would lead to bliss in the Vagha Temple, who would want to remain in a mortal world filled with sorrow?

Along the way, the division of labor between the three was very clear: the frail Isidore carried only his own belongings.

Kas was responsible for carrying the heavy food, while Seneya was in charge of the sundries and the bedding for both of them.

Taking two blankets from his pack, Kas wrapped Seneya up tightly like a caterpillar, while he simply draped his own blanket over his shoulders and began their daily dinner.

"Eat, rest for five hours, then continue on our way."