Chapter Thirty-five: Winter Wolf

Lucas lay atop the ox cart, gravely wounded and forced to rest. Two of his ribs were broken, and three arrows had pierced his back. In addition to these external injuries, his internal organs had also suffered; his chest and abdomen still burned with a searing pain, as though scorched by fire.

At one point, he didn’t think he would survive. If that vial of healing potion hadn’t worked, if no one had tended to his wounds, his life would have already reached its end. Yet, somehow, he had endured. In silence, he gazed out at the boundless snowy plains. As long as the jolting ox cart carried them through the mountain passes of Clavi, they would soon arrive at Alvado.

This small town belonged to Viscount Colton Quentin, lord of the borderlands. In the few years Lucas had spent as an adventurer, he’d stayed in Alvado for a time. It was far from prosperous, but it had proper guards and a governing magistrate. As subjects of the viscount, once they reached Alvado, they could report the Viking pirate incursion to the magistrate and receive some measure of aid.

Incidents involving Viking pirates were not classified as mere banditry in Tania. Though these pirates dealt in plunder, they resembled mercenary companies more than common thieves, often appearing on the frontier’s battlefields. The stronger bands served as the vanguard of the King of Iceland, conquering cities and fortresses. Beyond the plunder they amassed, their king rewarded them with gold according to their deeds.

The appearance of Viking pirates carried political weight; at times, it signaled the approach of war. If they could bring word of this to Alvado, the viscount would surely take it seriously. The viscount had a reputation for fairness within his domain and would not simply abandon them. Once they reached Alvado, perhaps they could finally relax, and their nerves might ease.

But those Vikings...

Before Lucas gave up adventuring last year and returned to his homeland, he’d heard rumors—the new King of Iceland was growing restless. He only hoped this was not a sign of war to come...

Lucas sighed. In the face of war, there was little difference between a common laborer and an ordinary adventurer like him. He could only wish that they would reach Alvado safely, without further incident.

Perhaps their misfortune had finally passed. He recalled the mysterious figure who had saved the village. He’d inquired everywhere, but no one knew who it was. The thunderous explosion at the reservoir—was that an expensive fireball scroll? Who had slain so many pirates? Was that person still alive?

They had tried to dig open the reservoir, but the blast had collapsed it entirely. As they excavated one part, another would cave in. The survivors, exhausted and powerless, had no choice but to abandon the effort.

Lucas’s thoughts were tangled. If he could, he would thank that hero face to face. Without that intervention, Lucas and everyone he knew would have perished beneath Viking blades. That person had saved their lives.

If only I had such skill...

Lucas sighed again. He’d run away to become an adventurer at sixteen. Now, at thirty-three, he was still a man of no renown. Clearly, he was ill-suited to this path.

He looked up at the sky as the ox cart and the caravan crept across the snowy plains. No one noticed the silver form approaching from the side. As a shadow flashed past, the leading ewe was already sent flying.

Lucas’s gaze was drawn in that direction; his heart clenched, and his hand involuntarily gripped the spear lying at his side. The winter wolf, its fur a gleaming silver-white, tore open the ewe’s throat, dragging its prey aside and savaging it with powerful jaws. Its long, narrow muzzle was sharp as a blade, its fangs glistening like icicles.

“Damn it, how can there be winter wolves here?” Lucas’s heart sank.

Winter wolves were territorial creatures, digging dens before the snows fell and overwintering together in the wild. Human settlements and winter wolf territories were always separate. These beasts rarely ventured into human lands—usually, it was adventurers on contracts who sought them out. Their pelts made excellent cold-resistant cloaks, and mages paid handsomely for their teeth and bones as spell components.

Throughout Lucas’s seventeen-year adventuring career, he had fought winter wolves many times. He knew their habits well. By rights, they should not have encountered one so near Alvado.

Had the shadow of misfortune not yet lifted?

Lucas’s spirits grew heavy. He’d completed several winter wolf hunts in the past—then, he’d had companions, each with their own role, and together they’d dispatched these iron-ranked monsters with little difficulty. But now, Lucas was still gravely injured, and those around him were mere villagers—none had even undergone militia training.

He would have to act. Few of the village’s young men had ever seen such a beast.

Lucas forced himself, ignoring his wounds, and climbed down from the cart. Someone helped steady him—a young man named Avery. Avery’s daughter was with Lucas on the cart, along with other children from the village.

“Uncle Lucas...” Avery sounded panicked.

“Careful, there are more winter wolves!” Lucas shouted.

His voice rang out over the chaos, commanding respect. The older, more experienced villagers began to reorganize the group.

Those with experience knew: winter wolves always hunted in packs. There were no lone wolves among them; if one became crippled or old, it would find a quiet place to die alone. Thus, if a healthy winter wolf appeared before you, you had best be on your guard—watching every direction, for the rest of the pack would not be far behind.

Lucas’s calm, seasoned presence reminded the villagers of the danger. Four more winter wolves appeared, sprinting toward them.

“Don’t face their jaws! Dodge to the side!” Lucas shouted again.

The winter wolf’s icy breath was their greatest weapon, distinguishing them from ordinary wolves. They could gather magical energy and freeze their prey in an instant, even preserving their food with this chilling power.

Lucas took a deep breath, trying to focus and summon the strength for his battle cry—a tactic to disrupt the wolves’ attack. But dizziness clouded his mind, his head throbbed, and his limbs felt limp.

Fortunately, the wolves’ first target was the flock. Of the five winter wolves, four leapt upon the sheep.

But the last one—the last one had its sights on the children in the cart and lunged straight for them.

Lucas hesitated only a moment before stepping in front of the ox cart. He saw misty frost gather in the wolf’s maw—the telltale sign of its freezing breath. The proper response would be to dodge to the side and counterattack. But behind him were children—he could not dodge, only stand his ground.

The children watched his back, huddled together, some weeping for their mothers.

His hands trembled, his heart pounded, his breathing grew ragged, and pain threatened to split his skull.

Perhaps this was the end...

Still, Lucas held fast, leveling his spear at the charging wolf. His body was taut as a drawn bow, every muscle coiled for action. All distractions faded; his focus narrowed to the beast before him.

But before the winter wolf could leap, Lucas heard a strangled whimper. The charging wolf collapsed in the snow, blood trickling from its eye—a single arrow had pierced it clean through.

What marksmanship...

Lucas looked toward the source of the arrow. There, standing in the snow, was a black-clad figure, bow in hand. Yet, if he was a knight, his armor was in ruins, battered and old; if a guard, he was far too haggard. Perhaps, Lucas thought, he was an adventurer, not unlike himself in days gone by.