Chapter 98: Bartholomew

Karanfor, outskirts.

Breeze blowing, unknown wildflowers gently swaying. Delicate petals under surrounding greenery's contrast appeared especially vivid.

The mushrooms at the wall's edge were slightly larger than before by two circles. Careful observation could also discover that beside its roots deep in the soil, two clusters of tiny miscellaneous fungi had grown.

Still that small wooden house situated among flower beds.

Quiet, peaceful.

Today, after the halfling and young adventurer from a month ago, it welcomed another guest.

A burly, rough-featured barbarian.

"Knock, knock, knock."

Forgan lightly rapped on the door. Grass debris staining his arms was shaken off, floating down to the stone step surface before the door.

Behind the door came sluggish, muffled footsteps.

Creak—

Hinges rubbing, producing a harsh sound.

The gaunt-faced, hunched old man slowly opened the door.

As if already knowing of the barbarian's visit, that single eye of the old man's, turbid and dim like a muddy swamp, showed not a trace of surprise.

Layer upon layer, the aged face covered with folds and age spots showed a strange smile.

"You came?" He turned his body aside, making way for the path leading inside. "Come in. It's too cold outside."

Right in midsummer, temperature might have dropped somewhat due to approaching evening, but no matter what couldn't be connected with the word "cold."

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

As if truly just a temporarily visiting traveler, Forgan's face showed no expression as he squeezed through the doorframe, walking inside.

"Sit first. I'll pour you some tea."

The old man greeted, rummaging through the cabinet to find a wooden cup.

The barbarian didn't respond, seemingly also not intending 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 from deep in northern cold wind sounded in the air.

Forgan's line of sight stopped by the fireplace.

A priest in judge-style robes with a kindly face was squinting, peacefully sitting on the sofa.

In hand was a reddish-brown wooden staff inlaid with brilliant yellow crystals. The sun holy symbol hanging at his neck lightly swayed with chest rise and fall from breathing.

"Mixing with this kind of trash." The barbarian's tone carried some mockery. "Has Amanator fallen to this extent?"

Not minding the ridicule in his words, the priest's expression remained kind, smiling:

"The Lord's radiance equally illuminates all living beings."

Not intending to waste breath with this fanatic no different from a madman.

Forgan looked ahead at the old man holding a cup of rising hot tea, expression calm.

"Ready?"

No answer. The hunched old man somewhat difficultly bent down, sitting into the soft sofa, mouth producing comfortable humming.

"Getting old. Even going to town to find friends for tea feels tiring."

"Still have to trouble others to personally come over. Really embarrassed."

The priest sitting across nodded and chuckled lightly.

Outside the window, twilight shone on the crystal at his staff's tip, refracting brilliant radiance.

Seeming to just now notice the barbarian hadn't sat.

The old man beckoned toward him, pointing to the seat specially left empty beside him.

"Why still standing there? Dislike my house being too small?"

In the warm interior, bone-chilling cold wind abruptly blew.

Forgan's ice-blue eyes coldly watched the two before him.

Thick arms slightly raised, reaching toward his waist.

Five fingers closing.

The black obsidian small axe was tightly gripped in his palm.

"I'm asking you, are you ready?"

The old man suddenly sighed.

Placing the teacup in hand gently on the table surface.

"You're a highlander. You should know."

"In the north, there's a plant called ice crystal flower."

"Different from other local vegetation types, it grows very fast and doesn't need to root in soil to absorb nutrients."

"Just a handful of snow, six days' time, it can mature."

On the wooden table where tea utensils were placed, some purple tint had appeared at some unknown time.

Those were threads of fine fungal filaments breeding and spreading.

"But unfortunately, just like a defective product casually pinched by the nature goddess, ice crystal flower's lifespan is only seven days total."

"After blooming comes withering."

As if possessing life consciousness, fungal threads squirmed and entangled each other, gradually climbing upward along the cup bottom.

"Speaking of which, this exactly fits you northern barbarians' style. I remember some tribes even use this plant as totems."

"Right?"

Like a retired adventurer recalling glorious past deeds before young people, nostalgic expression appeared on the old man's face.

"I saw quite a few back then."

"No offense meant, but must say, you barbarians truly lack a bit of research spirit."

"A plant with almost no requirements for growing environment, able to mature in seven days—don't even think to cultivate and research it."

"Hundreds of years, thousands of years, just leave it on the altar as offerings. Such a waste."

The mammoth tusk bone spike nailed into his chest transmitted pain as if to pierce his heart; the wolf jaws crossed at his chest were like pale flame-formed vortex, tearing his flesh and soul;

Breathing—bone fang pendants collided and knocked against each other, producing faint yet crisp mournful sounds; the slender iron chain circling his neck seemed to still retain the girl's body warmth, increasingly scalding, as if to melt his skin.

"So, did you succeed?"

The barbarian's voice was extremely low, burly body standing still.

Eyes shrouded in shadows cast by high brow ridges were like two swaying deep blue flames.

"Just a bit short."

On that tree-bark-like rough face covered with wrinkles, regretful expression appeared.

Withered fingers slowly pointed toward the teacup on the table surface.

As if some invisible attractive force existed, fungal threads that had already devoured the entire wooden cup twisted, extending tendril-like fine touches toward his fingers.

"Otherwise I wouldn't come here looking for those green-skins."

"What about those dead on the ice plains?"

"Necessary sacrifices."

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

The regret on his face had already disappeared, as if all lives that perished because of this couldn't compare to those already withered ice crystal flowers.

Whoosh—

Sharp, extreme cold wind suddenly burst forth, dispersing dark purple spores quietly permeating the air.

Long, terrifying wolf howls, accompanying the massive beast shadow appearing behind the barbarian, firmly suppressed holy light imbued with sun god power.

In the reflection on the axe blade's pitch-black surface was that sacred fire about to extinguish deep in the tribal ruins.

"Crack."

The fine sound of ice and snow melting.

In cold wind and wolf cries was that fury suppressed beneath ice layers for countless days and nights.

"Seems you're already ready..."

"Bartholomew!"