“First, I need to confirm one thing,” the mercenary began. “We are mercenaries. We have a contract with the young lady and are officially carrying out a commission. Is that correct?” “Yes, that’s right,” Elara said. “I’m deeply grateful that you accepted.” The commission was to traverse the Pale Expanse. All the other mercenaries she had approached had fled in terror as soon as they heard the details. If it weren’t for this group, she wouldn’t have even dared to make the attempt. “We are risking our lives to fulfill our contract,” the man continued, his eyes narrowing. “That’s what we’re paid for. But him… that barbarian.” His gaze shifted to Torg. “He received the same commission. So why is he getting special treatment?” Elara finally understood their grievance. The mercenaries and Torg had been hired for the same task, which put them on equal footing. Yet the barbarian was resting comfortably inside the carriage while they were braving the cold, fighting monsters in the snow. It was only natural that resentment would build. Elara bowed her head apologetically. “I’m sorry. I haven’t been considerate enough.” “This isn’t your fault, milady. We understand the barbarian is a legendary figure and might deserve some special consideration, but… we need to be sure. That barbarian… has he ever even been in a real battle?” Elara’s expression hardened. “And you wish to confirm this?” “We are faithfully carrying out our duties because we have the skills to do so. But how can we know if he has any? For all we know, he’s just some weakling shivering at the bottom of the food chain, barely surviving out here. Can he actually defeat the monsters?” The implication hung in the frigid air. “So you wish to see my skills,” Torg’s voice cut in. “How do you propose to confirm them?” The mercenary who had spoken pounded his chest. He was a strong warrior, even among his peers, and they had chosen him to step forward. Elara looked to the mercenary captain, who just shook his head, looking troubled. “I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen,” the captain muttered. “And he’s not entirely wrong. We do need to confirm his abilities.” Only one thing remained. “I don’t mind,” Torg said, his voice calm, “but… it’s impossible.” The mercenary’s face twisted with contempt. “Trying to run away like a coward?” “I’m not running away. It is simply the way things are.” “To hell with the way things are.” The mercenary was now convinced. The barbarian was weak, nothing more than a frail survivor who had somehow managed to avoid being eaten in the Pale Expanse. Even Elara was confused. If Torg wasn’t weak, there was no reason for him to refuse the challenge. “You had us fooled, you weakling,” the mercenary snarled. “Get out here.” He grabbed Torg’s shoulder, intending to drag him from the carriage by force. But as he applied pressure, his own face hardened in shock. Torg wasn’t simply resisting; it wasn’t a matter of weight. It felt like trying to uproot an ancient tree, one that had been rooted to the same spot for centuries. Torg stepped slowly out of the carriage, his expression unreadable. The situation stirred no emotion in him, no more than a man would feel at the sight of ants crawling at his feet. The mercenaries instinctively took a hesitant step back. “We have an unwelcome guest,” Torg said, his gaze fixed on something beyond them. The mercenary started to say something, but a voice—massive and resonant—echoed across the snowfield, cutting him off. [Mortal weaklings from outside have come.] Every one of them froze. The sound, impossibly huge, was drawing closer. It wasn't the sound of a mere creature; it was something far greater, like the sound of nature itself shifting. [I shall have a treat for a change.] A sharp, piercing hiss cut through the air, and their heads slowly turned. The swirling snowstorm parted, revealing the source of the voice. It had black stripes and a forked tongue tasting the air, its gaze fixed upon them. In form, it looked like an ordinary snake, but its scale was impossible. Its eyes were vast enough to hold all of them. Its body stretched out of sight, disappearing into the far end of the snowfield. It was more than huge. It was a beast of myth, large enough to coil around mountains, to span the oceans, to touch the sky. This was the white snake from the Emperor’s records, the serpent that devoured icebergs. They were frozen solid. Like mice caught in the gaze of a predator, their bodies locked up, refusing to move. A dark stain spread across the challenging mercenary’s trousers as his limbs lost all strength. [Bark, mortals,] the snake mocked them. [Spill your filthy fluids and beg for your lives. Squirm at my feet. Struggle. It will only serve to season my meal.] The ground trembled. The world shook from its movement alone. We are going to die. The thought settled upon them as an absolute truth. As they all prepared to give up, to let their minds slip away from the inevitable, a calm voice cut through the terror. “These are my guests.” The barbarian stepped forward. The white snake’s booming voice wavered. The creature, an incarnation of nature’s might, was shaken by the sight of Torg. [How did you get here…] “That is none of your concern.” Torg walked calmly toward it. The massive white snake flinched, pulling its head back. “I have a commission from them. I am to protect their lives.” He met its gaze without a flicker of fear. “So get lost, snake.” [Have you forgotten the rules of the snowfield? Once you leave your tribe’s territory…] “That is also none of your concern.” The white snake licked the air with its tongue, lowering its posture. The colossal serpent, impossibly vast, was afraid of the barbarian, who was no larger than an insect in comparison. Its fear was so obvious that even the terrified humans could see it. Not wanting to admit its cowardice, it reared its head violently. [I am a ‘snake’! Barbarian! How dare you, a mere mortal, give orders to me, who is promised immutability!] The snake charged. Its body coiled and struck, its mouth opening wide as it rushed them. The frozen earth screamed and a storm of ice and snow erupted in its wake. It was like watching a mountain hurtle toward them. The mercenaries cowered, squeezing their eyes shut against the coming impact. Torg calmly clenched his fist. He twisted at the waist, swung his arm, and threw a single, tiny punch at the charging snake. A shockwave exploded. The mercenaries clapped their hands over their ears, unable to even scream against a sound so powerful it felt like it would rupture their eardrums. The blast threw them to the ground. The carriage wasn't spared, shaking so violently from the force that Elara had to cling to the wall to keep from being thrown. When the shockwave finally subsided, they slowly opened their eyes. Their pupils dilated in disbelief. An endless blizzard had always raged in the Pale Expanse, a storm so fierce you could barely see your own nose. But now, that blizzard had vanished completely. The air was crystal clear, as if after a long rain, and they could see all the way to the horizon. The snake's head was floating in the air, wobbling dazedly as if struck by an incredible force. A moment later, it crashed to the ground with a sound that shook the plains. “I suppose some only listen after they’ve been hit,” Torg remarked, flexing his hand. He was standing in the same spot, utterly unchanged. “Wait here a moment. Collect yourselves. This won’t take long.” Torg kicked the ground, and the earth split beneath his foot. In an instant, he became a distant dot, charging toward the fallen snake. A sound like the world tearing apart echoed across the snowfield. They could only watch the scene in speechless silence. After that, the mercenaries didn't say another word to Torg. On the contrary, whenever he came near, their eyes would widen in terror as they scrambled to get away. “It’s only natural not to trust strangers,” Torg said, trying to reassure the one who had challenged him. “I understand.” “I deserve to die! Please, spare my life!” the man shrieked. No matter what Torg said, they just repeated their frantic apologies. Realizing a conversation was impossible, he hesitantly backed away. The rest of the journey passed in silence. They defeated the monsters that appeared and pressed onward. Torg would relax in the carriage after his work was done, while the old man who accompanied him now volunteered to stand watch outside. Soon, they reached the edge of the snowfield. Green vegetation was visible beyond the endless white. The mercenaries erupted in cheers. They had successfully crossed the Pale Expanse. Elara bowed carefully to Torg. “What will you do now that you’re returning?” “We’ll just have to go back through the empire.” “Ah. And since you’ve sold your weapons, you’ll be traveling empty-handed. It shouldn’t be too difficult to cross the border.” He had understood her entire plan in an instant. Elara looked at Torg with a strange, new curiosity. After a moment of thought, she spoke. “Torg, you once told me I was smart and ambitious. The mercenary interrupted before you could finish. What did you mean by that?” “Exactly what I said,” Torg replied, lazily chewing on a tangerine, peel and all. “You are smart. And you are ambitious. Your family was once prestigious, but it now teeters on the brink of collapse from a lack of capital. Naturally, your retainers’ faith is wavering.” A merchant family was built on wealth. If the capital disappeared, so did the family’s influence. “On the brink of ruin, does one simply sit and wait for the end? Or does one take action to find a way out? Who will your people trust and follow?” The answer was obvious. Torg popped the rest of the tangerine into his mouth. “You said you were a concubine’s daughter. That means you have a claim to lead the family. In fact, your people will likely feel closer to you than to the main line. Is that not right?” Elara’s eyes wavered. “But I don’t have any real power…” “Real power comes from the trust and loyalty of your followers. If you save your family with the profits from this journey, you will be its hero. The servants will support you, not your father. From there, things will progress to a point where your father and brothers can say nothing. Am I wrong?” It was the perfect analysis. The hair on Elara’s arms stood on end. It felt as if he could see directly into her mind. No one had ever understood her so completely. What on earth does this barbarian see? What goes on in his head? She couldn’t even begin to guess. Torg, for his part, felt a quiet sense of satisfaction. That’s the right answer. In every era, it was common for someone outside the direct line of succession to undertake a dangerous quest to secure their inheritance. He had read countless books on history and mythology, and cases like Elara’s were numerous. Seeing it unfold before his eyes felt like stepping directly into the pages of one of those stories. A smile of pure joy spread across his face as he spoke. “Even so, to choose a challenge that risks your life is a worthy endeavor. It is a testament to your abilities. You have every right to be proud.” Elara’s eyes narrowed. Torg was intelligent, possessing a wisdom that put the shallow, self-proclaimed intellectuals she knew to shame. And that power… the power that had allowed him to repel the white serpent without a scratch. Elara was a merchant’s daughter, and her eyes gleamed with greed. “Perhaps… do you have any plans to leave the snowfields? I’ve heard you’re quite curious about the outside world.” Torg had asked her many questions about life beyond the snow. His curiosity was intense, far deeper than simple inquisitiveness. “Then would you like to join me?” Elara pressed. She was a merchant, and a merchant must never miss an opportunity. “I can teach you a great deal. I can give you anything you desire. I can show you all the pleasures of the world beyond this white wasteland.” “Those are tempting words,” Torg admitted. They were truly tempting. He longed to escape this place, to leave the snowfields filled with nothing but white and monsters, and to experience the wonders of a proper fantasy world. Dragons and elves, swords and magic. A world where such things lived and breathed. The magic he had always craved was right in front of him. But Torg shook his head. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. I still have work to do here.” He didn’t elaborate, but his tone was final. “Until that is finished, I cannot leave.” After a moment’s thought, Elara reached for the necklace she wore. With a firm grip, she snapped the chain and held out the pendant. “Please, accept this as a gift.” It was a small, wooden carving. “If you ever… decide to leave the snowfields and seek out the House Voronov, please show them this.” “I will gladly accept,” Torg said, taking the carving. Elara bowed politely. “Thank you for everything, Torg. I pray we meet again someday.” The carriage rolled away, leaving the white plains behind. Torg watched in silence as it disappeared into the distance. After some time, Elara turned to look back one last time, but the barbarian’s figure had already vanished, swallowed by the snow-covered expanse.

Chapter 5: Resentment builds in snow