Kislev, a land enveloped in snow and ice, is the northernmost country within the Old World's human civilization.
This land is perpetually covered by wind and snow. The way people discern the seasons is by gauging whether the blizzards outside are stronger or weaker. Here, daylight is either very short or exceptionally long. The people of Kislev and the Ungol must always make the most of the daylight for their daily activities. Once night falls, no one dares to remain outdoors. Even the Ursun priests, blessed by the Bear God Ursun, and the indomitable winged lancers prefer to stay behind the high walls of the towns if given a choice.
The barren land means that, aside from a few patches blessed and enchanted by Ice Witches, there's no place suitable for farming. Fishing and hunting are the main sources of food, and high-calorie foods are favored by the people of Kislev. The perpetual scarcity of supplies means that despite a year of hard work, people rarely have enough to eat, let alone contend with the endless threats from the wilderness.
Many might wonder why anyone would choose to live in such a place.
Contrary to expectations, Kislev has one of the highest numbers of mercenaries, second only to Tilea.
This is because foreign merchants and traveling nobles always require a large number of hands to ensure their safety.
But beyond that, Kislev has another allure.
It is a place beyond the reach of the law and a land of wealth.
Here, countless death row inmates find a place for themselves. Imperial pursuers stop chasing these prisoners at the Kislev border, providing a refuge for those who wish to avoid the gallows. Wave after wave of mercenaries and bounty hunters, seeking wealth and glory, come to this icy land. They are particularly interested in the graves of Chaos warlords and ancient dwarven strongholds.
Meanwhile, only the truly brave dare to cross the Lynsk River into the Land of Trolls, a place even more terrifying than the perilous Kislev. This land is teeming with twisted creatures of Chaos and the ever-encroaching northern barbarians. Inexperienced adventurers and mercenaries vanish within days on the vast ice plains. Even if they avoid conflict, the chaotic winds from the Northern Wastes carry the whispers and curses of the Chaos Gods, enough to drive a person mad within weeks or even days.
However, the rewards in the Land of Trolls are astonishing.
The land is dotted with the tombs of Chaos champions and ancient human heroes, filled with countless treasures waiting for new owners. Many abandoned dwarven temples still hold vibranium and mithril, along with ancient runes nearly forgotten by time. There are inexhaustible resources of minerals, gold, and gems, including rare magical stones. Some fortunate adventurers even find weapons or armor forged with mysterious runes—priceless artifacts!
Thus, when people talk about exploring the Land of Trolls, it's always with envy and admiration. According to reliable surveys conducted and published by Tsarina Katarin, 90% of adventurers returning from the Land of Trolls have struck it rich or received even greater rewards!
A 90% chance! And with an astonishingly high return!
This is the Land of Trolls, north of Kislev—a paradise for opportunists and adventurers!
On the eve of winter, two returning adventurers arrived at a spot near the Lynsk River, close to the Land of Trolls. These adventurers were evidently of high status, as Kislev sent four winged lancers to greet them at the river.
But what they encountered was a loud bang.
"Boom!" A giant over ten meters tall fell to the ground, its face still showing a trace of unwillingness in its final moments.
A 1.6-meter-long Frostblade was embedded in its forehead, killing it with a single blow.
The winged lancers exchanged looks of disbelief. A giant, just like that, was dead?
The biting northern wind, mixed with snow, blew into the face of the lead winged lancer. This winged lancer general was named Kukov, and he and his winged lancer unit were from the port city of Erengrad, one of the three cities in the Kingdom of Kislev.
The other three winged lancers were somewhat anxious. They had been ordered to meet the visitors, and if something had happened to them, they would be held responsible.
"Calm down!" General Kukov frowned. This soldier, with his well-groomed mustache, tried hard to peer into the distance.
As a winged lancer general, Kukov had served as a mercenary in the Empire, where he worked for the Elector Counts. He hated the Empire's endless black forests, where the sky was always dark and shrouded by trees. But in Kislev, the view was always more open, which made Kukov feel small, but he insisted on not interfering.
Any adventurer who could return from the Land of Trolls was an extraordinary warrior! And warriors always have their dignity. They wouldn't appreciate anyone interfering.
Through the dense snow, two figures gradually became visible.
The first figure was about 1.8 meters tall, wearing a bearskin hat adorned with many colorful feathers. His body was protected by a full mithril armor, and the black-and-white shield of Ostland, emblazoned with the family crest of a red bull and an iron cross, marked his identity. He wore a giant bull cloak, with two short pistols and a sharp steel sword at his waist, and his shield was strapped to his back.
Even dressed so heavily, the man exhaled in the freezing cold, speaking proudly, "What cold weather! Damn, I thought the winters in Wolfram were bad, but after entering the Land of Trolls, I understand how low the temperatures can get here. What do you think, mentor?"
"Oh? Really? I actually find this place to be as warm as home." The second person emerged from the snowstorm. "It's great. If it were a bit colder, it would be perfect—just like Asaheim."
The mentor was very tall, at least over 2.6 meters. His long golden hair was tied into a high ponytail, with smaller braids on either side hanging over his left shoulder. He wore only a worn full-body plate armor, with a necklace of wolf teeth and skulls around his chest. His appearance, like that of the fiercest northern barbarians, exuded wild defiance and a high-bridged nose. His wolf-like eyes carried a sense of teaching. His cloak was made from an entire wolf's pelt, carved with an image of a giant wolf racing among the stars. "Stay alert, Oleg. Danger is everywhere, and until we're home, you can't let your guard down!"
"Yes, Mentor, but I must admit, I really miss my wife in Wolfram Keep and the wine in my cellar!" Oleg von Zhukov instinctively agreed, then added in a teasing tone, "I'm following your teachings!"
"Hahaha!" The mentor let out a rough laugh, his voice as wild and malicious as a wolf's, but filled with endless joy and boldness. "Exactly! Nothing soothes a warrior's soul more than women, wine, and a warm fireplace!"
"Hahahahaha!" The mentor and disciple laughed carelessly in the wilderness. The mentor reached out and gripped the Frostblade embedded in the giant's face. He spat and kicked the giant aside, sheathing his sword.
The four winged lancers sighed with relief. General Kukov urged his horse forward. "Greetings, Baron Oleg, and Wolf of Wolfram. We received your signal and are here to welcome you!"
"?!" The mentor froze, displeased, and shouted at his disciple, "What's going on?! Oleg, didn't I tell you the Morkai trial was to be completed by you alone?!"
"I did complete it alone! Mentor, I only sent a message to my father after finishing the Morkai trial, asking him to send someone to pick us up!" Oleg quickly explained. "This was my father's will. I'm his firstborn and primary heir! You know how much effort it took to get him to agree to let me follow you on this trial!"
"...So obedient to your father?" The mentor's anger quickly subsided. Just moments ago, he was fuming with rage, but now he was all smiles, patting Oleg on the shoulder. "Hey, that's right. Listening to your father is good. It seems our meeting was no accident. I also listen to my father."
Oleg finally breathed a sigh of relief. His mentor could indeed be somewhat temperamental, but fortunately, he had the rugged straightforwardness typical of northern men, making him not too difficult to get along with.
The four winged lancers and the master and apprentice began to head south together. They quickly crossed the Lynsk River, and the mentor could clearly feel that once they had successfully crossed the river, everyone relaxed.
Was the land north of this river really that dangerous in their minds? The mentor chuckled dismissively, revealing his sharp fangs.
Well, the humans of this world are indeed resilient. The Ungols, Kislevites, and Imperials are all worthy of respect just for that.
As the group crossed the river, night began to fall. The biting northern wind howled around them, making even the toughest winged lancers shiver with cold. They pulled out a map to carefully check their direction and then continued along the snow-covered road.
Finally, as the sun was setting, they arrived at a small Kislevite village. The village was situated near a small frozen river, not far from a pine forest. The walls of the village, made of large logs, gave them a sense of belonging
. The village was nestled against a small hill, with neat but crowded houses inside and a pointed central hall painted entirely red.
It was late, and the village gate was tightly shut. Fierce-looking Kislevites on the gate, armed with longbows and spears, prepared for these unexpected visitors. However, as the group approached, the distinctive wings of the lancers made them lower their weapons. A Kislevite on the gate shouted down to them, "Privyet?"
General Kukov shouted back, "Zdravstvuyte!"
After a few more exchanges in Kislevite, the guards nodded. Oleg and his mentor heard the creaking of the gate opening and the sound of the gate's bars being removed. The gate slowly opened, pushing aside the thick snow in front of it.
"We'll spend the night here, Baron Oleg, and Wolf of Wolfram," said General Kukov. "The snowstorm outside is too severe, and it's too dangerous to be out in the open. Any sensible person knows we should stay behind walls at times like this."
"Maybe." The mentor was indifferent but didn't object.
Shortly after the group entered the village, the gate was slammed shut. In Kislev, raids from Norscans or Kurgans were common, and worse things also appeared from time to time. The people here were always ready to fight.
The huts and granaries were covered in snow, and the ground inside the village was frozen solid with shallow ruts. General Kukov told the master and apprentice that they needed to enter the central hall to pay their respects to the village's "boyar," who would then provide them with free food and lodging.
This was the Kislev way, reflecting the Kislevite character: practical, serious, resilient, and not particularly likable.
Clearly, the mentor refused this offer. He pulled out the heads of five Chaos champions. "Is this enough? If your boyar has as many, he'll earn my respect!"
General Kukov and Oleg both knew the temperament of the Wolf of Wolfram. They admired him but also felt a bit helpless. They could only take the heads inside.
After about ten minutes, the central hall's door opened, and the village boyar came out warmly to greet the guests. He was a burly man with long, braided hair, a hatchet at his waist, and a thick beard. He shook hands enthusiastically with the mentor and Oleg, talking non-stop, and led them inside.
A rush of heat hit them as they entered. The hall was filled with a feast of food—black bread, borscht, delicious roast meat. Two fireplaces were simmering with stew, and the crackling flames cast a golden-yellow glow on the walls of the hall.
The men and women of Kislev warmly welcomed their guests, dancing and playing harps and lutes, singing songs of human heroes and the Tsarina.
The mentor and Oleg sat at one end of a long table. A server handed them a large mug of kumis, followed by a large mug of Kislevite vodka. The mentor grabbed the vodka and drank it down in one gulp, the fiery liquid burning as it went down, making him exclaim in delight.
"Ah~" Oleg also drank a mug, only to be rendered speechless by the burning sensation. Despite this, the Elector's heir finally felt the warmth of humanity and home. He coughed a few times. "After spending more than a year in the Land of Trolls, I almost forgot what home feels like. I nearly thought that every place in the world was like the Land of Trolls—only desolation, snow, weeds, and endless sky."
"More than a year?" The mentor snorted, immediately pouring himself another large mug of vodka and grabbing a half-raw pig leg to gnaw on. "Just a year and you think that's tough?"
"What's wrong, Mentor? Isn't that tough enough?" The alcohol was getting to Oleg, and he grumbled in discontent.
"...What if I told you I slaughtered hundreds of thousands of Chaos demons single-handedly in the Warp, spending countless millennia to get here—would you believe me?" The mentor's face showed a brief hint of nostalgia, which quickly disappeared as he devoured the pig leg, savoring the taste of real food.
"Mentor! I know you're strong, very strong, but that's just too much of a tall tale!" Oleg mumbled through a mouthful of lamb ribs, his face dark with disbelief. "I don't believe it!"
"Heh, neither do I." The mentor didn't mind, laughing heartily. Anyone would think he was making a bad joke.
Yes, a bad joke.
A bad joke my father played on me.
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