It took three hours to return south from the coast to the Tundra, and then head west into the towering mountains. Those who set off before sunrise reached their destination around noon.
A Troll walked in front, followed by a Wolf Pack, looking from afar like a shepherd leading his flock.
Walking up the gentle slope, constantly ascending, after a while, they saw many crumbling stone pillars not far ahead, remnants of history.
The Ancient Nord built countless massive architectural complexes, buried by time and erosion. By the Fourth Era, these grand human creations had become piles of dust, burying treasures, monsters, and history. Their original masters were long gone, and there were no longer any sincere worshippers. Those who came to this place were explorers with ulterior motives, grave robbers, highwaymen, evil mages, and travelers seeking shelter from the wind and snow.
Two buildings stood on the edge of the Tundra, quite far apart. To the southeast was a large tomb complex, while to the northwest was merely a stone hovel embedded in the permafrost. Considering safety, Simon decided to go to the smaller building in the northwest.
This stone hovel was a resting place for the workers who built the large tomb to the southeast, with many square stone pillars scattered around it. It was almost integrated with its surroundings, easily overlooked if one's gaze shifted even slightly, and virtually invisible even when looking down from a high vantage point. Its exterior resembled an arch, divided into inner and outer layers. The entrance was covered in icicles, and firelight flickered from several stone windows.
A Nord Man in brown-grey studded fur armor stood at the entrance, looking out. He was thin, his expression numb, and he constantly moved his limbs to keep warm while on watch. He was truly a disgrace to the Nord.
Simon and his group approached from the side of the slope and had not yet been noticed by him.
The Troll patted the head of a strong male wolf beside him, pointed at the man, and the male wolf immediately darted out.
This wolf was the most timid; Simon understood his nature, knowing he would definitely flee if he was at a disadvantage.
The Nord Man saw an Icefield Wolf attacking, drew his fine iron longsword from his waist with his right hand, and picked up the leather shield at his feet with his left, ready for battle.
Another man's voice came from the stone hovel. They exchanged a few brief words, which Simon did not understand a single syllable of. He quietly circled up the slope, stood on top of the stone shelter, and looked down at the battle. Soon, another Breton man in leather armor, wielding a sword, emerged from the hovel. The two exchanged glances and slowly approached the Icefield Wolf.
As expected, the male wolf, which Simon had judged to be timid, let out a few symbolic howls, then repeatedly turned its head towards the Wolf Pack, exposing the entire pack. The two adult men immediately became somewhat flustered, constantly shouting into the hovel.
A hoarse, elderly male voice came from inside, sounding quite impatient and as jarring as a broken flute.
Simon gently beckoned to the Wolf Pack, and they immediately gathered around, pressing closer step by step.
The two men at the entrance became increasingly panicked. At this moment, an Orc heavy armored warrior with dark green skin emerged from the hovel, head bowed. He spat at the Wolf Pack, but unfortunately, the wind was unfavorable, and the frozen spittle hit the back of the Breton man's head with a 'thump'.
The Orc had no intention of apologizing. Instead, he slapped both men, cursed a few words, telling them to get out of the way.
The tall Orc warrior drew his two-handed greatsword and charged at the Wolf Pack. Simon vigorously waved his hand, and the wolves scattered and fled, with the Orc in hot pursuit.
The two timid swordsmen watched their companion chase around on the snowy hillside with considerable idleness.
The Orc turned his head and saw a small Troll standing on the hovel. He was so startled that his face changed, and he roared.
"Watch your back!"
Simon lightly leaped, reached out and grabbed the Breton man's neck, and with a gentle pull, performed an artificial lengthening surgery on his neck. Now, a travel guide could fit between each of his cervical vertebrae.
The other Nord Man, a disgrace to his kind, saw the Troll's figure and was so frightened that he directly abandoned his sword and shield, turned his head, and ran. The Troll lunged forward, leaped high, performed a front roll over the deserter's head, and with a swing of his arm, his sharp claws tore through the throat. Blood burst from the carotid artery, like a shower of red snow in mid-air.
Simon stood firm, ready to meet the enraged Orc's charge.
The Orc swung his sword upwards, as if throwing an iron door. Simon was completely enveloped in the sword's light.
The Troll stepped back to avoid the blade, then rushed into the Orc's close range. The Orc raised his leg to kick forward, but Simon leaped again, pressing down on the Orc's thick thigh, causing him to lean forward.
The Orc warrior's eyes widened, staring at the three-eyed head in front of his face. This fierce beast was not ignorant or chaotic; its ugly face was calm and natural, with bright sunlight reflected in each eye.
The Troll swung his claw, tearing off the man's head.
Outside the hovel, silence fell. The Wolf Pack howled, accompanied by the cold wind, the chill biting to the bone.
An old man in a black hooded robe strode out of the stone shelter. He had grey hair, a face full of wrinkles, a foul expression, and deeply etched nasolabial folds; one glance was enough to tell he was a harsh person.
His first reaction upon seeing Simon was surprise. The old man slipped, then scrambled and rolled back into the hovel. Simon picked up the leather shield and longsword, gave them a light swing, and grinned. He then strode after the old man.
Urgent whispers echoed continuously. Simon entered the main door. The stone shelter had two layers: the outer was circular, the inner round. To enter the inner layer, one could climb through the wide stone windows or walk halfway around the outer ring to the door.
The Troll stood silently outside a stone window, watching the old man. A bonfire burned in the inner layer, and a dried corpse lay on the ground in front of the old man. He raised his hands, and a faint blue magical glow lit up between his palms.
This was a Necromancer.
Simon stepped sideways and crossed through the stone window.
The old mage's tone became more urgent, but he remained calm in the face of danger. A 'Raise Dead' spell was completed, striking the corpse in front of him.
This was the corpse of an Ancient Nord warrior, likely stolen from the tomb to the southeast. It was struck by magical power, and a blue light pulsed within its bony ribcage, as if a Core was beating inside, even causing the corpse to be pulled into the air by this Core.
Simon watched the entire process thoughtfully, observing the mage's expression change from panic to calm, and even to a slight smugness after the corpse was reanimated.
Blue spectral light shot from the Ancient Nord warrior's wrinkled eyeballs. It turned in the air, its feet landing on the ground, and drew the millennia-old, unrusted black-green longsword from its hand. It tapped the iron armor on its chest with the sword's spine, producing a clanging sound, seemingly challenging a formidable enemy. The pride of the Ancient Nord seemed to rush forth like an unyielding mountain of iron.
A low chuckle rumbled in Simon's throat as he raised his sword and thrust directly at the reanimated Draugr's head.
The Draugr moved swiftly, tilting its head slightly, then swung its long arm to strike at the Troll.
The mage on the side cast a Alteration spell, 'Oakflesh', covering his body with a faint blue glow. Then he conjured a Destruction spell, both hands glowing with fire, intending to sneak to the side and ambush Simon. However, the next second, the Troll threw his longsword, breaking the mage's armor, piercing through his chest, and pinning him to the wall.
"Ah—!"
The intense pain prevented the old man from concentrating, leaving him on the verge of death at the side.
Simon, without his longsword, did not panic. Although the Draugr's body was as tough as wood, its movements swift, and its strength immense, its joints were stiff, and its swordsmanship was already crude, now even more full of flaws.
The Troll seized the opportunity, disarmed it, then tripped the Draugr, pinned its chest, and subjected it to a barrage of punches. After a fierce beating, the spectral light in the Draugr's eyes slowly dimmed. By then, only half of its skeleton remained intact.
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