Winter (3)

Around the time Grylls found his activities severely curtailed by the untimely onset of winter, the world beyond the Forest of the Four Seasons was bustling with activity for an array of distinct reasons.

The holy realm of El Dorado was in absolute turmoil over the investigation team and the fallout surrounding the Undying King. Over in Mephisto, furious hooligans were burning everything in sight after refusing to accept the results of a sporting match. Even the relatively peaceful nations remained far from idle, each stirred by their own private concerns.

"Are you the one who presented this adult Mandrake root to Us?"

The speaker’s face practically dripped with exhaustion and profound indifference to worldly affairs, yet an innate, undeniable majesty clung to his every feature. Golden hair that had lost none of its vibrant luster framed a neatly trimmed beard, presenting the very archetype of a handsome, middle-aged monarch. He spoke in an utterly nonchalant drawl, yet despite the sheer lethargy in his expression, his imperial dignity could not be concealed.

"Y-yes! That is correct, Your Imperial Majesty."

Standing opposite him, Count Gorgon bent nearly double in a deep, sweeping bow. A short distance away stood Arnold, the fair-haired crown prince, silently observing the audience.

"Raise your head. You are nothing less than Our benefactor."

"Y-Your Majesty’s praise is far more than I deserve!"

"There is no need to grovel. Tell Us, then—what is it you desire?"

The middle-aged sovereign cutting straight past the pleasantries to the heart of the matter was Robert—Emperor Robert Louis Messiah II of the Messiah Empire. Although domestic critics occasionally tagged him with the curious label of an "inward-looking emperor," he held absolute, uncontested authority. Managing domestic affairs with such flawless stability was impossible without terrifying administrative acumen and power, and it was precisely that iron grip that had allowed him to fortify the empire’s foundations so thoroughly.

"T-this humble servant desires nothing, Sire. Knowing that Your Imperial Majesty has recovered your health is satisfaction enough."

"Is that so? Very well. We shall deliberate upon a reward befitting your service, so you may withdraw for now."

"May Your Imperial Majesty live ten thousand years!"

Count Gorgon bowed deeply once more, offering a parting wish of boundless longevity rather than a standard court farewell before excusing himself. Even at that tactful flourish, Robert maintained a stoic, impassive face.

Before long, only Robert and Arnold remained in the imperial bedchamber. A heavy silence settled over the room as Robert gazed up at the ceiling, lost in thought, while Arnold stood motionless, waiting for his father to speak.

"...Son."

"Yes, Imperial Father."

"You have done something truly unnecessary."

The reproach sliced through the heavy air. Arnold flinched, darting a nervous glance at the emperor, who continued to stare absently at the ceiling rafters.

"Thanks to your meddling, My plans have been completely derailed."

"Your plans... Father? What do you mean?"

"..."

Robert offered no answer, making his reluctance to elaborate abundantly clear. Turning his gaze toward the bewildered crown prince, he spoke in a low, measured voice.

"Did you say this item was acquired from the Gallery?"

"Yes. That is... correct."

"It seems that place holds all manner of extraordinary things. To think it was harvested from the Forest of the Four Seasons, of all places..." Robert stroked his beard, musing quietly before speaking again. "Who was that man just now? Count Gola?"

"It is Count Gorgon, Father."

"Ah, right. Entrust this matter entirely to him. I have My own tasks to attend to."

"Tasks, Father...?"

"I must prepare for your succession ceremony."

Arnold’s eyes flew wide. Robert had spoken with total serenity, but the weight of his words was anything but calm. A succession ceremony meant abdicating the throne. It meant Arnold would soon be crowned Emperor.

A jolt of raw excitement surged through Arnold at the long-awaited moment, but he quickly reined it in. Past experience had taught him all too well that letting excitement cloud his composure only invited disaster.

"I will see that the succession ceremony is arranged within the month. Things will become rather busy."

"Imperial Father. I am still far too unready—"

"Even after consuming the adult Mandrake root, My health is simply not what it used to be," Robert cut in smoothly before Arnold could finish his polite protest. "I can no longer endure the strain."

Arnold cheered inwardly, schooling his expression into somber deference as he waited for his father to continue.

"Steel yourself, then. The recent stirrings in the Holy Kingdom and Alfheim are far from ordinary."

"I shall remain vigilant."

"If you can navigate these turbulent waters, you will become an emperor far greater than I ever was."

"That cannot be true, Father. Did you not reinforce the pillars of our empire until they became unbreakable?"

"That was mostly just me riding Ash's coattails, though."

"Pardon?"

Arnold blinked, wondering if his ears had just deceived him.

"Cough! Hack! Wheeeze!"

A violent fit of hacking coughs racked Robert’s chest, instantly replacing Arnold's bewilderment with alarm. Startled, the prince turned to summon the imperial physician, but Robert raised a hand to stop him.

"Cough... It is nothing. At my age, an occasional dry cough is only to be expected."

"Imperial Father..."

"At any rate, the empire has no shortage of capable talent, so you need not worry about internal governance. If worst comes to worst, you need only send a letter to the former commander of the Imperial Guard."

The former commander of the Imperial Guard could refer to only one person: Ash Menesil, the supreme warrior who held the strategic title of Swordmaster and stood as the undisputed strongest blade of the empire. Though currently living in semi-seclusion, she was someone who would readily answer any request made by Robert. The emperor had served as her unwavering patron and sponsor, and Ash had repaid that debt of gratitude tenfold in kind.

Even if some unknown fool on the Gallery had recently dumped high-tier martial tips that inadvertently raised the entire continent’s average combat power, it hardly mattered. The sheer deterrent of Ash’s name alone ensured that no foreign power dared look down upon the Messiah Empire.

"Therefore, your focus must be directed outward. Matters abroad seem to be escalating by the day."

"Yes, Father. Understood."

"Then leave Us. We wish to be alone."

"Shall I call the physician—"

"I will summon him Myself."

"Yes, Imperial Father."

Arnold bowed respectfully and stepped out of the imperial bedchamber, leaving Robert entirely alone in the cavernous room.

Once the heavy doors clicked shut, Robert sat blinking blankly at the empty air for a long moment before letting out an exhausted sigh. A wistful, melancholic look, entirely foreign to his dignified facade, crept into his eyes as he muttered under his breath.

"I really, really didn't want to work..."

It was the weary, soul-crushing complaint of a modern corporate worker ground down by decades of overtime. And he wasn't finished.

"Why did an adult Mandrake root have to exist in the first place...? All I wanted was to enjoy a quiet, comfortable retirement..."

Every syllable was laced with annoyance and an overwhelming disdain for effort. Had his health truly declined? To some extent, yes. But was he bedridden to the point of being unable to handle state affairs? Absolutely not.

It was, for all intents and purposes, malingering—albeit malingering backed by actual poison. He had deliberately ingested a mild toxin that simulated the miserable symptoms of a dreadful cold without causing any permanent physiological damage. Because he had coordinated the ruse with his personal physician beforehand, he had managed to stage a convincing performance of a dying monarch on his last legs.

His motive was painfully simple: he despised working. By their very nature, thrones were designed to grind rulers into dust through sheer overwork. Robert was no exception, and in the end, he had resorted to desperate measures to escape the grind.

One might criticize him for lacking the responsibility expected of an emperor, but practical governance was never in jeopardy. He had already transferred all domestic administrative authority to his son, Arnold. All that remained was the formal succession ceremony, yet he had grown so thoroughly sick of court life that he had collapsed into bed just to avoid the remaining paperwork.

I only hope El Dorado and Alfheim don't start acting like complete lunatics this month.

With troublesome neighbors stirring up chaos, Robert desperately wanted the abdication ceremony completed as quickly as possible. But to speed up the process, he would have to do more work. Just imagining it made him want to vomit.

Sighing at the looming headache of imperial bureaucracy, Robert turned his gaze toward empty air. A translucent window materialized smoothly before his eyes. It was the Gallery interface—the very extradimensional community his son Arnold had recently grown obsessed with.

Those were the days.

What had Robert been doing while faking his fatal illness? He had spent the entire time slacking off and browsing the Gallery. No matter how regal an emperor appeared to the public, no man could resist the allure of secret, guilt-free entertainment. In fact, precisely because he had spent decades slaving away for the realm, he had fallen headfirst into the forum as psychological compensation.

I wish I could live like that, too.

Why was he born an emperor? He didn't mind being remembered as an "inward-looking domestic monarch," but why did he have to rule at all? Why couldn't his father have sired a few spare sons? A spiral of idle regrets spun through his mind.

Browsing through the latest forum threads, Robert clicked open a post by an author who had recently skyrocketed to fame.

Wild Grylls, the survivor stranded in the Forest of the Four Seasons. His ongoing survival chronicle had completely captivated Robert in recent weeks. As an emperor, Robert wanted for nothing in the mortal realm; he possessed every luxury wealth and power could buy.

I must admit, I'm rather jealous.

He was genuinely envious of the life Grylls was living. It wasn't raw, helpless suffering, but an honest wilderness survival journey sustained by small bits of outside aid. Robert longed for a life like that—building clay ovens, hunting game, catching river fish with his bare hands. He finally understood why men turned toward farming and gardening as they grew old. After enduring a lifetime of frantic duty, the soul craved freedom. Not lawless abandon, but an earned freedom where every action yielded a tangible, direct result. Now that he had crossed into middle age, reading Grylls’s daily posts only magnified that yearning.

If only safety could be guaranteed, of course...

Naturally, Grylls’s objective was survival and escape, not a cozy pastoral retreat. Robert, on the other hand, desired rustic wilderness life without the mortal danger. Whenever Grylls found himself cornered by lethal beasts, Robert’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest.

I suppose I shall have to settle for living vicariously through him.

For that vicarious comfort to continue, Grylls could not be allowed to die. The man’s posts were the sole bright spot in Robert’s otherwise dreary days. His mind was made up. Within a month, he would be completely stripped of the imperial mantle. In the meantime, he would provide whatever assistance he could muster.

First, I need to create a registered fixed handle...

A moment later, Robert keyed in his chosen username.

"Heh-heh."

It was a handle that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the apple never fell far from the tree, perfectly matching the ridiculous handle his own son used. Chortling to himself, Robert submitted the registration.

"..."

Robert sat struck dumb, staring at the error prompt in disbelief.

What kind of utter degenerate would already be using an idiotic handle like this?!

His own son was.

I had wrestled with the Fast Tree Sloth all day over his obsession with the fire, but I eventually gave up. Continuing to fight him was a losing battle where I was the only one burning energy, so letting him be made far more sense. I figured Bbarmbo would pull away from the campfire on his own once he got warm enough.

Fwwwhhhhoooooo!

Outside, the blizzard raged on without mercy. Every instinct urged me to peel back the flapping entrance tarp and check the conditions, but I held myself back. If I loosened the tarp and the wind ripped the anchor stones free, the resulting disaster inside the cave would be catastrophic. In the end, I had no choice but to stay cooped up inside for the entire day. Factoring in the downpour from yesterday, I had basically been confined to this cavern for two straight days.

Man, if I hadn't smoked that meat, what on earth would we have eaten?

For dinner, I chewed on smoked meat while the Fast Tree Sloth leisurely munched on his hoarded Neidan. With this cursed weather showing no signs of letting up, hunting for fresh meat was clearly going to become a regular chore. If game grew scarce, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I’d have to haul fish out of the river instead. Either way, smoking food was non-negotiable.

Tomorrow's going to be a nightmare if the snow keeps piling up.

I worried how high the drifts would reach outside. Preparing to turn in for the night, I piled extra firewood onto the flames. Normally, one of us would stay awake on watch to tend the hearth, but neither of us was in any condition to pull an all-nighter. My only option was to heap up as much wood as the fire pit could hold.

Isn't there some kind of automatic firewood feeder out there?

Something like that would be an absolute godsend. Nursing that idle wish, I settled into my bedroll and fell asleep.

When morning finally came...

"...Are you seriously still awake?"

"..."

The campfire was still blazing merrily, and right in front of it sat the Fast Tree Sloth, staring placidly into the embers. Did this bastard actually replenish the firewood through the night? I stared at him, dumbfounded.

Well, thanks to him, the cave stayed warm all night.

Noticing that the canvas tarp at the entrance was no longer fluttering, it seemed the blizzard had died down while we slept. I walked over and shoved against ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the tarp to inspect the outside world.

Thud!

"Huh?"

Something was wrong. The canvas refused to budge. I had already cleared away the securing stones, so why wasn't it opening? For a second, I worried the tarp itself had frozen solid to the rock face, but that wasn't the case—when I pulled it inward instead of pushing outward, the fabric peeled back easily into my hands.

"...What in the world is this?"

Behind the canvas stood a solid, seamless wall of pure white. It took me a few seconds of blank staring to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠process what my eyes were seeing.

"Oh."

It was snow. Completely compacted, frozen-solid snow. Just how much had fallen overnight to wall off the entire mouth of the cave? A wave of pure absurdity washed over me, followed immediately by a far more pressing problem—one tied directly to my survival.

How the hell am I supposed to dig through all this?

As if dumping white garbage from the sky wasn't enough...

CLANG! THWACK!

"Aaaaagh!!!"

The wilderness had decided to teach me a harsh lesson in the value of time. Swinging my pickaxe with everything I had, literally mining through the wall of packed snow, I bellowed at the top of my lungs into the icy silence.

I was really starting to hate winter.