Chapter 38
Chapter 38
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter Title: The Frostland Natives (1)
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Northern border, Gray Mountains' 7th Outpost.
"...Hm?"
Corporal Gunther, standing watch on the ramparts, turned his gaze toward the familiar rumble echoing from the distance.
Piercing through the gray blizzard, massive shadows were approaching.
Their bodies were at least one and a half times the size of a man's, wrapped in frost-encrusted giant axes, crude leather, and fur pelts—like living, breathing winter mountains.
"Looks like they've come to trade."
Giants. The natives of the Frostlands, valiant warriors.
Dwellers of the northern Frostlands, where not even a handspan of crops could be farmed.
They sustained themselves through ranching, hunting, and fishing, battling the wyverns and dragons of the north.
Now, centuries after humanity first encountered them,
they traded precious materials from hunting wyverns and rare northern beasts—or resources unique to the Frostlands—for the Empire's food supplies, living as brave yet impoverished neighbors.
From the Empire's perspective, there was no need to covet that barren land or expend manpower; they gained northern resources and a buffer zone of giants against threats like wyverns. A win.
The giants, too, benefited by trading surplus materials for essential magic tools and food.
Thus, the Empire recognized their autonomy, maintaining friendly relations for centuries.
True to form, they approached the gates and called out.
"Sons of the North have come to trade! Open the gates, brothers of the Empire!"
With the blast of a massive horn, Frostfang Sten, battle leader of a group numbering at least dozens, shouted.
His voice was rough as a winter gale, yet carried no hostility—only the familiar signal of trade.
The exchange proceeded smoothly as always. The giants laid out well-processed wyvern hides and frost crystals; the Imperial soldiers offered salt, flour, and assorted vegetables in return.
While inspecting the goods, a black-bearded giant paused over the onions and murmured lowly.
"The red sauces we took last time were pretty good."
Sten, checking the load, grunted in response.
"Especially that spicy one—it warmed the gut during night watch in the freezing cold. Get us a few more jars this time."
His words were praise, but only for a novelty flavor.
Tomato sauce and arrabbiata weren't life-changers for them.
To them, vegetable broths were half-measures that couldn't fill a belly properly.
They might whet the appetite with their sour, sweet, spicy notes, but they offered no fuel for the battles they faced daily.
In the end, it was just a side dish—nothing more, nothing less.
As the trade wrapped up, Captain Edgar noted the weary giants and made the customary offer.
"The warriors look worn out. It's mealtime—take some hot stew from the mess hall."
Sten nodded silently.
Imperial rations wouldn't be tasty, but nothing thawed a frozen body in the cold like hot broth.
The mess hall brimmed with steam rising from hearty warmth.
Soldiers slathered mayonnaise stamped with the Imperial Safe Mark—newly supplied—over boiled potatoes and tough reindeer meat.
"Hm."
Sten frowned at the mysterious ivory cream on his tray.
It resembled their fermented goat milk 'skarr,' but the scent was utterly different.
Skeptical, he dabbed a forkful to his tongue. And in the next instant...
"...!"
His rugged eyes shook violently at the utterly novel sensation.
This wasn't sourness.
Where their traditional skarr stung the tongue with wild, fermented goat milk tang, this ivory cream enveloped it like finely woven silk.
No greasiness.
Instead, it unified the bland potatoes and salty dried reindeer, elevating every flavor to a higher plane.
Deep, rich nuttiness; overwhelming smoothness caressing the tongue. And within it, an unbelievable concentration of fatty savoriness.
A perfect balance of flavors absent from their rough cuisine.
Above all, the instant it hit the stomach—a blazing fullness from within.
His giant frame, perpetually hungry from massive metabolism, reacted instantly to that single spoonful.
"...This is."
Sten murmured softly. No more doubts.
He mixed everything on his tray into the ivory cream, shoveling it in like a child tasting food for the first time.
His unusual fervor drew stares from the other giants silently wolfing down their rations.
Never had they seen their battle leader so engrossed, save when hunting mighty beasts.
"Chief, what's that white stuff? Poison?"
A young warrior asked. Sten shoved his tray forward without a word.
The youth skeptically popped a cream-laden potato chunk into his mouth.
And his eyes, like Sten's, lit with awe.
"Krah...!"
That sparked it. A low murmur rippled through the giants.
They all began sampling the ivory cream on their trays.
Gruff faces filled with discontent and resignation slowly, surely bloomed with wonder and satisfaction.
The mess hall's mood shifted. Only the cheerful clink of spoons on trays echoed—no complaints.
When meals ended, Sten rose with his empty tray.
He strode straight to Captain Edgar, who oversaw the hall.
His eyes burned not with trader's courtesy, but desperate hunger.
"Captain."
"What is it, warrior Sten?"
"This white stuff. What's its name?"
Captain Edgar set down his fork, meeting Sten's gaze with knowing eyes. He replied with a hint of pride.
"It's called mayonnaise. The apricot miracle, the saintess's miracle."
The name meant little to Sten. But the sensation rocked him to his core.
His massive body, ever craving fuel against the frost, sang in rapture.
This wasn't mere taste. It was energy. Concentrated, abundant, life-sustaining fat.
A texture and flavor more ecstatic than any melted lard or sour goat milk he'd known.
"We'll trade for it."
Sten's low, thick voice silenced every table.
He nodded toward the other warriors, still dazed in awe.
"We want all the mayonnaise. Trade it for everything we have."
Captain Edgar exhaled slowly.
He was a soldier, not a merchant, but grasped the proposal's weight instantly.
"Can't do that, Sten. This isn't ordinary trade goods—it's a new strategic supply, distributed solely to Imperial subjects under direct palace and papal authority."
Edgar's firm refusal snuffed the hall's wonder, plunging it into icy silence.
The giant warriors froze mid-bite, eyes turning to their battle leader, Frostfang Sten.
Confusion mingled with faint sparks of fury—their primal hunger denied.
"To subjects only."
He echoed Edgar lowly.
His quiet voice carried crushing pressure across the hall.
"We're not Imperial subjects. But haven't we been brothers, sharing blood and backs for centuries?"
He rose.
His hulking shadow stretched long over Edgar's table.
"When we fought Gray Mountains' monsters to guard the Empire's north, we were brothers. When our comrades were torn by wyvern claws in the freeze, we were brothers. And now, over this white cream, we become strangers?"
Not accusation. A chill question confirming cold fact.
Captain Edgar stood to meet his gaze. Unwavering.
"Not my call, Battle Leader Sten. Strict decree in His Majesty's name. As a fellow soldier, I follow orders—understand that."
"Decree, huh."
Sten snorted, thumping his chest with a fist.
"Our one rule: survive winter. Feed kin. This white stuff isn't just seasoning, Captain. It's survival."
He scanned the other giants. They nodded silently.
"It's fire to melt winter's heart. Warmth for frozen game, fat to fill our children's bellies. You humans call it flavor—we call it life itself."
His low, desperate timbre stirred even the Imperial soldiers.
Living the same northern freeze, they best grasped its weight.
But Edgar held firm. His final words: resolute.
"I understand your plight, but it's beyond my authority. A rule is a rule."
Sten closed his eyes briefly.
Deep silence fell.
When he opened them, desperation had yielded to a gambler's all-in resolve.
"Fine. If rules say so, we'll change the board."
He stepped closer, whispering for Edgar's ears alone.
"Know what's sleeping beyond the Gray Mountains, in the valley where ice wails?"
"...?"
"Frost Wyrm. Legendary beast last sighted a century ago. It woke from hibernation recently."
Edgar's pupils quaked.
Frost Wyrm. Name etched in Imperial histories as calamity after calamity.
Confirmation of its existence—and awakening—was top-tier military intel that could upend the northern front.
"Our scouts found its lair. Planned to destroy it before it regains full strength. But that'll cost many warriors' blood."
Sten's gaze pierced Edgar.
"Exact location and its sole weakness. We'll give you that. And we'll lead the charge."
Irresistible offer.
Halting a Frost Wyrm's revival outweighed hundreds of mayonnaise jars—Imperial security at stake.
Edgar pondered long, calculations racing.
He couldn't ignore it, nor approve trade on his own.
"...What guarantee is it real?"
"We don't lie. Brothers of the Empire. You'd know that best."
Sten thumped his chest again.
Edgar decided. He nodded to his adjutant.
"Send top-priority urgent dispatch to the palace. Report every detail here, Frostfang Sten's proposal verbatim. Request His Majesty's approval."
"Yes sir!"
He turned back to Sten.
"No promises till the reply."
"...But some shortfall from extra servings might happen."
Soon, clutching two mayonnaise jars, Sten softened slightly.
"Good. We'll return for the firm answer."
Meanwhile, Ruberius Palace. The Emperor's office.
Midnight, yet the office blazed like noon.
The Emperor stood not on his throne, but before a massive Imperial map table.
- BAM!
The door flew open unannounced. The Foreign Minister rushed in, clutching a freshly decrypted urgent dispatch glowing blue.
"Your Majesty! Emergency report from the 7th Northern Outpost!"
The Emperor, without turning, asked lowly.
"Read it."
"Yes! Giant battle leader Frostfang Sten requested mayonnaise trade, but Captain Edgar refused per regulations. Sten then re-requested with intel on a Frost Wyrm lair!"
"Hmm?"
Emperor Siegmund's red brows twitched.
The office air turned glacial.
The Minister swallowed, awaiting wrath or dismay.
But from the throne came neither.
"Hahaha... HAHAHAHA!"
A hearty, booming laugh.
"Indeed! Just like Jonathan Valerius!"
The Emperor slapped the table lightly in admiration.
His red eyes gleamed not with anger, but pure delight—like witnessing a master's divine move on the grandest chessboard.
"Y-Your Majesty...?"
The Minister queried, doubting his ears.
The Emperor turned, his sovereign gaze piercing all.
"You still don't see what this means, Minister."
He tapped the northern Gray Mountains on the map.
"Giants have been our brothers for centuries, yet always starving wolves. Their loyalty balanced precariously on respect for the Empire and pragmatic survival."
"But look. That young man's white cream is upending it all."
His eyes flashed.
"To them, mayonnaise isn't flavor—it's survival. Fat to endure the freeze, life for their young. And we're the sole holders of that lifeline."
The Minister finally grasped it, gulping.
"Frost Wyrm intel is valuable, of course. But far more: we can now leash those valiant wolves unseen!"
The Emperor declared jovially.
"That youth stirs the Empire's diplomacy with a spoon. Excellent! Splendid!"
No hesitation. As Empire's lord, he decreed swiftly, overwhelmingly.
"Hear me, Foreign Minister."
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
He intoned gravely to his subject.
"Reply to the northern base at once. Accept Frostfang Sten's proposal. But clarify: this is no trade—it's the Empire's gift to brothers enduring winter!"
"And to slay the Frost Wyrm, we'll risk blood too."
"Mobilize forces north. Prepare its extermination!"