The North is a Land of Savages
Once a modern man, Ian saw the North and the Empire as much the same—lands of barbarians. But compared to the North, the Empire was a truly tame and civilized place. For one, the Celestial Faith was widespread, so plenty of people feared committing sins. Theft was a sin, fraud and lies were sins, murder was a sin. What happened if you sinned? You went to hell after death, tormented in eternal hellfire until your soul was purified!
People in every era feared death. That's why Empire folk tried their best to live righteously. And with hell reserved for liars and cheats, a credit society could flourish. Trust one another, honor every contract to the letter. Break it? Straight to hell, obviously. Fellow believers in the Celestial Faith could trust each other. So even as a nation of transplanted Northerners, the Empire qualified as civilized land.
The North was different. A frozen wasteland where warriors bled in endless strife! In the North, it was nothing but struggle upon struggle, ruled by strength and discipline alone.
"Not as chilly as I thought."
Belenca glanced around as she spoke. Ian let her words slide in one ear and out the other. It felt good to finally step on solid ground after so long.
"It's summer now. Even the North gets warm in summer."
"You timed it perfectly."
They'd picked a good season. If they'd come in winter, they'd have learned firsthand what bone-chilling cold really meant.
"Feels colder than my hometown."
"Winz Dukedom?"
Belenca nodded. Winz was infamous for its long, brutal winters. In the dead of it, the whole country turned into a snowfield, with people dropping dead from the freeze left and right.
"...It's a bit cold to me."
Ian, born in the Empire's north, and Belenca from Winz were both tough against the cold. Kira, from the Empire's south, felt it more sharply than either.
"Oh! Empire folk!"
A Northerner spotted Ian's group and came running. Ian stared him down. He'd felt it when smashing those Northern raiders before, but up close, it was clear: no real difference from Empire folk. It was like visiting a slightly colder part of the Empire.
The Northerner was a young man with fiery red hair. The only distinction from an Empire man was his bushy, flowing beard.
"We've been waiting! I'm Gunnarr of the Sky Claw Tribe!"
"Ian Eredis, from the Blue Key Monastery."
"Haha! We've heard the stories! Come on, let's go!"
Ian followed Gunnarr through the streets. This was a fortress built by Empire folk, now managed by Northerners. To be precise, Golden Empire folk, not Holy Empire. Yeah, this fortress was nearly a thousand years old, crumbling from age. The Golden Empire had built it as a colony outpost in the North... and after the Empire fell, leaving it abandoned, Northerners had snapped it up.
Ian's impression was simple: Whoa. Perfect for a school trip. Snapping a souvenir pic on those walls would look great. Ian still thought of school trips first when seeing walls, not war. The medieval world was one big antique shop. For real.
"..."
They hadn't walked far when stares poured in from all sides. At the end of those gazes? Belenca, naturally.
"Empire folk?"
"Weird-looking Empire types."
Holy Empire folk and Northerners shared roots, so they looked alike. But Belenca was from Winz Dukedom—basically a foreigner. The Holy Empire saw transplants from everywhere, so they had no hang-ups about outsiders. But in this fortress, it was just Empire and Northern types, so spotting a different race was rare.
Different race was novel enough, but Belenca was a knockout beauty who turned heads automatically. No surprise the drab Northern guys swarmed at the arrival of longsword-wielding, gorgeous high-school-girl vibes!
"Hey! You lot! From the Empire?"
"Heh heh... Wanna play with us?"
Thugs who screamed "I'm a delinquent~!" from their foreheads slunk closer. Ian crossed his arms and sighed.
Mattaku. Was there no land without these punk extras?
Having devoured hundreds of movies, comics, and novels, Ian knew exactly what came next without looking. The punks would jump them, his group would fight back—that was the script.
"Shoo! Get lost! These are guests of our tribe!"
Gunnarr waved them off, and the punk extras... chuckled and backed down meekly.
"Heh heh heh. Fine? Treat the guests real nice... heh heh..."
"Heh. Feed 'em something tasty. Show Northern honor."
"Hey, Empire girl. Have a fun Northern trip. Heh heh..."
...The punk extras really backed off. Ian was stunned. Wait, weren't they supposed to attack, cause trouble, and get wrecked later? That was webnovel common sense!
But against Ian's expectations, the North ran on a different kind of common sense. Northerners were barbarians. Yet they rarely caused trouble—the punishments were brutally severe if caught. The standard Northern penalty? Execution.
No jails in the North. Commit a crime worth jailing for? Off with your head. Fought with someone? Make up nicely. Can't? Exile. Won't go? Execution.
The Northern barbarian law code was short and sweet, like a exam cram sheet. No complications! Cause trouble? Execution! Execution!
So Northerners were politer than Empire folk. Get rude, and your head rolls instantly. Punks thrived in civilized lands because rudeness didn't get your skull split.
"Ugh, those Red Bear Tribe idiots."
Gunnarr clucked his tongue, then grinned broadly.
"Always so lively!"
"..."
Northerners lived clan-centered lives. Everyone in a village knew each other; neighboring villages and tribes too, mostly. Lots of marriages across them, naturally. And troublemakers got their heads lopped off on the spot... so only the polite survived naturally.
"Phew. We'll get even more attention heading to our tribe."
"Expected that much."
Gunnarr had a cart ready. Not horses—some weird deer-like beasts. Horned, domesticated deer? What even? But who cared about the name; they could ride.
The cart whisked Ian's group out of the fortress fast.
"Two days if quick, three if slow."
On the road, Gunnarr briefed them simply on the Sky Claw Tribe's situation.
"You came at a bad time. Real bad."
"You look about my age. Drop the formal talk?"
"Huh. Sure? The tribe's in chaos. Not just us—everyone."
The North had two major tribal alliances. The southern Okaha Alliance, which Gunnarr and Sky Claw belonged to. And northward, the Sgonu Alliance.
The two had spilled blood against each other for ages.
"Sgonu bastards are coming soon."
Tribal alliance wars. Wars weren't special. Even warm, farm-rich Empire lands erupted daily—what about harsh North?
"Hm. Your tribe in danger?"
Belenca asked.
"Nah. Our warriors are strong. Sgonu have hit us plenty. But... this time's different."
"Different how?"
Gunnarr's face grew grave.
"You wouldn't know, but hunting season just ended. Time to hunt 'yagon' beasts for winter stores... we bombed it bad."
Ian's group's faces darkened too.
This was medieval times. Modern food production and storage made starvation rare. But medieval? Tough to produce, hell to store. Say you lucked into a billion tons of wheat bumper crop. Feast now, sure. But even leftovers rot into bug food by next year. That's why even good harvests led to starvation.
Humanity invented preserved foods to cope, but limits remained. Miss a food chance? You're screwed.
"Sgonu probably bombed theirs too."
"...Both starve, huh."
"Yeah. So they're arming up. Better rob us to survive winter than starve."
Simple: do or die. Past skirmishes were small; now it was all-or-nothing for tribal survival.
"Sorry you came far for this. Our tribe probably won't welcome you."
Ian said awkwardly.
"We weren't planning a long stay anyway... but thanks for the hospitality."
Gunnarr grinned back.
"Means the tribe elders hate it. Me and the priest? We like you fine. See? I'm Celestial Faith too."
Gunnarr flashed the faith's symbol. Belenca and Kira reflexively made the sign of the cross.
"Seeing it with my own eyes is wild. Real Celestial believers in the North."
"Most of our tribe worships the Sky God. More converts lately, though..."
Snow whipped fiercely from the sky. The horned-beast cart plowed steadfastly through the drifts, like it was screaming "This is North daily life~!" Ian just trusted those sturdy critters. Horse or deer? Whatever.
"Huh?"
Then Gunnarr, driving, yelled.
"Damn it, freezing hell!"
"What?"
"Something's chasing us from back there!"
Moments later, something emerged through the snow. Huge, ugly, monstrous.
"Holy shit."
Ian declared: in this medieval fantasy world, he'd never seen an uglier beast.
"Troll!!!"
The cart-assaulting monster was a troll. Northern dweller, famed for massive bulk, tough body... and ugliness. The starving troll drooled as it charged straight for the cart. Its target? Obvious.
"Elk! That bastard's after our elk!"
"What?"
Impossible. These trusty elk (or whatever beasts), faithfully hauling through snow for humans... and it wanted to eat them???
"You nuts? For real?"
Ian sprang into action. First, survey: snowy evening chill. Strongest mysteries? Cold and darkness, obviously.
...Neither works well.
Opponent: thick-hided beast. Plus, it tracked prey straight through snowstorm night. Cold or dark magic? Meh counters.
Other spells it was. Ian cleared his throat, bellowed with iron will.
A mage's strongest weapon: voice.
"Hear me, you monster!"
⟨ Aerokinesis Amplification ⟩
Ian's sudden booming roar startled Gunnarr.
What the—?!
Gunnarr was seeing a mage for the first time. He'd heard Ian was one, but real magic blew his mind!
"Dare you challenge one who shares friendship with the king of mountains?!"
⟨ Bluff of the Drake Lord ⟩
Grrr... The troll faltered, slowing at Ian's bellow. Gunnarr gaped at the absurdity.
He's... scolding a troll?
Gunnarr figured Ian's roar worked. But the troll just hesitated in surprise—not cowed by Ian's will.
Tch.
Ian had projected a drake image, but this troll was no pushover—it didn't scare easy. Maybe startled a bit. But right now, it needed food bad enough to risk danger.
Fine then.
No talk? Force it. "Gunnarr! Lend me some peat!"
"Huh? Uh...?"
Lend what??? Gunnarr blinked at Ian in confusion. Peat was Northern solid fuel. But what for—
Gunnarr's thoughts froze at Ian's next move. Ian lit peat with Anorilsil... then grabbed it barehanded!
Clutching the blazing lump, Ian yelled, "Hya! Fireball, you bastard!"
He hurled the burning peat. Literal fireball. Gunnarr watched the troll screech, brains short-circuiting. Even against a charging troll, grabbing and throwing fire barehanded?!
That guy's... totally insane, right?
Gunnarr's first impression of mage Ian: madman.