Chapter 106: Chief Helga's Endless Worries and the Stone Soup Miracle
Chief Helga of the Sky Harpoon Tribe had a lot on his mind these days. The root of his troubles? Messing up the Great Hunt Festival, of course.
Normally, northerners stocked up on massive hares during the festival to survive the winter. But this year, the hares had dwindled to an unnaturally low number. He'd asked the shamans. He'd asked the Sky God priests. No one could pinpoint the cause. All he got were vague platitudes like "The gods are angry" or "We need to offer sacrifices." Honestly, Helga was itching for an Ice God ritual. He hadn't openly overturned his predecessor—read: his father—but with things this dire, he was grasping at straws.
A few windbags who loved stirring the pot yammered on about how it was all because they'd started worshiping some minor sky god. Helga wanted to scream in their faces: "Hey, you idiots! Did I buy that sky god off? It was my old man's screw-up I inherited—and not just inherited, but got royally screwed with!"
Yes, Helga's father, the previous chief, had fallen hook, line, and sinker for Priestess Isila's silver tongue and bought into this unheard-of "Sky God" cult wholesale.
"The era of the Ice God is over! The Sky God's time has come!"
"Dad, are you sure about this?"
"Of course! It gets you to heaven!"em>
"..."
It was the kind of late-life delusion you could only call a bad trip. Still, it was his father's call, so Helga kept quiet. But then weird stuff started happening up north, and the Sky God cult's stock plummeted. Heaven? Screw heaven when everyone was starving to death.
"Should I cut my losses now?" Helga pondered seriously. This Sky God business hadn't yielded a single benefit. If he'd known, he'd have stuck with the reliable Ice God!
"Helga! You around?"
"What is it, Sigur?"
"Do something about that Gregory jerk, please."
His head already throbbed from worries, and now the village was plagued by endless mishaps. This time, it was the troublemaker Gregory.
"That guy's got mountains of food in his storehouse, but he won't share even a scrap when we ask nicely!"
Like any small society, the northern tribe was tight-knit and insular. Everyone knew everyone else a bridge away, so embarrassing conflicts hurt all parties. To avoid disputes from the start, they'd blurred the lines of private property.
If someone owned a luxury artifact on par with state power? Forget congratulations—they'd think, Who the hell are you to hoard that? Folks called it "village hospitality," but it boiled down to "I share what I have, so you share what you have."
That's how the villagers saw Gregory. We're all neighbors here! Of course he should share his hunt with everyone. That was the village rule, the law. Ignore it? He'd be branded a stingy jerk. And yeah, Gregory was a stingy jerk. But he was also clueless. A little generosity could've made him the village star. Born in the modern world under law and order, he'd have thrived—cops would've shut down the nosy neighbors with a stern "Back off!"
"...Let's wait and see. The hares might show up late."
The chief's role was democratic, more like a civil servant managing with villagers' support than a tyrant. Complaints about Gregory were piling up, so Helga had to act in his official capacity. But Gregory was an ace hunter, so rash moves were risky. Winter hadn't hit yet. If the hares appeared late, this squabble would just be village comedy.
"Ice God, Sky God—whoever, just help us out..." Helga prayed into the void. Gods never answered him, Ice or Sky. His father had "heard the call from the heavens" and converted, but why cling to silent deities? Show a miracle, any god, and Helga would convert in a heartbeat.
He was knee-deep in neighborly gripes when a stranger entered the tent.
"Huh? Who're you?"
"Greetings, Chief. Sorry for the late introduction."
The traveler looked familiar yet exotic—northern features, but jet-black eyes and hair. Their eyes met, and Helga instinctively shrank back. Those pitch-black pupils swirled with mystery.
Helga was sure: This guy was no ordinary traveler...!
"I'm Ian Eredis. I'm here to meet Priest Madagal at the imperial monastery's request."
"Ah, heard about you. Tough journey—well done."
Conversation over. Helga could've yelled "Get out!" with no repercussions. Bad timing for a guest, no urgent business.
Complainant Sigur thought the same, but lacked patience.
"Business done? Scram back to the empire, imperial scum! This ain't a playground for you lot!"
"Easy, Sigur. He's the priest's guest."
Despite the savage threat, Ian's face didn't twitch. Helga felt a spark of curiosity. Looked soft, but wasn't.
"Honored Chief, I'm investigating a monk's whereabouts on monastery orders. Northern expeditions need ample food, though."
"Food?"
"Yes. As fellow Sky God believers, I humbly ask: Could you spare some provisions to help find the monk...?"
Helga's face soured, predictably. The village bickered over scraps, and now feed some imperial fungus? A devout Sky Godder might help a "brother in faith," but Helga was debating dumping the cult.
"Hey, imperial! We got scraps for dogs, not you!"
"Sigur!"
"Pah! It's that damn Sky God temple—drawing freaks like this!"
"..."
"What has the Sky God done for us? The old chief started this heaven crap after he died!"
Helga glanced apologetically at Ian. Good times? Sure, he'd share. But not now. If the stranger raged, oh well...
"Hmm. I see."
"...?"
Helga blinked. Took it surprisingly well?
"Can't be helped. I've heard the north's woes—everyone's suffering. No point pushing."
"Er... thanks for understanding."
Ian turned.
"We'll forage our own food, then."
Helga was dumbfounded. Forage in this frozen north? Imperials? If easy, they wouldn't be starving!
Sigur gaped too.
"Just grass and rocks around here. What food?"
Ian replied calmly.
"Plenty. Grass and rocks."
"???"
"Chief, that boulder on the village hill—you using it?"
"...No."
"Mind if I take it?"
"W-what for?"
Ian's answer left Helga speechless. First time hearing such madness from a sane-looking head.
"Gonna boil it for soup."
#
The peaceful village flipped overnight—in a good way.
Ian's "eccentricity" spread like wildfire, mouth to mouth: the imperial mage's outlandish meal.
"Heard the one?"
"That mage from the empire! Get this—he's boiling rock soup!"
Already anxious about food and winter raids, now this: a mage making soup from stones. Interest exploded.
To medieval folk, Ian's rock soup was stem-cell or LK-99 level invention. Stones from the ground, boiled edible??? No more hunting or farming— just boil rocks!
If real, total tech revolution.
Elders sighed in unison at the news.
Ah, I've been a fool! Why hadn't they thought of rock soup?
Simple: Because you don't!
Ian was a forbidden-knowledge warlock.
"For real, Ian? Rock soup works?"
Gunnar rushed over, convinced Ian sparked a food revolution.
Those eager eyes made Ian wince a bit. No revolution coming...
"Obviously."
The mage's con was on. Ian spun a bald-faced lie, a twinge sorry.
"Prayed to the heavens about failing the monk and heading home empty-handed. Sky God appeared in my dream—said he'd provide food."
"R-really?!"
Gunnar gawked. Fellow believer, he got the holiness: divine meal for the faithful! Rock soup made sense now. A miracle!
"Heavens...!"
Gunnar crossed himself in awe. Then it hit: starving flock, divine gift—what'd it taste like?
Gulp.
"Uh, Ian."
Excited Gunnar stammered.
"Can I... try a bit of that rock soup?"
Divine food—safe for a believer, right?
Ian shut it down cold.
"No."
"...Why?"
"It's sacred. Eating from mere curiosity? Absurd."
To Gunnar, and the cloud of onlookers. Disappointment rippled. Word was out—expect a taste at a cooking show!
No rock soup tasting?!
"...I believe in Sky God too. One bite?"
A northerner muttered. Barely went to temple, vague on the god. But divine chow right there? Instant convert! People line up for free snacks!
"Me too..."
"Been a believer forever!"
One crack, and conversions cascaded. Blink— all spectators were Sky God fans. True miracle.
Atop the hill, Ian faced his pre-picked boulder and bellowed:
"O rock, move!"
⟨ Aerokinesis ⟩
Rumble rumble!
Astonishing: The buried boulder burst free, rolling on its own!
"Ooh!"
"Heavens! God really exists!"
Ian skipped down lightly. The boulder trailed like a puppy, tumbling after.
Onlookers trailed stealthily, awe-struck. Pure folklore painting.
"Whoa..."
"He... actually brought the rock?!"
Skeptics staying back gaped at the self-rolling stone. Had to believe now. Real rock soup incoming!
"Ian, use this."
Priest Madagal had a huge cauldron ready. Ian gestured—the kid-sized boulder hopped in solo.
"Kira."
"Got it."
Kira spun dramatically, sparking flame from her fingertips. Could've used flint, but Ian scripted the flair.
Rock soup? Total scam. No mage turns stone to meat sans D&D spells.
Time for the show.
Fire crackled, water bubbled fiercely. Kira ladled a "stone soup" sip.
"Mmm!"
Blissful smile, radiant. CF model material, Ian chuckled inwardly.
"How is it?"
"Mysterious flavor! How do rock and water taste this good?"
"Stone soup" was... fresh water. Rock and water, duh.
But actress Kira lied flawlessly, no spit-take needed. Smacking lips like gourmet bliss! Her performance melted northern hearts.
Villagers gulped, fixated.
What does it taste like...!
We wanna try!