c110

c110

TL/Editor: raei

Proofreader: Pickhead7

Schedule: 5/week

Illustrations: None.

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The sun shone brightly on that midday afternoon.

The carriage carrying Ian and his companions passed through the entrance of the Red Bear Tribe’s village.

“Hey, Paulric! Long time no see.”

“Sigurd! How have you been?”

Sigurd exchanged greetings with the Red Bear Tribe’s warriors.

Ian didn’t know this, but as Sigurd had said, he was a well-known warrior in the north.

If you asked someone to name a warrior from the Sky Claw Tribe, someone would shout, “Sigurd!”

An outstanding warrior is bound to earn recognition.

Especially among the Red Bear Tribe, who enjoyed raiding, Sigurd was an outsider they wanted to cherish as a comrade.

“Go meet the chief first.”

“Of course.”

Sigurd led Ian and his companions to the chief’s house.

As they lifted the wide tent flap, a space filled with various items appeared.

Many of the exotic items, even to Ian’s eyes, were all spoils of war offered to the chief, looted from outside lands.

Tribes like the Red Bear Tribe, specializing in raiding, would sail far across the sea and plunder distant foreign lands.

“Long time no see, Sigurd.”

“You look well, Ulfdin. Have you been eating and resting well in warm places?”

Ulfdin chuckled at Sigurd’s joke.

He was the chief’s grandson, a young man about Ian’s age.

“Grandfather, wake up. We have guests from the Ice Claw Tribe.”

“Cough, cough.”

The old man lying in bed slowly sat up.

Seeing this, Ian felt as if a sick wolf, rather than a human, was rising.

It was a feeling that only Ian, being a wizard, could sense.

Layers of scars and anger beyond the old body.

A man who had lived more as a beast than a human, thus revealing a glimpse of the beastly image.

“Cough... Sigurd... Is that you, Sigurd?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Sigurd.”

The chief’s gaze was fixed only on Sigurd.

There was no reason to pay attention to Ian and his companions. He was an old man, and old men didn’t like new things.

“We should have met on the vast snowy plains instead of this miserable sickbed... Cough, cough.”

“Like when we smashed the skulls of those Scogun bastards.”

The chief grinned at Sigurd’s words.

The old man liked talking about stories he was familiar with.

No matter how many times he heard news from afar, he was indifferent.

But he got excited like a child when recounting stories of his glorious past.

“Yeah... Was it already 10 years ago?”

“15 years ago. It was just after I had my coming-of-age ceremony.”

Sigurd ended the conversation with the chief in a calm voice.

It wasn’t a particularly interesting story, but Sigurd kept the chief company for a long time out of courtesy.

The Red Bear Tribe people must have expected Sigurd to play this role.

“Grandfather, you’ve been up for too long. Now, lie down and rest.”

“Ah, yes... I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

Ulfdin laid the chief back down and guided Ian and his companions.

Ian glanced at the chief lying on his back.

A wide but weary back.

He might have been a great warrior once.

But now, he was a warrior collapsing under the weight of time.

“Ah, it’s about time for a meal.”

It was the time of day when hunger set in.

Ulfdin said to Ian and his companions, “I’ll go have my meal then.”

“???”

“Ah, I’m hungry.”

And then... he vanished.

Ian was dumbfounded and watched Ulfdin’s retreating figure.

Ulfdin didn't suddenly turn around and shout, “Surprise!” or anything like that.

“No, Sigurd! Did we do something wrong?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

Ian shouted in genuine frustration.

“Aren’t we guests?”

That’s right.

Even though Ian had been reincarnated into this desolate and harsh medieval fantasy world, he had never heard of guests being starved.

Isn’t it the same in post-apocalyptic stories?

Even when visiting a crumbling tent, food would be served to guests, whether it was a protein block or a synthetic chlorella meal.

But...

This was the first time they were so neatly and perfectly neglected!

“... Maybe it’s because their food situation isn’t good,” Belenka suggested, offering a reasonable explanation.

Then Sigurd burst into laughter and said, “Hahaha! The Red Bear Tribe people are always like that!”

“They usually ignore guests?”

“Not sure what you mean, but if it means they don’t care about guests, then yes! They don’t give guests any food!”

Only then did Ian realize why there had been plenty of food stocked in the carriage.

The Sky Claw Tribe was located in the south and, thanks to their frequent trading, had a certain understanding of hospitality.

But the further north you went, and the more barbaric the tribe, the less concept of hospitality they had.

Even if guests came, they wouldn’t be served food!

“Wow...”

Ian was genuinely horrified.

He had never felt out of place meeting unfamiliar tribesmen before.

But at that moment, he felt like he had landed in some alien village.

“Let’s eat then.”

Whoosh!

The blade of Anor-lsil was enveloped in flames.

Ian pointed the burning sword at the attackers and said in a low voice,

"What are you. Who are you."

Ragnar, the son of Reyhaul, stared mesmerized at Ian's magical sword.

“What’s that weapon... a flaming sword? That’s impressive.”

“No, never mind my weapon. Who are you people?”

Belenka and Kira were also ready to fight.

Seeing Belenka poised to draw her sword at any moment, Ragnar raised his hand.

The attackers gathered their clubs and stood behind Ragnar.

“I apologize for the rough greeting. We were curious about the guests from the Empire.”

Ragnar grinned.

‘Greeting?’

Ian was dumbfounded.

In the Empire, there may be a custom to insult wizards out of the blue.

But here, do they greet people with clubs?

“Were you trying to test my skills or something?”

“Oh! I like how quick you are to catch on! A great warrior should be able to assess situations quickly!”

‘I’m a wizard, you crazy barbarian...’

Ian was at a loss for words at the barbarian warrior’s foolish way of testing.

Trying to test a wizard’s skills by swinging clubs at him...

What would they do if they got struck by a fireball?

“Your ability to shake the ground, and your skill wielding a flaming sword...”

Ragnar extended his hand to Ian and laughed happily.

“A very capable shaman, huh? Hahaha!”

You madman, I’m a wizard...

“Ah, yes, well.”

Ian decided to humor Ragnar for now.

After all, he was the chief’s son, and it could be useful to befriend him.

“Come on! Let’s talk while we walk!”

Ragnar led Ian somewhere.

---

---

Not feeding guests and suddenly swinging clubs...

Ian was starting to dislike this barbarian village more and more.

But Ragnar and the northerners seemed completely oblivious to their wrongdoings.

What? We didn’t feed the guests? Isn’t it good manners to fill your stomach before visiting someone’s house?

Upset because we swung some clubs at you? What a bunch of sissies.

True men share their friendship by whacking each other with clubs!

A typical northerner, Ragnar firmly believed he had shared “friendship” with Ian.

He thought swinging clubs was the right move.

“Tell me straight up, Imperial! What brings you all the way to the far north?”

Ian couldn’t understand Ragnar’s sudden familiarity.

But still... Ian had come to the north of his own accord.

He had no choice but to go along with it.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Someone?”

“A monk named Takarion... I heard he might be here.”

Ragnar looked surprised for a moment.

“What’s wrong?”

“The shaman’s prophecy was right. He predicted you’d disrupt our medicine making.”

Ian frowned.

Ugh, that prophecy again. Are space-time wizards active here too?

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.

The tribe’s shamans were a primitive-ancient type of wizard.

They dealt with mysteries in a traditional, old-fashioned way that hadn’t advanced much beyond the earliest methods humanity used to handle the arcane.

There were no distinctions between schools, so a single shaman could handle all kinds of magic.

[Future Sight] was one of them.

“So?”

“Yeah. We caught an Imperial sky man not long ago. Our warriors boasted about how skilled he was.”

Ragnar led Ian somewhere.

“...”

It was a beast cage.

A face that looked haggard but not unfamiliar caught Ian’s eye.

Golden Finger Takarion.

The man was locked up in the beast cage, looking like a beggar.

“Imperial shaman! Take a look and tell me. Can we make a proper potion out of this?”

“...What do you mean?”

Ragnar shouted, as if venting his frustrations.

His voice carried the weight of pent-up emotions.

“Our tribe’s shaman! I don’t trust that bastard to keep me from freezing to death!”

Ragnar’s voice was hard to hear.

Ian’s gaze was fixed solely on Takarion, who seemed to have lost his soul.

A man with terrible luck.

Despite the horrors he’d been through, he was still alive, which meant Takarion deserved to survive.

Maybe that’s why.

Unconsciously, Ian responded to Ragnar in his “wizard speech.”

“Ah, indeed! Making a potion from a human heart like that! What a lousy shaman!”

“So, you think so too?”

Ragnar grumbled.

Ian didn’t miss Ragnar’s expression.

Distrust between the shaman and Ragnar.

If he could use that emotion, he might be able to save Takarion...!