The northern reaches of the Ester Continent lay shrouded in eternal snow.
Beyond vast, endless plains of snow and ice stretched layered mountain ranges. This was a land of extreme cold, where winter's peak brought a fortnight of endless day followed by a fortnight of endless night.
Yet when winter retreated, fresh greenery sprouted for a time, as proven by the lush valley forests.
The region around the Kervenon Mountains had long been forbidden.
But human greed allowed no respite.
Recently, it had come to light that this place knew all four seasons, harbored forests, and teemed with wildlife. Various powers dispatched pioneering expeditions, sparking frequent clashes between outposts.
At the heart of that turmoil, a massive blaze now roared.
Whoosh, crackle crackle.
The inferno devoured mighty ancient trees, reducing them to charcoal as flames leaped toward the sky.
Whatever its origin, the situation was dire. In the parched air, the forest burned like dry tinder, the fire racing along ridges.
Screeech, screeeeech.
Gurgle, grrrgle, guwek, guwaaak.
Reindeer herds fleeing the flames caught fire and fell. Even a colossal ogre succumbed to the blaze. An entire orc village, trapped in the flames, was reduced to ash in moments.
Shhhh, thud.
Fierce flames consumed great trees and cascaded downward, charred trunks crashing to the ground with thunderous booms. It was hell on earth.
Then it happened.
Something enormous rose beyond the ridgeline.
Kwaaaaa!
With a roar like thunder, a massive silhouette shot into the sky above the mountains—utterly unreal.
Grrr rumble.
The White Dragon, shaking its body and steadying its breath, stretched its long, pale neck skyward and opened its maw.
Kwaaaaa!
With its roar came a blast of frigid breath from the dragon's jaws.
The superheated air condensed in an instant, moisture in the atmosphere clumping into white flakes and plummeting down.
Patter patter patter.
Hail poured like rain. The snowstorm that followed melted into a downpour upon hitting the flames on the ground.
Shhhh, shwaaaa.
The fire died down in moments, the earth shrouded in steam. As the cycle repeated—steam turning back to snow—the blaze gradually subsided.
The White Dragon drew in a ragged breath.
Grrr, grrr rumble.
Soon, its massive neck drooped, and it was engulfed in blinding light.
Flash.
How much time passed? As the glow faded, a silver-haired young man appeared—naked, strikingly handsome.
Now polymorphed into human form, he gasped for breath with effort.
"Huff... huff."
Rain streamed down his toned body.
With a wave of his hand, light enveloped him, clothing his naked form.
"Even one roar is too much to maintain my true form. A final command to enjoy one last revel, perhaps?"
In the beginning, the gods created the world and tasked dragons with preserving its balance. But as time flowed and divine interest waned, the dragons began to fade away, one by one.
The last dragon remaining on the earth sighed in human guise.
"This will likely be my final revel."
He swept his gaze over the mountains where he had dwelt for eons, then descended without regret.
Crunch crunch.
He walked on two legs with the ease of long practice.
Afterward, the seasons turned hundreds of times.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Spring arrived.
Warm winds thawed the earth and coaxed forth new shoots. Even that spring warmth turned chill and dry underground.
Whiii, whiiiing.
A thin beam of light fell upon the dark stone floor of the underground passage. At the boundary of mingled light and shadow, a centipede scurried swiftly.
Scraaatch scraaatch.
A rough, callused hand scraped the wall, leaving a mark.
"A month already, today."
He was a grizzled man in his early sixties, hair streaked with gray.
As he lowered his hardened hand, dust from the earthen wall sparkled and floated in the air.
"Before time, all is vanity."
From a single life to a family, even to a nation's rise and fall—nothing transcends time. No worldly power endures against it. He was no exception.
Once, intoxicated by modest achievements, he had thought the world within his grasp.
But the heights were held by experts backed by noble lineages. He, who fancied himself peerless, now languished in an underground cell.
"Is this the end of a lifetime's toil?"
He closed his eyes.
Time, which once crawled slowly, accelerated with age—by the time his sideburns had whitened, a day flashed by. His month of imprisonment felt like a blink in retrospect.
He had lived his life to the fullest, though whether a leaf would fare the same was unknown.
"Hoo."
With his sigh came footsteps from beyond the bars.
Crunch crunch.
Clank.
"Prisoner number 12."
He groaned, rising stiffly.
"..."
"Prisoner Brad Cahill, released."
That month—an eternity and an instant—had passed.
Creeeak, clank.
Stepping out, the cell door slammed shut behind him. The guard's demeanor shifted.
"You've had a hard time of it. We've warmed some water—off you go."
"My thanks. Indebted to the end, I am."
"Not at all. It's all by the book."
The guard spoke true. Most prisoners froze or sickened beyond regulations.
Crunch crunch.
Ascending from the long dark tunnel into light-streaked stairs mirrored his own life—just reaching the top was all.
Surfac ing, sunlight blazed fiercely.
The attending guard raised a hood to shield him, but he waved it off.
"No need. Time to readjust."
The man bowed silently and led on.
A bath awaited in the guards' quarters.
Splash.
Submerging in warm water brought languid relief to his body.
"Clean clothes are beside you. Farewell."
"I'll manage the rest."
Leaning back, he closed his eyes as if to sleep.
Brad awoke at noon, when harsh sunlight streamed through the window. The water had gone cold.
Shwaaa.
Standing, steam rose from his body.
"Refreshing."
His first bath in a month.
Nothing odd about it, yet as a near-noble knight, he was accustomed to cooling a heated body with cold water post-training.
Spotting his immaculately laundered clothes lightened his heart.
Slipping into undergarments and tunic, he fiddled with the leather-padded gambeson before stowing it in his pack.
Soon, a steaming bowl appeared on the table.
"A simple meal, but prepared."
"I'll eat well."
The stew on the table wafted a hearty aroma. Sitting, he took up the spoon, accepting the guards' kindness.
Slurp.
The meat stew was perfectly salted, with exquisite pepper notes.
Tearing bread to sop it up, it soaked in softly.
Clink.
The wooden utensils clattered cozily.
Nothing's free in this world—kindness demands repayment. Mindful of that, he finished the meal, his first proper one in ages.
Stepping out, dazzling sunlight made him squint again.
"You've endured. Farewell."
"Rest well."
Passing the gate the sentry opened, vast grasslands unfolded.
He glanced back at where he'd spent the past month.
The fortress rising amid the plain served as prison and vital hub linking the imperial earldom to the northernmost outpost.
That a prison doubled as a stronghold spoke volumes of northern realities.
'Good treatment means they haven't written me off yet.'
Their reactions carried layers of meaning. Gauging the situation came easily to this aging knight.
With a brief sigh, Brad set off.
Hills and gravel-strewn grass stretched endlessly into view.
One lone traveler seemed infinitesimal and pathetic before nature's grandeur. A dry wind rose; he drew his cloak tight.
Spring was in full bloom, yet winter's remnants lingered. New growth greened sunlit spots, but shadows held unmelted snow.
Step step.
A harsh gust brushed his ears. Gray locks veiling his sight, he bound them with a handkerchief. Joints and muscles screamed from unaccustomed motion.
Aftereffects of imprisonment.
'Or perhaps time to retire for good.'
A month of self-questioning in his cell had made muttering a habit.
In the empty expanse, his footprints trailed long behind.
How far had he walked? Kneeling to drink from a knee-deep stream, vibrations hummed from the ground.
"...!"
His startled gaze caught dust on the horizon. Then emerged a herd of hundreds of bison.
Thud thud thud.
Black and dun behemoths like houses thundered across the plain, then slowed, settling downstream. The maneuver flowed as naturally as a master general's command.
The herd filled the area around him in seconds.
'Caught off guard, feet stuck.'
Brad froze. Startling even one could provoke the whole stampede.
Up close, the bison's majesty awed.
Bison stood as tall as a man at the shoulder, stretched three meters long, and weighed a ton. Their protruding, rock-hard foreheads and curving horns menaced atop bulky frames.
Numbering from hundreds to thousands, they moved as one against threats, making them nightmarish foes—trampled flat, end of story. Man or monster alike.
Truth be told, these wild bison were the original lords of the northern plains.
Long before human-monster wars, millions were estimated to roam. Lately, humans encroached on their habitats.
Meanwhile, domestication efforts progressed.
'Like watching natives.'
The north's natives boasted fine civilization and prowess, yet never united.
Thus absorbed by various powers.
But whether swelling population and output would ensure human prosperity remained uncertain.
He posed the question to himself, then shook his head.
"Perhaps it will."
The gods crafted humans as flawed beings. Infertile compared to orcs, less skilled than dwarves, less wise than elves. Yet smarter than orcs, more prolific than dwarves, and unlike elves, they popularized knowledge to thrive.
Elves had vanished; dwarves clung to existence, assimilated by humans.
Now only orcs threatened humanity. Trolls and ogres were mighty but too few and ecologically isolated to pose national danger.
'How long can we prosper?'
Surveying the bison sea, he smirked.
"Until we can hunt those beasts for supper."
Bison herds remained perilous.
Grand horns, prime hides, tender meat—every byproduct valuable, but claiming them risked life itself.
Yet humans always lusted and innovated.
Hunters collaborated; pioneers tamed them steadily. Soon bison steak would grace every table. Such was human history.
'The weak fall to the strong. Nature's law.'
He was part of it too.
Knowing and realizing differed. A lifetime to grasp that.
After some time, he slowly withdrew from the herd, then detoured upstream.
The journey resumed.
Time delayed, road still long.
A lone gray wolf prowled tentatively before vanishing—instinct recognized a superior foe, no pack summoned.
Plains gave way to wasteland; gravel bit his soles.
"These boot soles won't last."
Recalling the bison, he chuckled. Bison hooves made fine soles. Nature fueled survival; humans consumed it to flourish.
'To live. Or because it's our nature.'
In greed, humans and orcs were twins. The difference: orcs mired in instinct, human desires refined across facets.
Lost in thought, he walked and walked.
Couldn't let sweat cool before finding camp and fire.
"Huff, huff."
Breath ragged to his throat. Harsh gasps seemed to purge the prison's dregs from his lungs.
Clouds veiled the sun; dry air chilled abruptly. Donning his gambeson from the pack helped. The calming wind was a blessing.
A month's captivity had ravaged his body, but as time passed, muscles recalled motion, improving steadily.
The path faint, each step forged the way.
Thus time flowed, day darkening.
Wind grew colder; as stars twinkled overhead, lights appeared on the ground.
A native village.
"Wonder if they'll let me stay the night."
He turned toward the lights.