Chapter 2: Iceberry Village.
No one knows how the first wisp of black fog appeared on the Sura Continent.
In just a few short months, the surging black fog devoured farmlands, mountains, rivers, forests, and towns.
Whether noble lords high above or humble commoners, countless lives withered under the black curse, or twisted and fell, mutating into monsters of bizarre forms.
The First Empire of Isgard vanished amid this catastrophe.
A great migration that would be recorded in continental history began. The survivors, led by nobles and priests, abandoned their fertile homelands and headed toward the once-despised northern wastelands of bitter cold.
Corpses filled every gully and ridge. Wails rose and fell among the northward crowds. Everyone held one obsession: to flee the rolling black fog behind them.
Crossing the perilous Ismark Mountains, the Second Empire of Isgard was rebuilt in the North Ismark Basin. That year became known as the first year of the Vigil Calendar.
…
Vigil Calendar Year 818, November, the Month of Black Frost.
Biting winds howled southward, pouring into the Aetheron Mountains through multiple passes.
On this day of encroaching ice, the sun lingered briefly above the horizon for a few hours. Nights grew longer, ushering in the long, lightless winter.
Amid the blizzard, a petite figure trudged with difficulty. An oddly sized, thin hunting outfit clung tightly to the girl’s slender body.
At the end of the mountain forest and snowfield, faint wisps of cooking smoke curled upward. In the girl’s eyes, once filled with numbness and despair, a spark of heat finally ignited.
“Waa~~~”
The infant in her arms let out another weak cry, but she could find nothing left to feed him.
…
The blizzard stopped. Villagers of Iceberry Village, wrapped in thick coats, left their homes and surged onto the southern slope to harvest giant berries frozen to perfection.
As one of the few mutated plants transplantable from the Black Domain to the outside world, giant berries—with their drought-resistant, cold-resistant, and barren-soil-tolerant traits—had become the most vital crop in human territories with limited arable land after the great migration.
Compared to the continent’s native bearberries, giant berries were larger and sweeter, though coarse in texture. They were a rare source of calories in the long winter.
Beneath bushes taller than an adult man, one needed only spread a fur, strike the branches hard with a stick, and thumb-sized red fruits coated in ice would fall.
In just ten minutes, a half-grown child could cleanly harvest one bush, easily collecting at least twenty kilograms of fruit.
“Chief Mocus, there’s… someone!”
The guarding militiaman ran up the slope, waving at the tall, burly middle-aged man.
“A caravan? Strange timing…”
Mocus hoisted a large sack of giant berries, squinting at the thin golden line on the horizon, puzzled.
“Uh, no… refugees. A little girl!” The militiaman exhaled white puffs, tense. “She’s carrying an infant and hopes we’ll take them in.”
“Let’s go see. Oh, call Priest Finn too.”
Mocus set down the sack, grabbed a stick, and hurried toward the village with the militiaman. Behind him, men and women wore uneasy expressions.
People in the Aetheron region relied on scant yields to survive the cold winters. Not a single grain or berry was spare. Everyone faced harsh reality without escape.
The Month of Black Frost was also called the Month of Wandering. In places with poor harvests, refugees forced from their land always appeared. During famines, refugee tides swelled tenfold, hundredfold.
But noble lords cared little, even secretly glad when excess population left due to land shortages. Or they shifted the crisis with other means and excuses.
This was the inevitable result of the Black Domain’s erosion: limited resources doomed fairness for all.
…
At the village entrance, beside a crackling fire, a girl of about eleven or twelve hung her head low, clutching the infant tightly. Across from her, over a dozen Iceberry villagers pointed and whispered.
The hot flames drove away the bone-piercing cold. Melting snow soaked her tangled hair. She said nothing, head bowed.
In the crowd, a thin, tall priest tightened his fur coat—a smelly garment, one of the villagers’ offerings, covering his once-decent robe with silver threading.
Priest Finn was a common wandering priest in rural areas. This winter, he would stay in Iceberry Village until the Month of Hope (March) next year.
“May the Holy Lord bless you. What is your name? Where are you from? Lift your head and speak.”
Priest Finn looked stern but was mild-tempered. He approached the girl, solemnly tracing a triangular holy sign on his forehead, then spread his fingers, bent slightly, and gently pressed her head.
“Renat, retired Lantern Bearer, from Wagstep… Holy Lord forgive me, I don’t want to lie or pretend. I just seek a place to live in peace.”
The girl obediently raised her head, revealing a face with a few black spots.
The Wagstep territory lay east of Hildemark, where Iceberry Village was. Though part of the Aetheron Mountains, it had far more arable land and supported more people.
“A Lantern Bearer of final corruption? Holy Lord have mercy. You must suffer greatly, but the Holy Lord never forgets any devout warrior.”
Priest Finn saw at once the girl was no ordinary person but a Lantern Bearer—envied and feared across the continent. The cloak wrapping her infant was high-quality wool, exclusive to Lantern Bearers.
A retired Lantern Bearer girl must have lingered too long in the Black Domain or failed promotion, leading to final corruption and loss of abilities.
Such ruined Lantern Bearers bore some corruption-induced deformities. Thus, the girl’s childlike form was not true youth but the rare juvenile mutation.
No matter her prior age, she would remain child-sized for life, powerless as a fowl.
Finn’s words caused brief unrest among villagers. Chief Mocus frowned deeply, eyes complex as they scanned the girl’s tiny frame and the swaddled infant.
By rights, even finally corrupted Lantern Bearers received noble or church favors with proof—annual pensions of two to eight hundred kilograms of grain or equivalent gold, depending on rank. Meager, but not enough to fall this low.
In poor harvest years, free Lantern Bearers detached from church or guild—especially below fourth tier—saw benefits slashed. Taking her in meant Iceberry providing extra aid, though sheltering a retired Lantern Bearer was honorable.
“Sorry, Miss Renat. Our village has little land and can’t feed many more. I can give you a sled and ten loaves. Keep walking.”
Mocus seemed decided, stepping back to block the village path. Villagers, understanding, silently formed a wall.
They knew Lantern Bearers fought in the Black Domain for this struggling world, but a juvenile-mutated one without special talent burdened any poor place.
“Miss Renat, drink some hot soup. You can head north to Degbrun Monastery. I’ll write a letter of proof.”
Priest Finn knew the villagers’ plight, squatting helplessly to bless the infant again.
Wind suddenly strengthened, tugging Renat’s tattered hunting outfit. Even near the fire, cold pierced everywhere.
The girl hugged the swaddle tighter, face showing no plea. “Thank you for your mercy, but the child can’t hold on. He’s a boy, and black-haired!”
She lifted a corner of the cloak, raising it high for all to see, shouting with all her strength.
“A boy… wait, black hair?!”
Chief Mocus froze, stepped forward quickly. Fingers trembling slightly, he carefully touched the infant’s distinctive black hair. His heartbeat raced.
Renat swiftly pulled the swaddle back, as if fearing theft, then knelt on one knee without hesitation. “Honored priest, Chief, I’ve lost my powers, but I can still explore the Black Domain. No need to allot me land!”
Villagers stirred, holding breath, staring at Mocus, dreading refusal.
A black-haired infant was a miracle, a divinely favored child of Sura’s blessing—guaranteed to become a Lantern Bearer upon adulthood!
A village raising one earned rewards enough for several carefree winters. The cost to raise a child was negligible!
“Honored Miss Lantern Bearer, forgive my earlier rudeness. What was your profession? What is your relation to this child?”
Mocus was fully swayed, eyes fervent. He had no other choice, or his authority would vanish.
“Forest Whisperer. The child is Cary, mine.” Renat stood, face blooming with a brilliant smile.
Forest Whisperer—a rare Lantern Bearer profession that listened to plants’ natural secrets.
Even corrupted, the talent worked, useful in Iceberry. Forest Whisperers knew more useful mutated plants in the Black Domain, aiding annual explorations.
Finn smiled too, slapping Mocus’s shoulder hard with his bony hand. “All guided by the Holy Lord. Accept this grace. And this black-haired favored child will be Iceberry’s bright future. I’ll write to Degbrun Monastery. Until he comes of age, I stay here!”
Finn solemnly took the swaddle from Renat, gently lifted a corner, and touched the infant’s soft cheek with his still-cold fingertip.
“Waaah—” The infant woke to the rough finger, tender cries drifting in the wind.
“Listen, such a lively lad. A future brave Lantern Bearer… But first, sleep well. Wake to hot cheese-grain soup.”
Finn cradled the infant, beaming like a father. Then facing east, he knelt on one knee, expression turning grave.
Low prayer echoed at the entrance, overpowering wind and cries:
“Eternal Sleeping Holy Lord Sura, Guardian of Peace, Guide of Dreams!
Spread Your arms, calm as night’s veil, slowly cover our bodies, let us rest comfortably in night’s embrace.
Shine Your smile, shelter like starlight, illuminate our dreams, keep us from dark whispers and intrusions in sleep.
Softly sing Your song, become a mother’s lullaby, soothe our souls, renew us in weariness…”