FL - Chapter 22: Finding a Beauty While Hunting

Though spring had arrived in the Northlands, the wind still bit like a blade. Sif's hands clenched the reins, her fingers long past feeling anything. Her warhorse heaved ragged breaths, its hooves stumbling, the sweat on its hide freezing rapidly in the frigid night.

*Faster… just a little faster…*

Behind her, the flames consuming the Cold Moon Tribe still blazed—time bought with her brother's life. She couldn't look back. She couldn't stop.

"Run south! Never come back!" Sigurd's roar still echoed in her skull, nailed into her soul like a spike.

Sigurd was dead. Her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters—all dead. And she was still here, alive but wretched, drifting like an abandoned ghost through a world with no place for her. No destination. Just pushing south.

The food was long gone. She'd survived on river water, tree bark, and the occasional wild berry. Days later, when the warhorse finally let out a long, exhausted cry and collapsed, Sif was thrown from the saddle and slammed into the frozen ground. She tried to rise, but her fingers wouldn't even move.

Sigurd's face surfaced in her mind. *I'm sorry, brother… I can't go any further…*

Her vision blurred, then faded. The darkness took her.

…

A grand hunting party from Crimson Tide Territory advanced northward. The hunters were focused, the knights alert—everyone eager to distinguish themselves on a hunt personally led by their lord. Louis, wrapped in a thick wolfskin cloak, rode lazily at the head.

A tangle of animal tracks appeared in the wasteland ahead. An experienced hunter crouched to examine them. "My lord—rabbit tracks, more than one."

Louis nodded, drew the short bow from his hip, nocked an arrow, and squinted ahead. Sure enough, near a clump of dry brush, a gray-white rabbit cautiously poked its head out.

*Twang.* The arrow tore through the air so fast its path was nearly invisible. It punched clean through the rabbit's neck. The animal tumbled, twitched twice, and went still.

"Fine marksmanship!" "As expected of the lord!" The hunters and knights immediately erupted in applause, piling on the flattery.

"The lord is truly a master of both pen and sword—so precise even in the hunt!" "With archery like this, even the royal court's hunters would hang their heads in shame!" "If the Northlands had a hundred marksmen like him, what barbarian invasion could threaten us?"

One knight even scooped up the rabbit and presented it to Louis with an expression of pure reverence. "My lord, could this hare be descended from the King of Beasts? How else could it be so challenging to shoot?"

Louis's mouth twitched. These people… really knew how to talk. Still, he didn't mind. A lord's authority and reputation were sometimes built on exactly these small "legendary feats."

Of course, this entire hunt was a cover. The real objective was the little princess about to be devoured by a Frost Bear. Using the hunt as a pretext to search northward—Louis simply didn't want anyone knowing he possessed what was essentially precognition.

That said, he was aware that some of the sharper minds around him had already begun to notice anomalies. They weren't stupid. They'd realized their lord was suspiciously "lucky." From the south to the Northlands, he'd accurately predicted crisis after crisis, opportunity after opportunity. No one would believe it was all coincidence.

But in this fantasy world, even if Louis told them outright that he had a "Daily Intelligence System," they wouldn't understand what those words meant—there were no web novels here. So they'd chalked it all up to the Dragon Ancestor's divine favor.

"What a bountiful day! My lord, your archery is simply divine." "Indeed! The Dragon Ancestor himself smiles upon us today." "Ha! We'll have to celebrate properly when we return."

And so the party advanced, chatting and laughing, their haul growing by the mile. The hunters brought down several plump wild deer and even pulled rare cold-water fish from the icy river.

"A little relaxation like this now and then… doesn't seem half bad." Watching his people's cheerful faces, Louis smiled despite himself.

Suddenly, a scout came racing back to the column, an odd expression on his face. "My lord! We've found a girl up ahead!"

The entire hunting party fell silent. Everyone stared at the scout.

"A girl?" Lambert frowned. "Out here in the wilderness?"

"Not far from here, near the frozen river," the scout panted, still visibly shaken. "She's collapsed in the snow. Looks like she's unconscious."

Found her. Louis's eyes flickered, but he kept his composure. "Lead the way."

They passed through a low thicket and found Sif unconscious near the river.

The girl lay on her back in the snow, curled in on herself, her short white hair matted with frost and wind. Her hide coat was tattered, her shoulders and arms exposed to the air, frozen purple. Partially healed wounds told the story of her harrowing journey.

Yet even unconscious, her delicate face retained a defiant set, with no hint of softness.

An experienced hunter examined her briefly and paled. "My lord, she's from the northern tribes."

Another hunter studied the patterns on her belt and added in a low voice, "Cold Moon Tribe."

The air went still for several heartbeats. The knights exchanged glances. The Cold Moon Tribe was one of the Northlands' greatest enemies.

But Louis only looked at her for a moment before deciding. "Take her back. Get her treatment."

The knights didn't hesitate. They carefully lifted the girl onto a warhorse. The hunters, their cart laden with game, followed as the party made its way home.

Back at Crimson Tide Territory, the girl was placed in an empty room and entrusted to a native healer with some medical knowledge. Louis stood in silence, gazing at her face. Her eyes were shut tight, her lips cracked from the cold, and her brow faintly furrowed as though wrestling with death itself.

He produced a Vitality Potion—one he'd brought from his family's stores—and handed it to the healer. "Get this into her."

The healer hesitated briefly, then poured the liquid between the girl's lips. After a moment, color seemed to return to her pallid cheeks. Her breathing steadied. She was still unconscious, but out of immediate danger.

"That potion wasn't cheap," Louis muttered, looking at the unconscious girl. "I hope she wakes up."

(End of Chapter)