The wind had died down.
Despite the stillness, white plumes of frost still billowed with every breath Nicholas took as he spoke.
"I won't waste words. I've met you here today..." Nicholas paused for a beat. "...to go hunting with you."
His voice was steady, neither rising nor falling, yet filled with an immovable weight. He needed to know exactly how a village of three hundred had managed to survive all these years in the heart of this dead land. According to Garrick, nearly half of the village's food supply came from the girl standing before him.
Dianne's sapphire-blue eyes flickered toward the new Lord. There was no curiosity, no awe. She didn't seem to care who he was or what title he held. In her eyes, the nobility were all the same.
"As you wish," Dianne replied, her voice cold enough to freeze the very air around them. Between her temperament and the climate of this wasteland, it was hard to tell which was harsher.
"But I'm warning you now," she added sharply. "Don't get in my way. And if there's danger—I'll leave you behind."
She spoke bluntly, without a hint of hesitation. Nicholas understood perfectly. If he were in her position, he would do the exact same thing—to anyone.
"Of course. I'd expect nothing less," he replied with an uncanny calm.
Dianne let out a soft hmph and turned to walk away.
"Young Master, perhaps I should—" Garrick tried to interject, his face pale with worry.
"No need. Keep a close eye on Geralt's progress. I can look after myself."
With that, Nicholas pulled a steel sword from his luggage and strapped it to his hip. When he was cast out, the House of Albert had granted him one final "mercy": a single iron sword, a few sets of common clothes, some dried rations, and a small supply of water. The meager kit of an exile. As for that pouch of "minty" leaves... that was a prize he had pilfered from the kitchen. At least, if it was kept in a kitchen, it was guaranteed not to be poisonous.
"Then... Young Master, please be careful."
Garrick was clearly anxious, but this was a decision—and an order—from Nicholas. He could not stop him.
Nicholas nodded and followed Dianne. The two left the village, heading east. By his estimation, they had been moving for nearly fifteen minutes.
"What kind of creatures are usually hunted here? Besides wolves," Nicholas asked.
"Just wolves. There is nothing else," Dianne replied, her voice remaining as cold as ice.
Nicholas didn't respond, his mind shifting into silent analysis. If a predator like the wolf existed, there had to be other creatures. Weaker ones to serve as prey, and stronger ones to force competition for survival. That was the nature of an ecosystem. Small, seemingly insignificant links dictated the survival of an entire world.
He had learned these principles at a very young age. Therefore, the claim that only wolves appeared here made him deeply suspicious. He couldn't afford to lower his guard.
"If there are only wolves... then what do they eat? And how do they reproduce?"
Nicholas's questions weren't idle talk. He was probing—testing the level of awareness of the inhabitants here. Or more specifically, the awareness of the girl in front of him.
"Why should I care about any of that?" Dianne snapped, her tone flat and devoid of emotion. "I only need to know where they are so I can hunt them. That's enough."
Nicholas narrowed his eyes. He had the answer he needed. Fundamentally, this girl understood nothing of the ecosystem. He wondered how she, and this entire village, had managed to survive relying solely on raw instinct.
Clearly, this land hid many things that he had yet to uncover.
Lost in thought—
Dianne suddenly slowed her pace. She dropped into a low crouch. Nicholas followed suit instantly, holding his breath as he watched.
Ahead, against the blinding white snow, stood a wolf. Its ash-gray fur blended perfectly with the surroundings. It was a lone wolf.
Dianne didn't utter a word. She smoothly drew an arrow and notched it. A deep breath. She drew the string to its absolute limit.
Whiz—
The arrow tore through the wind, burying itself deep in the wolf's head. No howl. No reaction. A clean, silent, and chillingly efficient death. Blood quickly bloomed across the snow, a wide patch of deep crimson.
For the first time in two lifetimes, Nicholas witnessed a living creature killed with such cold finality. He wasn't repulsed, nor was he sentimental. He understood: to survive, one must overcome fear. To live, one cannot afford to hesitate.
Dianne stood up and approached the carcass. She yanked the arrow out, flicking it hard to clear the blood. Then, she dragged the wolf and placed it neatly onto the small cart they had brought along.
"Let me help you." Nicholas stepped forward and hoisted the wolf onto the cart. The blank, soulless white eyes of the predator seemed to bore into his mind. He let out a soft huff. He knew this was only the beginning. In the future, he would face things far worse than this. Today's hunt wasn't just about food; it was about facing the reality of the world he now inhabited.
Two hours passed.
Dianne had hunted nearly ten wolves. Some were solitary; others were in small packs. Her arrows flew relentlessly, never giving them time to realize what had attacked them. The way she drew the bow, her firing rhythm, and that pinpoint accuracy—none of it could have come from a mere "tavern waitress."
Or at least, not the waitress from Garrick's stories. Nicholas was certain Garrick wouldn't lie to him, which left only one possibility: Dianne was hiding her true identity.
But that was a problem for later. For now, he wondered how these ten wolves could possibly feed three hundred people for a single day. Furthermore, he had no idea where they were coming from. They just appeared on the path, almost as if they were waiting to be hunted.
"This isn't enough," Nicholas remarked. He looked at the ten wolves lined up. Each was only about the size of a Husky from his previous life. He remembered wolves being much larger—at least half again as big as these.
"I can only hunt ten a day," Dianne said, slinging her bow over her back. "You can head back first. I'll process them before I return."
"I'll stay and help."
"No need. I'd prefer you return to the village." Dianne's voice remained icy, but it now carried a sharp edge of a threat.
Nicholas stood straight. "Fine. I'll head back. Stay alert."
Dianne didn't respond. As he turned to walk away, his mind was clouded with suspicion. Dianne was clearly hiding something. He was sure of it. But he couldn't keep shadowing her; she was a seasoned veteran. She could hear even the slightest movement. If she could snipe a wolf from hundreds of paces away, his life would be forfeit if she "mistook" him for prey.
As he walked, lost in contemplation, his foot caught on something. He quickly regained his balance.
He realized he had tripped over a footprint pressed deep into the snow. It was a heavy indentation. And there were... four of them in a row.
It was the footprint of a quadruped.
Tracing the direction of the tracks, Nicholas realized with a jolt that they followed the exact path he and Dianne had just taken. This creature had been stalking them in silence.
He studied the prints again. Based on his preliminary assessment, they bore a striking resemblance to a bear's—worse, in this region, it was likely a polar bear. Polar bears were exceptionally dangerous; in his previous world, they were known as the largest terrestrial carnivores. A single swipe of their paw could kill instantly.
And this bear was cunning enough to shadow them without being detected. It was hunting the hunters.
Nicholas had guessed correctly. The presence of wolves meant a stronger predator had to exist to balance the scales. But he hadn't expected a bear. In his old world, the territories of wolves and polar bears rarely overlapped; he wasn't even sure they could coexist in the same environment. But this world had just shattered his textbooks. A bear—intelligent, stealthy, and predatory—was hunting them.
Dianne is in danger. He knew returning was a massive risk, but Dianne was a critical link in his chain. He couldn't lose her. More accurately, he needed her alive for his plans to succeed. He unsheathed his sword and began following the heavy tracks.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
A blood-curdling scream pierced the air. Nicholas bolted toward the sound, running flat out.
The scene before him was both bizarre and terrifying. A polar bear, nearly two and a half meters long, was looming over Dianne. She was grounded, her leg injured. It looked like she had barely avoided a fatal blow, but hadn't escaped the claws. Long, jagged gashes bled profusely through her clothes.
Strangely, the bear had ignored the pile of dead wolves, heading straight for her. Logically, it should have scavenged the easy meat first. But pushing the mystery aside, Nicholas acted. He snatched up a large stone and hurled it with all his might, striking the beast's flank.
Startled, the bear spun around to face him.
"Hey, you fat lump! You want some? Come and get it!"
He threw another stone, this one hitting the bear squarely in the head. Roaring in fury, the beast lunged. Nicholas dove to the side. The bear's swipe missed him, but the sheer force snapped a tree behind him in half.
He forced himself to stay calm. He threw another stone. Enraged, the bear charged again. Again, he jumped aside, the snow billowing like a cloud from the impact of the bear's paws. Taking advantage of the whiteout, he lunged forward and drove his sword into its hind leg before pulling back and retreating.
The bear roared in agony. Nicholas kept up the assault, pelting its face with stones to keep its temper boiling. Despite its wounded leg, it snarled and kept coming.
He led the beast further and further away from Dianne. For fifteen minutes, they struggled in a deadly dance. Both man and beast were becoming exhausted. However, Nicholas carried the weight of human knowledge. He had systematically crippled the beast; its limbs were wounded, and its movements had slowed significantly. It was huffing heavily; its massive frame required far more energy to move than his did.
"Come on, over here!"
He used the same tactic, striking its face with a stone. Animals, no matter how cunning, could never match the tactical depth of a human. Nicholas was certain of it. The bear roared one last time and made a desperate lunge. Blood soaked the snow.
Nicholas dodged, but this time, the bear stumbled over its own wounded limbs and collapsed face-first into the drifts. Seizing the opening, Nicholas drove his blade directly into its right eye.
The beast shrieked in pain. He didn't let up, kiting the bear and forcing it to burn its remaining energy. The wounds multiplied. The bear could no longer hold its own weight.
Nicholas saw the window. He was at his physical limit, but using every ounce of strength left in his body, he plunged the sword deep into the side of the bear's neck.
The beast let out one final, agonizing groan before crashing down into the snow, motionless. Blood pooled around it, staining the white wasteland crimson.
Nicholas collapsed.
He lay there, chest heaving. Sweat soaked his forehead, his hands, his boots—his entire body. His nerves were frayed to the breaking point. His heart was hammering at 130 beats per minute. He focused on his breathing, mentally checking his vitals as if he were monitoring a laboratory experiment.
Then, he glanced at the dead bear. A smirk touched his lips.
He had won. Not with magic, but with the ultimate human weapon.
KNOWLEDGE.