Ice Vapor Goddess

Chapter 8 Temporary Camp
After the wolves left, the snowstorm subsided slightly. They put away their armor and continued on their way, but kept their weapons with them.

Siren tucked the double-barreled shotgun inside his coat to prevent any potential danger.

The wounded guard Kyle was trailing behind the group with his head down. He would do what was called, but he always looked dejected, like a wandering soul following the group.

One day, after a shift change while pulling the sleds, Siren walked up to him and handed him a small piece of bread.

It was softened by the holy fire and emitted a fragrance, while only the outer layer was frozen solid by the wind and snow.

"I'm not hungry," he said.

Xilun popped a slice of bread into his mouth: "How about it, enjoying self-torture, huh?"

Kyle looked up at him, puzzled, with a hint of anger flashing in his eyes.

“Not eating, deliberately keeping your head down, deliberately limping, deliberately slowing down when a wolf pounces on you, intentionally creating pain for yourself… you’ll feel good, won’t you? Pleasure mixed with pain,” Xilun said, chewing on his bread.

Kyle's face flushed slightly. He wanted to argue, "No, no, it's because I'm in too much pain. My brother died in front of me. Why am I still alive? Only that pain can make me feel better. Only by deliberately punishing myself can I alleviate my guilt."

But is there pleasure hidden deep within that behavior?
“No one wants to endure pure pain. Pain that you enjoy repeating is pleasurable pain.” Xiren patted his shoulder. “Don’t you feel like your brother’s shadow is still watching you? Deliberately acting out physical pain and guilt, ah—what a good brother, what a deep brotherly bond, I’m in so much pain and they’re all watching me—there’s a secret pleasure in that, isn’t there?”

Kyle trembled all over, as if his darkest secret had been ruthlessly exposed, and he suddenly felt utterly ashamed.

Kesilun took the cross from his pocket and placed it in his hand.

“Your brother has been watching you, but he’s beside you, not behind you,” he said with a smile. “Everyone has symptoms; it’s not a problem.”

Kelner hesitated, speechless: "Bishop of Silen..."

Xilun patted his hand: "When you feel sad, hold onto the cross tightly, God is always with you."

Kyle silently grasped the cross, as if he were grasping a quiet corner of the world.

There, the brother's soul smiled and guided him, and God watched over him from heaven, bestowing blessings upon him.

But that god seems to resemble the Bishop of Siron.

"Let's take a rest, it's already evening," Xilun said.

The train was involved in the accident at around 8 a.m., but it was now 9 p.m. After eleven hours of trekking, they had traveled 12 miles.

At this rate, we should be able to reach Speyside by tomorrow night.

They cleared a section of railway track—they relied entirely on it to navigate through the heavy snow—and then set up their tents on it.

They secured the sled to the rails, then inserted wooden stakes into pre-designed grooves in the center of the sled, using them as central supports to hold up a large, thick canvas.

The four corners were nailed together and then weighed down with snow, and a simple pyramid-shaped tent with a pointed top was built.

All six people slept on the central sled, while supplies were placed in the narrow spaces at the four corners.

The Sacred Fire spell is ignited, and the room gradually becomes warmer. What's even more convenient is that this sacred fire does not produce any byproducts of combustion.

Mathilde took out an iron pot from the supplies and threw in snow water, potatoes, and dried meat to cook. There were no seasonings, but fortunately the meat was salted, so it wasn't too bland.

The iron pot bubbled and gurgled, and orange flames burned in the cramped room. The wind and snow howled outside the tent. The rare tranquility at this moment was reassuring, even bringing tears to one's eyes. No one spoke; they sat silently. The sudden apocalypse and disaster had exhausted them, and they simply enjoyed this peaceful moment.

Before long, the stew was ready. Mathilde broke the bread into pieces and threw it in, where it soaked up the potato and meat broth. This reminded Xiren of lamb stew, and he immediately felt warm all over.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes, then took the hands of Sam and Mathilde beside him, and so all six of them held hands, sat around the pot, and lowered their heads and closed their eyes together.

Siron spoke in a low voice: “Our Father in heaven, once again prepare this daily bread for us. We ask that you purify this food, so that it may nourish our bodies and minds. We also ask that you remember those who are still hungry at this time. We pray in your holy name.”

Then everyone said in unison, "Amen."

They let go of each other's hands, but their hearts seemed to have grown closer. These strangers were connected by a disaster, a march, a meal, and a prayer.

Xiren still doesn't know where some of these people came from, but at this moment they all share a common identity.

The sounds of spoons and chewing filled the air, and a few smiles finally appeared on people's faces. The wind and snow outside the tent were still howling, but they could no longer extinguish this tiny glimmer of light.

The stew was really nothing special for Xilun; even the fries at the coffee shop when he first transmigrated were better. But in this environment, having a pot of hot soup was the greatest happiness.

After tidying up after the meal, they slept on the sled. Sam was placed in the middle, and the others slept on the sides. However, the sled was still too small, so Siron wrapped himself in a pile of cotton clothes and slept on the railway tracks below.

But shortly after lying down, Sam let out a low groan of pain, followed by rustling sounds; Mathilde had also fallen asleep on the tracks.

"What's wrong?" Xilun asked, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“He pressed on his wound when he turned over.” Mathilde crawled into her sleeping bag. “I was right next to his broken leg, it was too crowded up there.”

"Oh." Xiren closed his eyes.

Mathilde looked at his eyes, which had closed again, her long, black eyelashes trembling slightly, and asked softly, "Are all graduates of the University of Florence like you?"

"Which aspect are you talking about?"

She looked into Xilen's eyes and chuckled, "How cowardly."

"Cowardly?" Xiren opened his eyes and looked at her in surprise.

“Yes, even though we just met, I carefully protect their souls, not wanting anyone to suffer.” She looked into Xilun’s blue eyes, which reflected her own long orange-red hair. “How can you do great things like this?”

“I never thought about doing anything big.” Xiren turned over, his back to her.

“But you are a bishop,” she said softly. “You will have many believers, you will manage and even rule many people. You are going to Speyside to take on such responsibilities and destiny.”

"..."

"You know that story, right—God made Abraham sacrifice his son Isaac to God. If you were in that situation, what would you do?"

“I’ll make God go to hell,” Siron said in a muffled voice, his whole body slumped inside his sleeping bag.

Mathilde chuckled, and then silence fell over the tent.

(End of this chapter)