Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

“Grisha, you’re daydreaming here again.”

“Don’t call me Grisha, call me Gregory, I’m already a grown-up.”

“Alright, Grisha~”

The boy turned around angrily and ran into the bushes, leaving behind the children who were laughing and giggling.

Those children had formed a small team, patrolling every day as if it were real, claiming that when they grew up, they would join the Resistance Army.

They made it sound nice, but in the end, hadn’t they still failed to save Lady Nora? Grisha whipped the ground with a branch.

Lady Nora.

  As soon as Grisha thought of the figure who had stood before them, his heart twisted in pain.

Lady Nora had died covering the retreat.

At that time, the nobles of the Northlands had sent many cavalry to sweep the area. The so-called Resistance Army was, in truth, mostly refugees. They had been hiding in the woods, and only recently managed to gather a small force to trade for some food in the town. Somehow, though, they had been discovered.

Lady Nora had told them to run, then she charged at the cavalry alone, wielding her flail.

Grisha had wanted to help her, but the moment he saw those cavalry sabers, his heart thumped wildly, his mind filled only with terror. By the time he came to his senses, he was already collapsed at the camp with everyone else, gasping desperately for breath.

At this thought, Grisha slapped himself hard. Standing dazed for a moment, he sat down on the ground and cried bitterly.

He would never see Lady Nora again.

Nora was a very strict person. She would scold him, make him stand as punishment when he did something wrong, but she would also hand him roasted chestnuts.

Everyone in the Resistance Army revered Lady Nora.

Lady Nora had never spoken of where she came from, but everyone knew she was a Burier from the Silent Sanctum.

Several Priests from the Silent Sanctum had once come, argued with Lady Nora, and tried to take them away. Yet no one moved.

Even Old Ivan, the most devout believer of the Sanctum, turned away——

The Silent Sanctum had never saved them. Nora had. They did not care about the Silent Sanctum. Wherever Nora was, that was the Sanctum.

But now, Nora was gone.

Grisha’s tears fell in heavy drops, landing on the ground and freezing into ice.

In the beginning, the camp was full of quarrels every day.

They were nothing more than ordinary people, but gathered around Lady Nora, they had somehow become a Resistance Army that gave the nobles headaches.

Without Nora, they were just destitute refugees again.

Gradually, however, the camp grew quiet.

Everyone became silent. Each sweep of the nobles took away more people. Those left grew increasingly subdued.

Surrender was useless. Their lives weren’t worth a few copper coins. The Northlands had no shortage of displaced people.

Breaking out was impossible. Even when Nora had been there, the Resistance Army only barely held together. Without her, it was only a slow death.

They were like salmon gradually freezing solid in the river. All they could do was wait for death.

But those were matters for the adults. The children were still too young. Though they could sense the suffocating atmosphere, they continued their games of patrols, dreaming that one day they would grow up and join the Resistance Army.

They didn’t know. They would never grow up.

After crying until exhausted, Grisha crawled silently to his feet. One could not sleep on the ground during the winter in the Northlands. Though sleep was warm and comfortable, it meant never waking to see the sun again.

Forcing himself up, Grisha felt dizzy. After walking for half a day, he realized he had gone the wrong way.

The forests of the Northlands were covered in snow, but after living here nearly a year, Grisha knew how to find direction.

He chose a new, unfamiliar path. Judging by the terrain, it should lead toward the camp. It was near the edge of the forest. He trudged one deep, one shallow step through the snow, his small figure carving a long trail across the white expanse.

咔嚓。

The sound of metal striking rang harshly across the silent plain.

Grisha, like a startled animal, quickly turned his head. But it was too late——a black shadow was rapidly expanding in his vision!

咣！

The metal head of a flail slammed together before his eyes. He could even see the scripture engraved on it, mixed with countless blood-stained marks. It carried a strange, holy feeling.

The wielder pulled back at the last instant. The flail had nearly smashed open Grisha’s small head.

Terrified, Grisha collapsed onto the ground. After a moment, his eyes widened with a hopeful thought, and he looked up expectantly.

Heavy fur boots, edges worn and frayed. From the cracks in the armor, he could barely glimpse the inside.

White icefield plate armor, like the glaciers of the Northlands that never melted—cold, hard, unyielding—layered with frozen blood, patterned like engravings.

A massive tower shield blocked the small figure. It was a figure Grisha knew too well. She had stood before him countless times. When she raised her shield, even the icy wind seemed to slow for a moment.

Grisha’s tears flowed again.

He did not bother to wipe them, letting them freeze together with his snot on his cheeks.

He rushed forward, hugging the icy armor, as devoutly as a child embracing his mother.

“Lady Nora, you’re back, is it you?”

The frozen blood on the armor thawed slightly, smearing his face. He did not care, but looked up——

Yet it was not the face he had dreamed of day and night.

It should have been a white-haired young woman, eyes resolute and fearless. She was always stern, but the moment one saw her, a sense of peace welled up from within.

But now…it was empty.

A headless body walked upon the snowy plains of the Northlands, standing before Grisha.

He should have been terrified. He should have screamed. He should have run. Yet his feet were rooted to the ground. The fear swirled in his mind, then was swept away by the howling wind, leaving only warmth.

She was Nora. No matter what, she was Nora. With Nora here, there was nothing to fear.

The fingers holding the flail twitched.

Grisha shivered, closed his eyes, but refused to let go. He would rather be killed by Nora than abandon her again.

Life in the Northlands was too bitter. To die here was better than to go on like this.

He clung to Nora’s armor, face wet with tears mixed with blood. He could not tell whose blood, whose tears.

The sound of metal clashing, scraping. The flail was raised high. The censer heads tapped against each other softly, as though pronouncing a sentence.

Yet peace suddenly settled in Grisha’s heart.

He should have died long ago, in the White Calamity, when Nora had leapt from the carriage and dragged him from a collapsing house.

Nora’s hand came down. The gauntlet, cold and hard, gently rested on Grisha’s head, as if clumsily comforting him.

Grisha’s tears flowed once more.