Chapter 375 - 189: Camus and Alex’s Past, Stand Behind Me! (Part 1)

Chapter 375: Chapter 189: Camus and Alex’s Past, Stand Behind Me! (Part 1)

The cold wind of Siberia, carrying ice shards like tiny blades, scraped viciously against the outer walls of the igloo, letting out a howling roar.

This year’s Siberian winter was harsher than any winter in past years.

Camus’s family igloo was built of thick ice blocks, with dry moss stuffed into the crevices, barely blocking out the bitter cold outside.

Inside, the campfire crackled in the stone fire pit. The orange-red firelight reflected on Camus’s tender face as he curled up beside his father. He held his hands close to the flames for warmth, his fingertips red from the cold.

Beside the fire pit, another boy of a similar age lay curled up.

It was the child his father had rescued on the ice field three days ago.

The boy had black hair and black eyes. His entire body was burning up; fine beads of sweat rolled down from his forehead along his pale cheeks, soaking the animal skins laid beneath him.

His eyes were tightly shut, his brows knitted into a deep frown. His lips were dry and cracked, and he occasionally let out suppressed groans. Every breath he took was accompanied by rapid panting, clearly suffering from the severe agony of a high fever.

Camus curiously reached out his hand to touch the boy’s forehead.

The moment his fingertips made contact, a burning temperature transmitted over like a hot iron. Startled, he yanked his hand back, the burning sensation lingering on his fingertips for a long time.

For some unknown reason, seeing the boy’s painful state made his heart feel empty, as if a crucial piece was missing. An inexplicable restlessness surged in his heart.

He squatted to the side, staring at the boy’s fever-flushed face, and thought silently to himself that the boy would probably not survive the night.

However, early the next morning, when the first faint ray of morning light shone through the crevices of the igloo, Camus was pleasantly surprised to find that the boy had actually sat up.

His fever had broken. Although his face was still a bit pale, his eyes had become clear, and he was looking down, examining this unfamiliar environment.

Soon, the two children became inseparable companions who talked about everything. The boy quickly took Camus’s father as his adoptive father, thoroughly integrating into this small family on the ice field.

Camus would always remember that night.

The campfire was burning brightly. His father smiled and patted the boy’s shoulder, his tone amiable.

"Child, from now on, you are a part of this family. Shall I give you a name?"

The boy, however, shook his head. His eyes held a trace of composure that did not belong to someone his age.

"No need, I have a name. My name is Alex. I don’t belong to this world, and sooner or later, I will find my way home!"

The father smiled and did not force it, instead handing the boy a cup of strong liquor.

"Alright then, here’s to wishing your dream comes true!"

The boy frowned and drank the strong liquor. He coughed violently, wiped his mouth, and turned to look at Camus’s father.

"Adoptive Father, I’ve kept forgetting to ask, what is my younger brother’s name?"

"Oh, his name is Camus. If you didn’t have a name, I was planning on calling you Karl..."

The father answered casually as he added firewood to the fire.

The very moment the word "Camus" was spoken, Camus clearly saw Alex’s expression change abruptly.

First, his pupils contracted sharply; then, his face filled with unbelievable astonishment, as if he had heard something inconceivable.

Immediately after, that astonishment rapidly faded, replaced by a bottomless indifference, before finally settling back into a faint nonchalance, as if the emotional fluctuation just now had merely been an illusion.

At that moment, an inexplicable chill rose in Camus’s heart, yet he couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong.

The peaceful days did not last long before a disaster suddenly struck. In order to improve the two children’s meals, the father went to hunt a newly born polar bear cub but accidentally enraged the mother bear.

When the father crawled back to the igloo covered in blood, the wound on his chest was so deep that bone was visible, and fresh blood dyed the thick animal skins red.

He struggled to grasp Alex’s hand, pleading with a weak breath:

"Child, I saved you. In return, you must take good care of Camus. Take care of him as if he were your own blood brother..."

The emotions of Siberians had always been simple and pure: repay kindness with kindness, and exact vengeance for grievances.

After the father breathed his last breath, Alex shouldered the hunting rifle alone and trespassed into the polar bear’s territory.

Three days later, he returned dragging the mother bear’s corpse, his body adorned with many new injuries.

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