Chapter 29 (29) Nah, I’d Win: 03

Frieren had gambled.

She rarely did.

For most of her long life, she had moved carefully, patiently, with the quiet certainty of someone who had centuries to correct mistakes. But this time she had spoken too easily.

You can win.

She had looked at Stark and Fern and said it without hesitation.

They had believed her.

And Stark had paid the price.

Now the world around them was nothing but white fury.

The blizzard of the Decle Region swallowed the horizon whole. Snow didn't fall, it attacked. It came in slanted sheets, biting against skin and fabric, screaming across the plains like a living thing determined to erase every trace of warmth.

They walked in a line to avoid losing one another.

Kraft led.

Behind him, Stark lay unconscious in his arms, wrapped tightly in cloaks and spare cloth, head resting against the elf's shoulder. His breath came faintly, fogging weakly in the freezing air.

Sein followed close, murmuring a steady priestly incantation under his breath. A faint golden warmth radiated from him, not enough to melt the snow but enough to keep their limbs from stiffening completely.

Fern walked next, staff raised slightly, a steady glow lighting the path ahead through the white chaos.

Frieren came last.

Normally, she would have already gone stiff from the cold, her body succumbing to lethargy in this kind of climate. She disliked cold deeply and had never hidden it.

But today she did not falter.

A thin veil of mana wrapped around her like an invisible cloak, keeping frost from settling into her bones. It was inefficient and wasteful, something she would normally avoid.

Today, she allowed it.

She would not slow them down.

She would not be another burden.

Fern glanced back from time to time.

Not openly.

Not accusingly.

Just quick looks over her shoulder.

Checking distance. Making sure Frieren hadn't fallen behind. Making sure she wasn't swallowed by the storm.

But every time their eyes met, Frieren felt something unspoken.

This is your fault.

Fern never said it. Fern would never say it. But Frieren felt it anyway. The wind howled louder, as if agreeing.

She replayed the battle again in her mind.

That demon girl. Technique like that was rare. To be strong enough to harm Stark…

Stark, who could cleave adult wyverns in half. Stark, whose raw physical strength rivaled most creatures…

Frieren had underestimated her. She had miscalculated. Type, arrogance, experience, none of it mattered. The result was the same.

Stark lay unconscious in another's arms. And they were chasing hope through a blizzard. Where were they even going? Sein and Fern didn't fully know.

Kraft had given them an answer, if it could be called that.

There is a place.

A place where we can gamble. A risk. A crossing through the blizzard. The price: a chance at healing Stark. A chance. That was all.

"Where is this cabin?" Sein called forward, his voice nearly stolen by the wind.

"Close," Kraft replied without turning. His voice carried strangely well despite the storm. "Just follow me."

Sein frowned but did not argue.

He was not an adventurer by trade. Not someone accustomed to navigating death through snowstorms and cryptic elves. He was a village priest who had thought his greatest struggle would be mundane illness or the occasional bandit wound.

Now he carried a boy like fragile glass in a land that did not care for faith. Or at least not that he knew or fully understood.

The snow deepened as they went deeper.

Fern's boots sank nearly to her calves at times, but she did not complain. She only tightened her grip on her staff and pressed forward.

Frieren kept her gaze on Kraft's back.

The elf moved with unnatural ease, as though the blizzard parted for him out of respect.

She knew of this place. Of course she did. Eighty years ago, she had stood there. Eighty years ago, the snow had not felt this heavy. Or perhaps it had and she simply had not noticed. Because she had not been alone.

Himmel had laughed at the cold. Heiter had complained loudly while secretly enjoying the hardship. Eisen had walked silently, carrying more supplies than necessary just in case. The memory surfaced.

"We're here," Kraft announced suddenly.

Through the white storm, a shape emerged. A cabin. Small. Weather-beaten. Half-buried in snowdrifts. The roof sagged slightly under accumulated frost. One shutter hung crooked. The wood had darkened with age.

Sein hurried forward, pushing through the last stretch of snow. He reached the door and forced it open with a heavy shove.

The hinges groaned in protest. Cold air spilled inside first, followed by them. One by one they entered.

Kraft stepped in carefully, lowering Stark onto an old wooden table near the wall.

Fern moved immediately to the stone fireplace, kneeling and brushing away ash from long-dead embers. With a flick of her staff and a controlled burst of magic, dry wood caught flame. Orange light bloomed. Warmth began to spread slowly.

Sein hurried to Stark's side, adjusting wrappings, checking his pulse, whispering another quiet prayer.

Frieren stepped further inside.

The cabin smelled of old timber and faint smoke that had settled into the walls decades ago. Her eyes drifted to the bed in the far corner.

Still there.

Same frame. Same uneven legs. She walked toward it slowly and sat down. The wood creaked under her steps.

Eighty years.

The last time she had been here, she had not thought about returning. Why would she? Humans moved on so quickly.

Places blurred. Moments faded. But now it all felt painfully clear. Kraft approached and sat beside her without a word. For a while, neither spoke.

The fire crackled softly.

Sein murmured near Stark. Fern stood quietly, gaze fixed on the boy's pale face.

Frieren broke the silence. "You think this will work?" Her voice was softer than usual.

Kraft did not answer immediately. "I am not sure," he admitted at last.

"The last time," he continued, "the one who survived was a priest. And it was in the early stages."

Frieren's gaze did not say anything.

"Stark's condition is worse," Kraft went on. "And he is no priest. No warrior of faith." He glanced toward Stark. "If what you've told me about the demon is correct… then Stark has very little time."

The words were facts

"The wounds aren't getting worse," Sein said quickly, almost defensively. "They've stabilized."

Kraft's eyes shifted to him.

"It's not killing his body, Sein," he said quietly. "It's killing his soul."

The fire popped sharply. Sein fell silent. Fern's fingers tightened around her staff. Frieren stared at the floorboards. Soul. She understood that word too well. She had watched enough souls pass beyond reach.

Fern finally spoke. "Are you sure this will work?"

There was no accusation in her tone. Only tension. Controlled, barely restrained tension.

Kraft exhaled slowly. "It's the only thing I can think of now."

The only thing. That was not reassurance.

"When do we leave?" Sein asked.

He looked uneasy, glancing between the door and the windows rattling faintly under wind pressure.

"Usually," Kraft said, leaning back slightly, "I would stay here for months. Wait for the blizzard to calm down."

Sein's expression stiffened. Months? Stark did not have months.

Kraft's gaze turned toward the unconscious boy.

"But…" he continued, voice quieter, firmer, "I say we leave in the morning."

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