Serious People, Who is Learning Magic at Marvel?

The young man standing across from him was not wearing a helmet or armor. Holding two long knives, he stood opposite Kedal eager to try.

Kedal frowned: "The tribe even sent a young warrior like you to stop me?"

The young man tapped the long knife and smiled excitedly: "No, no. I came voluntarily! I am Winter's minion, the call of the wilderness. I am—"

Kedal interrupted him blankly: "—you're a little brat without a beard, now, throw down your knife and go back."

The smile on the young man's face disappeared: "You will pay for your contempt, Kedar."

He rushed up, and Kedal didn't even use an axe, he subdued the young man with his bare hands, and inserted his double knives into his own belly.

It all happens within a few strokes.

The separation between life and death is so thin that a few seconds are enough to decide one's life and death. Kedal looked sadly at the young man's face twitching with pain, his life rapidly draining. Before long, he will also become one of the countless bodies buried in this snow-capped mountain.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked in a low voice.

"Dalix Winter's Claw..."

The young man's wrinkled facial features unfolded for a while, and he laughed again: "They... said... that's right, you respect your... opponent."

He endured the pain and intermittently expressed his admiration for Kedar: "It is my... honor to die under... your hands."

"Stop talking, you will only make yourself more painful."

After saying this, Kedal found that he was dead.

How old is he? Kedal doesn't know, but neither is his young, beardless face. Or the short name that didn't even have a middle name, which made Kedal difficult to accept.

How could they send the kids out to fight me?

Lifting the axe, he stepped forward, the last enemy in sight, old, not even tall, and missing an arm.

But his appearance made Kedar stunned.

"...Father."

Kedal said in a low voice.

His father looked at him with the only right eye left,

Holding a long knife in one arm. He said slowly, "Is Skhir playing well?"

"...he played well, father."

"That's good. Valhall will welcome him, may he rest in peace." The old man nodded and raised the long sword in his hand.

"...don't do that, father."

The tribal leaders of the Freljord were not men as outsiders thought they were, but women. They are called war mothers, and there are many heroic warriors in this land, but the most powerful of them are all women. Kedal didn't think it was strange. After all, the source of the Frost Bloodline was the three sisters. Furthermore, in this land, the strong were respected.

However, this also extends some systems that are incomprehensible to outsiders, such as 'Oath to the Father'.

A war mother can have multiple partners, or they can choose only one, as they wish. And their children have only one mother, but most of them are fathers. This is the oath to the father.

Kedal has five sworn fathers, but only one father. his biological father. Dolores Law Darwell Winter's Claw.

Winter's Claw is the tribal name, and Lo Darwell is the name of their ancestors. And Dolores... in the ancient language, represented the bear.

Duloris definitely deserved this name when he was young. He was only taller than the current Kedar, and he could lift three giant axes with one hand. He is always the one with the most kills in battle and the most prey in hunting. But now he has not only lost his left hand, he is also blind in one eye. The originally tall body is now short.

How ruthless is the power of time?

Duloris frowned and said sternly: "What are you talking about? I'm here to take your life! And you have the right to take my life. This is an ancient law, Kedar. Raise you up. Axe in hand!"

"But I don't want to fight you, father."

Dolores smiled.

"Do you look down on me? Do you think that an old and disabled old man like me is not qualified to fight you? Huh? Is it? 'Warrior without scars', 'Spirit of Courage', 'Soul of Rage' the great gram Dal Lo Davel Winter's Claw doesn't think I deserve it, is that so?!"

He roared, his voice piercing the snowy mountains and deafening.

"...No, Father," Kedal whispered, taking the axe.

Duloris smiled with satisfaction, one of them held a sword in one hand, and the other held an axe in both hands. Slowly approach each other.

As he walked towards his son, he said, "You shouldn't have come back, Kedar."

"I have what I have to do, Father," his son replied.

Duloris smiled, and the beard trembled along with it: "Yes, this is you. Nothing can stop you from making a decision, this is my son."

The attack distance of the axe is much longer than that of the sword, but when Kedal faced his father who had approached his attack range, he still did not choose to swing the axe. He let his father walk across from him, and then he stretched out his axe, met his blade, and struck once.

Duloris sang an old song: "Oh! Valhall!"

Tap twice.

"We kill in your name! We die in your name!"

Tap three times.

"Valhar! In your name! And the blood to come! I call you!"

Tap four times.

Kedal felt something ancient awakened, right among the mountains, just above this narrow path. The cold wind whistled past his cheeks, his hands holding the axe, and his father's aged body.

A strength that made him numb rose up, then turned to pain, and then a rage that never faded filled his heart. He was panting heavily, his eyes were red, his teeth grinned, and he tried his best to suppress the fighting spirit in his heart and the desire to tear his father to pieces.

So did Duloris, who grinned and sang the last part of the ballad: "Valhar! Valhar! You are the storm, you are the lightning! You are death, and you are new! Witness! Witness our death! Just like you witnessed our birth!"

The blade separated from the axe, Duloris took a few steps back, and then slammed the blade in his hand to meet the axe again. This time, it was full of killing intent.

Kedar bent down and calmly blocked his father's attack while approaching him. The longsword is flexible, and Duloris is quite experienced. He firmly controlled the distance, preventing him from swinging the axe in his hand, and constantly swinging the long sword to restrain his attention.

But Kedal still found an opportunity.

He suddenly took a heavy step, and a heavy shoulder bump hit Duloris' chest. He had to take a few steps back, and at the same time, the axe, which was shining with cold light and air, had already struck.

"...Well done, boy."

Kedal hurriedly stepped forward and supported Duloris' body. His belly was cut open by the blade of the axe, and the hot guts and intestines splattered all over the place, and the blood rolled freely on Kedar's body, finally meeting in the snow beneath their feet.

Duloris let go of his hand, and the long sword fell to the ground. He raised his hand laboriously, straightened Kedar's head, and said angrily: "Your wound, you need to deal with it as soon as possible... Remember what I taught you ?"

The man shook his head.

Duloris smiled freely and fell down.

And Kedal's right arm was left with a long and narrow wound. His father could still hurt him even in his old age and frailty.

The desire to kill was gone, replaced by a deep, indelible sadness, but he didn't show it, and no one could see his expression. Even if there is one, there is no way to tell from his helmet-covered face.

Only a glimpse could be seen from the trembling chin.

Kedal's hands were steady, and he ripped open his clothes and ripped them into strips, as Duloris had taught him when he was young. Bandaging the wound, and after doing all this, he stood up. Taking his father's sword, he picked up the snow and covered his body.

Putting the sword in the hands of Duloris is an ancient custom that should only be used on true warriors. The Freljord believe that the dead will one day return, and they need weapons.

After doing all this, Kedal moved on.

There are four corpses behind him, the future of his tribe, his father, his brother. and his siblings.

-------------------------------------

Migration is never easy, and the people of the Ibratar need to do this every year—other tribes only move once every three years.

But they have nothing to do with magic.

I don't know if it is cursed or not, but there will still be iceborns in the Ibratar tribe, but no spellcasters have ever been born. People inherit strength from frozen ground and blood. Some people can only be furnaces because they can't fight. But they were passionate about forging weapons and armor for their warriors, and at the same time, they did things like production.

Others are fighters. There are many of them, and all of them are good players. Fewer and stronger are the Iceborn, who have inherited special powers from the Three Frost Sisters, able to ignore the wind and snow that freezes to death, and even wield dangerous weapons forged by those True Ice.

But, for some reason. No spellcaster has ever been born within the Ibratar tribe.

Wilt Crolidas Ibratar looked at the road ahead worriedly. It was not far from the destination of their migration, where they were preparing for the winter, and it was enough to climb over the mountain. But every year migration kills people, and this year is particularly bad. Fifteen furnacemen froze to death and two starved to death.

There were no casualties among the soldiers, but most of them were starving. Wilt could see this, and as the only remaining ice bloodline in the tribe, and also the companion of Warmother Variana, he felt quite heartbroken about it.

If we had spellcasters—!

Thinking like this, he turned around to signal the team to take a break. A warrior quickly passed his orders, and the furnaces at the end of the line began to camp, while the warriors rested for a while, watching out for any danger that might come—men, beasts.

No one can be trusted unless he is a member of a clan.

This is one of the laws of survival in the Freljord.

Wilt went to his partner, Warmother Variana. She looked very absent-minded, with her hand on the hatchet at her waist. Seeing him coming, Variana sighed.

"How much food do we have left?"

"Only five days," Wilt replied.

He added, "Why don't I go out with the hunters?"

"It's useless, my dear." Variana shook her head, her pale blond hair shone mysteriously in the sunlight. The young war mother smiled sadly: "The animals have long since left, and the lake is frozen. Even if we have you, we can't break the ice."

"You can't just watch them starve."

"We have no choice but to continue on our way."

Wilt shook his head: "More people will die, furnaces, soldiers, and even you and me."

"That doesn't matter, as long as the tribe can continue."

replied the young warmother, looking into Wilt's blue eyes and stroking his cheek involuntarily: "...but you'd better die behind me, Wilt Crollidas Ibrata you."

"Otherwise?" Wilt grinned.

Variana pulled him hard and gave him a deep kiss.

For a long time, the lips are divided.

Variana pretended that nothing happened, turned her head and drove him away: "Go on with your business."

Wilt smiled brighter, and he liked Variana's shyness.

Not long after they set up camp, the wind suddenly picked up again. Wilt's heart, which had just been relieved by the kiss, became heavy again.

This is the harbinger of an impending blizzard.

If there's a blizzard, they won't be able to hit the road tonight. Not to mention hitting the road, it’s hard to say whether we can move on tomorrow morning. Moreover, more people may die because of this weather.

The Ibratars were not a huge clan. They now have only forty-three furnace households, twenty-five warriors, and two iceborn. They can't afford to lose anything.

Wilt immediately shouted to the team: "Put your tents tighter! The blizzard is coming! Get ready! I want everyone to get ready! Understand!"

He was answered by a series of weak but still loud shouts, even when they were starving, they still had the integrity of the Ibratar tribe.

An Ibratar never gives in.

In the sound of the wind getting louder and louder, a warrior approached him with a huge sword on his back. A bearded man with three short knives hanging from his waist. Eyes sunken: "Wilt, we have to find some food."

"There's no prey here, Wilhelm, you should know that."

The soldier called Wilhelm gritted his teeth unwillingly: "Then we have to go out! Look at those furnaces, damn, they are so hungry that they can't walk! If we go on like this, we have to burn snow water to drink. Now, you know what's in the snow, right?!"

Wilt said quietly: "Calm down, Wilhelm. Don't be blinded by anger."

Wilhelm sighed: "...Sorry, Wilt. I'm just too excited. The furnaces have worked so hard for a year, and I thought this year wouldn't be... ugh!"

He sighed heavily, and Wilt knew what he wanted to say. The furnaces had a good harvest this year, but they didn't get much food. They were ransacked and had to hand over some food in order to save people's lives. This also led to the death of many people on the way to winter migration. Originally, they set off ahead of schedule, thinking about reaching their destination quickly, but, this damn snowstorm...

After patting Wilhelm, Wilt said, "Go and rest, don't stand foolishly outside. The wind and snow will come soon."

Yes, the blizzard is coming soon. In the evening, before the sun had completely disappeared, the blizzard had already hung up. People sat in tents, enduring cold, hunger, and fear of the future. The sound of the wind blowing through the tent was so loud.

Wirth is not afraid of the cold, so he chose to stand in the wind and snow as a sentry. No way, even a blizzard needs someone to watch.

He saw a wobbly light coming towards him in the wind and snow in front of him. Needless to say, he knew that it could only be Variana. Only he and Variana were iceborn and could survive in such an environment. Move around freely.

Sure enough, the young mother-in-law came to him through the wind and snow. He gave him a deep kiss again.

"This thing works really well," she said, pointing to the kerosene lamp.

"Yeah, warm-blooded people are not useless. At least this thing they sell can withstand the wind and snow." Wilt put his arms around her and replied.

"Do you think the snowstorm will stop tonight?" he asked.

The mother-in-law shook her head gently: "I don't think, it looks like we have to rest here for two days."

"Okay." Wilt sighed, and then said, "If the snow doesn't stop tomorrow, I'll take people out to find food. I can't just watch the furnaces starve."

Variana didn't speak for a while, and just as Wilt felt she was expressing her objection, she suddenly said, "Wilter, look there."

Looking in the direction she pointed, Wilt's expression immediately became serious.

From the rear of their team, in the endless snowstorm, a white light was slowly approaching.

"what is that?"

"I don't know... Go and inform everyone, Wilt!" Variana said decisively, and at the same time, she pulled out the hatchet from her waist and walked towards the end of the line.

The closer she got, the more clearly she could see the scene in the snowstorm. As the white light got closer and closer, Variana was shocked to find that there was a man standing beside the white light. He was clearly not from the Freljord, but a warm-blooded man out there.

He lowered his head, and was reading with a book in his hand. Wherever he went, the wind and snow stopped. The roar resumed after he passed by, and continued to wreak havoc on the ground. He completely ignored the bad weather, and as he got closer, Variana could even hear him humming, as if on an outing.

The man seemed to notice her, put away the book, raised his head and smiled and nodded slightly to her: "Hello, ma'am."