The Little Mouse

"Keep moving, everyone! We're almost there!" Ulyan shouted periodically to motivate the weary travelers.

Following the crude map provided by Uncle Ulyan, the villagers had traveled southward along the World Tree Road for a thousand miles. After more than a month of arduous journeying, they reached the outpost where Ulyan had once been stationed. They then left the main road, following the Anzeno River westward. They trekked through over thirty miles of primeval forest, aiming for their destination at the river bend.

At this moment, the convoy was positioned at the final leg of their journey, having left the westernmost outpost of the Freylov Barony, officially entering the untamed wilderness.

Despite the crude, high-definition, unmarked, classified map of the western outpost provided by Ulyan from his early service days, the last thirty miles were proving more treacherous than the thousand before it. Not only did they face the lurking beasts, but they also endured four kobold ambushes. The final attack was the most devastating, causing more casualties than all the previous skirmishes combined.

Of the fifty militiamen left, only half were still able to fight. Even the newly appointed militia captain, Leo Mundo, had been gravely injured in the fray.

The relentless kobold attacks, combined with the lack of a clear path, slowed the heavily laden convoy to a near halt. Wheels sank into mud pits, carts overturned, axles broke. Donkeys spooked and bolted, or stubbornly refused to move. Rain, snow, and fallen trees blocked their way. The villagers, already at their wits' end, began to despair.

"How much further? When will we arrive? Can't we set up camp here?" Voices of frustration and tears echoed through the group.

"Tomorrow! We'll reach it tomorrow! Just a bit more!" Ulyan called out with a wide smile, jumping onto a large boulder and waving his horned helmet. "There are fat fish waiting to be caught, deer running wild, trees ready for the chopping, and vast, fertile lands. Everyone will have enough to eat!"

Ulyan's reassurances, repeated countless times, had become a chant among the children of the convoy. Despite the repetition, his words kept hope alive, allowing the villagers to hold on a bit longer. Without Ulyan's leadership and charisma, the convoy would have likely fallen apart long before now.

Finally, after many "tomorrows," the convoy reached the river bend—the new home Ulyan had promised. The river bend was a vast peninsula formed by years of silt deposition, creating a broad plain. Unlike the dense forests lining the riverbanks, the peninsula was covered in grasslands and small lakes, with only a few scattered hills bearing sparse trees and shrubs.

Even in winter, the thigh-high dry grass stood tall, resilient against the snow's weight, signifying fertile land perfect for cultivation. Even a layman like Leo could tell this place was ideal for settlement.

After three days and nights of rest on the wagon, Leo Mundo managed to stand and walk again. During this time, fragments of the original owner's memories, like shards of a shattered mirror, chaotically embedded themselves in his mind, subtly altering his perceptions and behavior. Fortunately, the original owner had lived in a constant daze, so Leo's behavior raised no suspicion.

As the convoy settled on the pebble-strewn riverbank, a collective sigh of relief swept through them. There was a sense of survival, but also confusion about what to do next. Ulyan, ever the leader, leapt onto a wagon, loudly organizing the villagers to gather wood, set up fires, and pitch tents.

Leo left the bustling camp and sat on a large boulder by the river, taking advantage of his injury-induced reprieve. Before him, the Anzeno River, a tributary of the Northern Ice River, flowed. It originated from the Great Barrier, cascading from thousands of meters high and meandering northeast for over two thousand miles before merging with the Northern Ice River near the town of Olenik, and eventually flowing into the Storm Bay and the Ice Sea.

Though called a tributary, the Anzeno River was a major river in its own right, marked on maps of the continent. Its waters were calm and its freezing period short, making it rich in fish. Unlike the perpetually frozen Northern Ice River, the Anzeno River was more like the mother river of the northern lands. The riverbend marked the river's upper reaches, where the water, once turbulent, broadened into a serene expanse over a hundred meters wide, almost like a small lake, clear enough to see schools of fish swimming.

Looking west, Leo could see the snow-covered mountain ranges. Beyond several low peaks, the sheer cliffs of the Great Barrier rose, disappearing into the clouds, as if marking the world's end. This was just a glimpse of the immense structure encircling the continent like a massive tree stump.

The Anzeno River's waters cascaded from these heavenly heights, creating a series of vast waterfalls. To the north, beyond the great river, lay an endless expanse of primeval forest filled with massive coniferous trees, their crowns heavy with snow. A herd of deer, as tall as horses, drank from the riverbank. A few curious fawns watched Leo, calling out in soft voices.

Uncle Ulyan had told tales of how this area, now forested, was once a vast grassland called the Wolf Driving Plain, where the beastfolk grazed their dire wolves, the origin of their famed wolf riders. When the beastfolk retreated north of the Northern Ice River, shamans and elven druids transformed the plains into forests, concealing ancient beastfolk ruins.

Leo admired Uncle Ulyan's storytelling, weaving rich histories and captivating tales about anything and everything. Golden-haired Olivia approached, checking on Leo's wounds. Satisfied with his recovery, she sternly reminded him, "The tent is set up. Rest if you're tired, and don't wander off. Got it?"

"Got it," Leo nodded obediently, enjoying the scenery until the cold drove him back to the camp, where he found his tent. It was a small, patchwork affair made of various furs, filled with pelts Leo had collected over the years. Though poorly tanned and heavily used, the pelts were still warm, making the tent one of the best in the camp.

Outside the tent, a mud-covered child huddled, shivering. Draped in a tattered blanket, he pressed his back against the tent for warmth. Leo nudged him into the tent with a light kick, teasing, "Found anything to eat today, little mouse?"

The original Leo had lived a rough, semi-wild, and often lawless life, making violence a deeply ingrained habit. Even though Leo held back, the child still tumbled into the tent, rolling into the pile of furs.

The child, whom Leo called "Little Mouse," was a small, emaciated figure with rare black hair and eyes. Leo had found him ten days earlier, curled up under a cart on a snowy morning, nearly frozen. Perhaps recalling his own rough childhood, the original Leo had dragged the nearly lifeless boy into his tent and fed him his breakfast. The boy, against all odds, survived and had since followed the convoy, appearing at night to sleep in Leo's tent.

Though the original Leo showed some kindness, he had little to spare. With food scarce, he could only offer the boy a corner of his tent. "Little Mouse" was initially called "Little Mute" until he spoke, earning his new nickname. How the boy had managed while Leo was injured was a mystery.

As Leo settled into his tent, he pondered the days ahead. This new home was a challenge, but it was also a fresh start. He, Leo Mundo, was ready to face it head-on.