The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

In the Kingdom of Nord, there are only three warm months in a year; the rest of the time, this place seems always shrouded in snow and cold. The winter here is so frigid that the goddess of dawn can bring light but not warmth. Followers of the goddess of agriculture always strive to find ways to sow cold-resistant crops such as wheat, barley, and rapeseed in the fertile but perpetually cold land, barely managing to meet the nation's food supply needs.

At night, in the northern territory of Wulan Town in Nord, it is the deep winter season once again. As usual, the sky begins to drop heavy snow, layering thickly on the rooftops of every household, even covering the roads. The town's air is eerily silent, with thick smoke billowing from chimneys, while the weak starlight from the sky competes with the snow burying everything.

During this season, the sun sets early. After sunset, each minute's delay in returning to town means a minute's increase in danger. Outside town after dusk, there are robbers, wild beastmen, occasionally marauding northern barbarians, and even the fearsome Greenskins or undead wandering around. The townspeople generally choose not to venture out at this time; only the safety of their home doors and warm fireplaces can provide them with a sense of security.

In a world wrapped in silvery white, apart from the occasional patrolling guards, the town is dark like a dead city. The chilling winter wind constantly howls, and snowflakes flutter in the sky. In this coldest season of the year, the town's residents can only hide in their homes, hoping for the arrival of spring.

A man in black leather attire steps onto the town gate's steps, his boots creaking. He wears a low-pulled leather tricorn hat laden with snow. The man is tall and imposing, with a gold and silver patterned longsword on his back and a golden war hammer in hand, its handle as long as half a man and ending in a spiral spike that glints with a cold light.

This man has a handsome face, always with a smile, looking like a priest, yet his fluffy moustache suggests he is no older than twenty-five. The blood on his chainmail and his fierce gaze indicate he is certainly no priest.

After looking around and seeing no one on the snowy, muddy road, he sighs and approaches the gate where a sentinel stands guard. With a casual tone, he asks, "Excuse me, have you seen a man wearing a high, round hat, cloaked, in outdated trousers and black boots, with a pale face, in the past two days?"

The guard, initially reluctant to respond, changes his demeanor when the man lightly reveals a silver badge with a white wolf insignia.

"Apologies! My mistake, sir!" Upon seeing the badge, the guard instinctively straightens up and salutes, "Three days ago, indeed, such a man came here. He claimed to be Mr. Butte, a friend of our lord, so we let him in. He left early yesterday morning, heading southwest!"

"Mr. Butte? Hmm, let me think, three days ago it must have been like this, a stranger rode into town..." The man chuckles as the guard looks on uneasily. He gestures and continues, "Our loyal guard approached to inquire, but the traveler handed over some silver coins, suggesting it was improper to disclose his identity. Our loyal guard, touched by the traveler's sincerity—or rather, 'Mr. Butte's' sincerity—allowed him entry, right?"

In the freezing weather, sweat quickly forms and freezes on the guard's forehead as he stammers, "Sir, knight, please forgive us for being momentarily misguided by a malevolent spirit! I am willing to surrender that money to you, please forgive our transgression!"

Seemingly dissatisfied, the man huffs a cloud of frosty breath, then waves his hand dismissively, "Forget it, just let me into the town."

"Absolutely! Thank you so much!" Relieved, the guard hurries to open the gate, turning the simple wooden mechanism to let the man in, leaving the guard still shaken.

It is still six o'clock in the evening, which should be a bustling time for the town, but given Nord's climate, the sun had set at three o'clock, so he walks alone, contemplating the events along the way.

"The soldiers' wages ensure sustenance but not a comfortable life. Accepting a bribe in non-critical and non-military-violating situations is understandable. Mr. Butte, indeed cunning, has been a witch hunter for years, keen on human nature; a few silver coins spared him much trouble. However, this makes my task difficult," the man muses as he looks up at the bright moon, murmuring, "He headed southwest

, is Mr. Butte planning to go to the port?"

"Nevertheless, I should find lodging for now. Nights in the wilderness are too perilous," he decides, heading towards an inn.

Even in the smallest towns of the desolate Nord Kingdom, there is always an inn wherever humans dwell. The man quickly finds one—a two-story building with about a dozen rooms.

He enters through the inn's sturdy wooden door, which seems like a party venue inside. Wooden tables and chairs are scattered haphazardly, people engage in lively discussions and drink barley beer. The innkeeper and his wife continuously serve various foods and beers from behind the bar. The fireplace blazes intensely, with a thick stew simmering, its steam wafting through the inn.

The stark contrast between the icy outside and the warm inside, the inn's windows fogged up, creates the sense of two different worlds. In the center, by the bonfire, two drunkards hug each other and dance to a bard's lively song, joined by an awkwardly dancing merchant from the Empire, led by a burly man. His odd movements draw laughter from the patrons.

"Freya, miss! Another barley beer!" a big, bearded man shouts at the innkeeper's wife, slamming his empty mug, which only has foam left, on the bar.

"Beautiful! Remember to call me beautiful! Another beer? Pay up first; you've already had four, that's twenty copper coins in total!" The plump innkeeper's wife, hands on hips and spoon in hand, smacks the big man on the head. He quickly fishes out thirty copper coins, "Here, all for you, beautiful Miss Freya. Bring the beer quickly!"

"Alright!" She sweeps the coins into her apron pocket with a broad smile, takes the money, and quickly directs her staff to bring out more barrels of beer while the innkeeper places a plate of roast mutton in front of a soldier sitting at the bar. "Sir! Here's your roast, please enjoy."

"Thank you." The soldier takes the roast and orders a glass of wine, his face showing signs of age as he delves into the savory meat.

On the other side of the room, a flamboyantly dressed bard in purple clothes and a red soft hat, hanging a lyre from his shoulder, tunes his instrument, preparing to perform.

"What story are you bringing us today, bard?" a patron loudly asks.

"Yeah, if it's not good, we won't pay!" the crowd teases.

The bard adjusts his attire and begins to play a slow, mournful yet hopeful tune, narrating an ancient story, "Today, I'll tell you a grand epic from one hundred fifty years ago..."

Before he could continue, a new guest arrives at the inn. The doorbell rings, drawing attention to the man who had just entered. Everyone knows the story of Ludwig, the savior who emerged when a comet with two tails crossed the sky 150 years ago, becoming the new emperor after reuniting the shattered old empire and defeating the forces of chaos.

"Is there a room available?" the man asks amid curious glances, his voice young as many expected.

"An outsider?"

"No rooms left, outsider. We're closing soon, please leave."

"Closing time!"

The patrons half-jokingly, half-seriously clamor, not very welcoming to strangers, especially unfamiliar faces.

"Shut your mouths, you idiots! How hard is it to get a customer in this weather? You always stop me from doing business!" The innkeeper's wife roars, then quickly smiles, "We have plenty of rooms. Just you?"

"Yes, just me. And please prepare some dinner," the young man says, settling at the bar to order rye bread, boiled broad beans, barley beer, and a large piece of roast lamb, costing twenty copper coins.

"Bard, tell us a new story."

"What kind of story would you like?" the bard responds with a smile. "How about a tale of the founding knight-king of Britannia?"

"We've heard that one too!" the patrons reply.

"A story about the Greenskins and Dwarves' war?"

"That's boring!"

The patrons and the bard loudly discuss various topics, from war epics to love stories and even tales of deities, each with their own requests. The bard finds himself in a dilemma.

"How about this: let the bard tell us a new story about Nord's young hero, 'The Hammer' Ryan. How about that?"

"Good, good! That's the one!"

The man simply lowers his head to eat, occasionally spending a bit to get the innkeeper's wife to bring him a slice of butter for his bread. After dinner, he bids farewell and retreats to his room.

He has booked the best room in the inn. The worst accommodations are in a large dormitory filled with simple hemp and straw beds. Slightly better are the single or double rooms with just a

 simple bed and a corner bucket of water, not for drinking but for convenience.

His room has a soft bed, a table, a chair, and even a separate washing area. After returning, Ryan gently opens the window to watch the falling snow, "I wonder how long this snow will keep falling..."

Suddenly, a bracelet on his wrist glows with a soft white light. He isn't surprised and presses a gem on the bracelet, from which a commanding voice emerges.

"Ryan, have you found any trace of Butte?"

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