Landlord in the Arctic-Chapter 91: Chief

Fairbanks City.

The open-air RV campground at the Ice Art Park Winter Events Center.

An RV with Indian-style paintwork was parked by the lake.

Colorful feathers adorned the roof, fluttering in the wind. Even the wheel hubs were meticulously painted to complement the Indian motifs on the body of the vehicle.

Inside the RV, Indian-style rugs, curtains, bedding, and cushions added to the atmosphere.

Indian-style paintings and photographs hung on the walls, and the interior was decorated with Indian-style ornaments, small trinkets, and sculptures.

At that moment, an elderly Indian man was sitting in a rustic antler chair inside the RV. His skin was the color of bronze, and his face was etched with the marks of time, each deep wrinkle like a story written by the years.

The old man wore traditional Indian clothing, a garment pieced together from brightly colored fabrics and embroidered with exquisite patterns. A soft blanket with delicate tassels along its edge was draped over his shoulders.

Standing before the old man was a middle-aged man, bowed slightly with an expression full of respect, holding a plastic water bottle.

"Jie Luo, are you certain that person used Witchcraft?"

"Yes, honored Chief. I saw with my own eyes as he used a Spirit of All Things Witchcraft to save a victim of a brown bear attack from death."

"This is the water bottle he used. The Spell on it was written in the victim’s blood."

The middle-aged man respectfully held out the water bottle and presented it to the old man.

The old man took the water bottle, his gaze fixed on the mysterious, dried, blood-stained Spell on its surface.

His eyes, filled with confusion, were locked onto the Spell.

His rough fingers gently brushed across the bottle’s surface, feeling how different the Spell was.

"Chief, after the injured woman drank the water, her wounds stopped bleeding. That honored one must be a male Shaman. I swear on my ancestors, I am not lying."

Seeing the old man lost in thought, the middle-aged man offered his assurance. His voice trembled slightly with emotion, his hands clenched unconsciously, and he leaned forward slightly, his gaze eager for the old man’s response.

Time seemed to stand still.

After a long while, the deep furrows on the old man’s brow slowly smoothed out, and he looked up at the middle-aged man.

"Jie Luo, I believe you. You are a child of the tribe. Do not mention this to anyone else. I will handle it. You may go."

"Yes, Chief!" The middle-aged man bowed slightly, then turned and left the RV.

A young, sharp-looking Indian man standing outside the RV nodded to the middle-aged man before entering the vehicle and bowing to the elder.

"Chief, I’ve inquired at Memorial Hospital about the victim’s condition."

The old man nodded slightly.

The young Indian man continued, "According to the doctor’s description, the woman was severely injured when she was brought to the hospital. The strange thing is, they were all external wounds, but there was no sign of significant blood loss."

"The doctor determined that first aid had been administered, but there were no traces of treatment on the wounds themselves."

After speaking, the young man’s expression turned puzzled as he continued.

"I asked one of our Indian brothers in the Fairbanks Police Department to look up his information. He’s a young man from Eastern China who has lived in Alaska for less than a month. His grandfather is also Chinese, but he is registered as Athabasca."

Athabasca!!

The old man’s eyes narrowed slightly, a thoughtful gleam flickering in their depths. He gently set the bottle down, crossed his arms over his chest, and after a moment of silence, spoke slowly.

"This mysterious Spell might be a sign. We must interpret it with caution and not act rashly."

The young Indian man lowered his head. "I already sent him an invitation via text message. I also received a reply confirming his attendance at the meeting."

The old man began to speak, his voice low and powerful.

"In the wisdom of the Spirit of All Things, waiting is not the erosion of time, but the settling of the soul. Like the winter snow awaiting the spring wind, or the seed awaiting the rain, waiting is the steadfast holding of a belief, a devout acceptance of fate’s design."

He paused briefly before continuing.

"Waiting is a dialogue with time, a listening in the silence for the whispers of the Spirit of All Things. When you learn to wait, you will find that every moment of patience is for a more brilliant bloom, every period of dormancy is for a more powerful ascent."

"Praise be to the Spirit of All Things!" the young Indian man replied piously before leaving the RV.

The RV returned to its stillness.

Sunlight filtered through the window, casting quiet patches of light on the rug.

Everything seemed so tranquil. The bottle of water with its mysterious markings sat silently on the table.

The old man sat where he was, his eyes closed, seemingly mulling over everything he had just heard.

.....

「Far away on the Tundra.」

Feng Shan drove his sled at high speed across the vast, white expanse of snow, whooshing along as he enjoyed the speed and excitement.

He crossed the Tundra and returned to camp.

Nash was chopping wood when he heard shouts from outside the camp. He looked up in the direction of the sound.

The White Wolves pulling the sled charged into the camp. At the command of "WHOA," the sled carved a long arc in the snow before coming to a steady halt.

Inertia sent snow flying in all directions, like a firework of white exploding.

The seven White Wolves panted heavily, their white manes trembling slightly in the cold wind, their eyes a mixture of excitement and exhaustion.

Feng Shan leaped off the sled, the snow crunching under his feet. He untied the ropes and threw back the waterproof tarp.

"Xiaona, look what I hunted! A muskox!"

His voice, full of excitement and a touch of smugness, formed white puffs of vapor in the cold air.

Hearing him, Nash put down his axe and walked over.

A bull muskox lay silently on the sled. Its massive body and dark brown fur stood out starkly against the white snow.

"This big guy will be enough to feed us for a while. To hell with smoked meat and jerky." Feng Shan was all smiles as he unharnessed the White Wolves.

The "three little masters," hearing the commotion, scrambled out of the bus and began circling the muskox’s body.

"Out of the way. You’ll get some meat later." Feng Shan shooed the little ones away, then worked with Nash to carry the muskox carcass into the workshop to thaw.

If he had just killed it, skinning it while the carcass was still warm would have been easy. But now the flesh and hide were frozen solid. Forcibly skinning it would easily tear holes in the frozen pelt, ruining its integrity.

Muskox hide is an excellent insulator, easily withstanding temperatures of forty degrees below zero. He could make a blanket out of it for Xiaohua.

Besides, not just anyone can hunt muskox. The Alaska Department of Fish and Game only grants a limited number of permits each year, and only Indigenous People are allowed to hunt the bulls.

If sold on the fur market, a top-quality, intact muskox pelt could easily fetch tens of thousands of US Dollars.

As the fire in the workshop’s stove was lit, the stiff muskox carcass gradually began to soften.

Feng Shan gently pressed the muskox’s body with his fingers, feeling the elasticity and warmth gradually return.

’It’s about ready to be processed.’

Spreading open the incision on the muskox’s belly, he took out a small knife and made a cut at the junction of skin and flesh, his movements practiced and precise.

...