Chapter 1: Ambition

*Thud.*

The log fell, as did many others. It did not attempt to resist its displacement - only collapsing on the ground, its final thud unheard. The victor did not acknowledge, instead simply moving on to the next tree. He had neither time nor desire to lament its loss; it was his profession, his continued existence depending on their harvesting.

His hand swayed in concordance with his motion, dazedly attempting to follow suit. It held the axe loosely, yet the latter refused to yield and fall out. Quite frankly, it bore no resemblance to one of those his age, instead being a fleshy machine whose abrasions counted more than he had years in age. Pale, same as the rest of him, it was petite yet potent. The same applied to the other: they sought no attention, only mutual respect. Fail to reciprocate, and the result would be undesirable.

"Henrik! Move fast, тупица!"

Shaking out of his stupor, Henrik turned back.

"Why the rush?"

"Boss wants wood by noon, and it's half past eleven!"

Sighing, he slung his axe across his shoulder, letting someone else pick the log he had just chopped. Despite the usually-voiced annoyance of his coworkers, he was indifferent: as far as he was concerned, his job was to log trees, not collect and load them. Regardless, what would they do, fire him? - he had struck up enough alliances to sustain himself, even without a job. The farmer, the blacksmith, the tailor: even if he needed something else, he could usually procure it on his own.

He dawdled back to the truck, much to the driver's chagrin.

"Any slower than that, and I'll run you over so you don't have to walk. Now, get in."

Henrik complied, mutely climbing on the passenger's seat, his axe cradled on his lap. He had an inexplicable preference for it, maintaining it years after the handle started cracking. It wasn't valuable: a simple cast iron head atop an oaken handle, wrapped in cloth at the bottom. Yet he cared for it as if it were his child, even cradling it during times of hardship. It was a keepsake of his father - the only thing keeping his existence from drifting to oblivion, forgotten. Unlike most keepsakes, he used it as frequently, attempting to keep his spirit alive each day. Additionally, he could scorn him, wearing away his only remaining possession until it was useless.

Henrik's father was a mixed character: although frequently absent or unaffectionate, he taught Henrik how to thrive on his own, being able to disconnect from civilisation if required. Consequently, he both disliked and thanked his father, a cold yet instrumental guide to traversing life confidently on his own two feet. For that reason, Henrik only kept what had utility - he burnt all their photos, but old clothing and other items with utility remained. Despite their age, their lifespan was not over; no, they went into the bin solely when mere fragments were left that were irreparable.

His eyes refocused on the road in front of them as the driver whistled a tune, seemingly calm after his previous burst. Somehow stable, the truck jittered along its path as Henrik steadied his breathing. The air was thin, given their altitude, and panting would only worsen things. If anything, gasping for air would leave him light-headed, and the truck's doors weren't secure by any means; a mediocre nudge and they'd open themselves, leaving the passenger to the mercy of the loose seatbelt. Fortunately, he managed to retain his composure.

"Ye know, with that attitude of yours, there is big chance Boss will fire you. Jobs are hard to find, too."

"I know. I'm not worried about it."

"Curious. You are funny. Many people would soil their pants upon hearing they may lose their job, but you don't care. Maybe you should work for yourself instead, leave the jobs for us mortals who beg for employment."

The driver laughed at Henrik's silence as he seriously contemplated the idea, remarking, "I wouldn't be surprised if you are next Rockefeller. Сумасшедший ублюдок."

...

"Welcome to Broughton Village!"

A tattered sign half-heartedly exclaimed at them, its bold white letters desperately attempting to veil the sign's age as a graphical anti-ageing cream; the faded green background was not as well-masked, though, even peeling in some places. The pole it stood on did not attempt to look presentable either, the rust threatening to fell the entire sign as it gnawed through the middle.

"Neither Tsar nor President knows how to rule a nation. Perhaps you had the right idea, Henrik, being self-dependent."

"Did we still not receive supplies from town?"

"Да. Greedy investors only want their shiny specie, and others follow. Our paper is kindling for all purposes."

"Not even medical?"

"No. Why do you think we hoard rust killers? Perhaps you would not know, sheltered in your thatched house. But, for us, entire village is filled with metal, which rusts and hoards tetanus. A slight paper cut from one of these, and you walk into Death's palm. They advise you to write your will with your family, before you breathe your last."

"Ho, ho. Even now, you do not betray a sign of fear. With such balls, even Mt. Ebott would accomodate you as its ruler."

"Mt. what? Isn't that just a rumor?"

"That is what they all say. But the missing children beg to differ."

"Missing child-"

Bashing his head on the roof, Henrik was interrupted as the truck seemingly jumped over a fallen log.

"What missing children?"

"Товарищ, perhaps you should read the newspapers for once. Three of them ventured to the top for different reasons. Two were girls and one boy. None of them returned. What explanation is there for that?"

"Well..."

"The stories differ. Some say they got kidnapped. Some suggest that the animals ate them. But, on occasion, you hear of the underground kingdom: a species of magical creatures long banished by sorcerers of yore. They were called 'monsters'. Most think the story is bullshit, but neither side can prove anything. One thing is for sure, though - Mt. Ebott has plenty of resources because nobody dares go there."

"Sounds like a perfect place to stay, then. Especially considering I'm likely to be fired soon."

The driver only shook his head and muttered what were presumably Russian obscenities.

"You didn't pick up that last log, did you? The truck feels lighter today."

"I thought someone else was going to."

"Arrogant сука."

Both men remained silent for the rest of the drive; fortunately, Henrik did not have to wait for long as the store sign indicated they had reached. They drove to the rear of the store, parked the truck and got off as more workers came to unload the timber. Henrik hastily took his axe and strutted inside, making his way to the manager's office. Greeted along the way by several faces, none of which received reciprocation, he swung open the office door.

"I'm quitting."

"Glad you spared me the effort. I was going to fire you today, but luckily I don't have to write you a slip now. Take your shit and head out."

The manager patronised him through bespectacled eyes, inwardly rejoicing his departure. Henrik paid no attention to him or his brown leather chair, deliberately sashaying out to annoy him. Further to the manager's irritation, he attempted to retort by cussing out Henrik, only to find the door shut before he could start. The latter aloofly strolled through the building, taking his rucksack and throwing the front door open. Hailing a taxicab, he rode back to his house to prepare for his expedition.

Said preparation, however, admittedly wasn't much. A few rations; spare clothing; a water bottle; an axe; a Colt 1860 Army, tucked away in a leather holster; and extra ammunition. The time, however, was not as favourable; the sky grew grey, heralding the evening, as many a breadwinner returned home to their families. Impatient to see what he could reap from a place untouched due to speculation and old wives' tales, Henrik set out, ignoring the confused glances he received. He cared not for folklore and societal norms, instead preferring what was tangible and benefitted him. Gripping his paraffin lamp intently, he strode along the path, an hour's walk to the base of Mt. Ebott.