"A man must eat, for a hungry warrior cannot lift the rifle of revolution!"
"A man must sleep, for how can the sun of the Imperium rise from behind closed eyelids?"
"A man must breathe, without inhaling the air of Imperial Truth, his lungs will betray his heart!"
"A man must labor, for the sweat beneath the hoe is the rain most needed by the
Imperium!"
"A man must unite; five separated fingers cannot clench into the iron fist of class struggle!"
"A man must open his eyes, for in darkness, only the lies of Chaos can be seen!"
"A man must walk on two legs, for the third leg is a trap set by the dark gods of Chaos!"
The biting northern wind howled across the tundra for an entire winter, yet Caelan remained as patient as a blacksmith hammering iron.
Every dawn, when the first gray light pierced through the frost-bound mist, he would lift the wolf-child, who slept curled up beside the other wolf pups beneath reindeer hide blankets, and begin teaching him.
At first, it was simple syllables, endlessly repeated, correcting every coarse, growling sound that rolled from the boy's throat.
When the wolf-child finally grasped speech, Caelan began teaching him the foundations of gratitude education.
The mother wolf, too, learned from Caelan's survival skills. She guarded the flame he lit with careful wolf-kisses, tore reindeer hides into fluffy threads, mixed them with frozen fat, and fed them to the fire to keep their den warm.
One day, the wolf-child asked, "Why do I have to learn all this?"
Caelan replied, "You tell me, why do you ask?"
The boy's answer was completely off-topic. "Because roasted meat tastes good… but it wastes oil and time."
"Then tell me," Caelan said, "why do humans walk upright?"
The child frowned. "Wasn't I the one asking questions?"
"Answer first."
"I don't know."
"Because walking upright reduces energy expenditure by seventy-five percent compared to moving on all fours," Caelan explained calmly. "It helps track prey, explore new lands, and gives higher vision for spotting food, water, or danger. But most importantly, it frees the hands, enhancing survival and accelerating technological innovation. That's the foundation of civilization."
"What's civilization?"
"The firepit is civilization. The roasted meat is civilization. The fur clothes I sewed for you, the hides you sleep under, all are civilization. Every accumulated piece of culture builds toward it."
"Cooking meat isn't just for taste. Heat kills bacteria and parasites in raw flesh, reducing disease and improving survival. Cooked food is easier to digest, and fire keeps you warm. That's what civilization means."
Caelan quietly walked around the thoughtful child. The mother wolf was gently turning the roasting meat with her paw, careful as if walking on thin ice. The grill itself was built from crossed reindeer leg bones, tied with sinew.
The wolf pups lounged lazily near the fire, half-asleep, yawning contentedly. The frozen herds of reindeer had provided ample food, letting the wolves live in comfort, no more hunts through blizzards, no more hunger, no more sacrifices.
When Caelan approached, the half-grown wolves wagged their tails eagerly. One even pounced on him.
"You're too heavy! Have some self-awareness!" He scolded playfully, setting it down, though the pup wagged its tail all the same.
"Too clever for your own good," Caelan muttered, rubbing each wolf's head. The wolf-child, by contrast, was the least obedient of them all, by far his worst student!
"Caelan, eat." The mother wolf rumbled softly, her voice resonating more through psychic link than sound.
Caelan pulled the roasting spit closer, offering her the first bite before letting the pups take their turns, each carefully tearing pieces of meat while hot oil sizzled and spat into the fire.
The wolf-child washed his hands with melted snow, divided his portion, shared half with the wolves, and ate the rest, a lesson Caelan had long intended.
"Caelan."
The mother wolf brushed against him, her silvery fur glinting in the firelight.
He offered her meat, but she shook her head. "Name."
"You want me to name you?"
She nodded.
That made Caelan pause. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but naming her meant naming all the pups, too.
He considered Fenrir, then Hati, Sköll, Geri, and Freki, yet none felt right.
"Then… Sylvia," he said finally.
"What does it mean?" the wolf-child asked.
"Well, since you asked," Caelan said with a grin, "I'll tell you the story of the Roman she-wolf. Once, in the ancient city of Alba Longa, there was a princess named Rhea Silvia…"
"He told of her divine sons, Romulus and Remus, of how the she-wolf nursed them after they were cast into the Tiber, how they grew strong and founded Rome, and how one brother killed the other over a name."
The child frowned. "They were raised by a wolf, too. Why not name her after that wolf?"
"Because no one remembers her name."
"At that time?" the child echoed, hearing something unsaid in Caelan's tone.
Caelan didn't elaborate. Some histories weren't meant to be told too plainly.
"Caelan," the mother wolf said, tail swishing. "I am Sylvia. Call me Sylvia."
"Alright, Sylvia."
Her tail wagged faster.
The wolf pups sat neatly by the fire, their eyes bright and eager.
"You're Fenrir," Caelan said, patting the bold one.
"You two, Freki and Geri."
Then came the others: "Hati, Sköll, Cerberus, Urdr, Verdandi, Skuld…"
Each name from myth brought cheers and play-fights among the pups.
When Caelan turned to the wolf-child, he hesitated.
The child saw it. "Don't bother," he said coldly. "I don't need a name."
Caelan sighed. "Fine. Someone else will give you one someday."
The tension thickened, and Sylvia stepped between them, brushing both gently, a bridge of fur and warmth.
"Caelan," she said quietly, "spring is coming. We must migrate."
Though they still had food, food wasn't the only danger on Fenris.
The planet orbited its sun, the "Wolf's Eye," once every two Terran years, which the locals called a Great Year. When it drifted farthest from its sun, oceans froze solid, even at the equator.
When it drew near again, the molten core erupted under tidal stress, tearing ice and rock apart in the catastrophic Season of Fire.
Each cycle, the surface shattered, islands sank, new land rose. To survive, beasts and men alike had to migrate.
Sylvia's pack had failed the last migration. They weren't a tragedy, just another casualty of Fenris's yearly battle royale.
"Do you know where humans live?" Caelan asked.
"Humans," Sylvia growled softly, "dangerous."
"In winter, my pack hunted. Humans killed them. Only I and the pups remain."
If the boy had been found by humans, Caelan might have slain the wolves to protect that village. But since the wolves had raised the boy, they were under his protection.
"Can you take me to them?"
Sylvia nodded without hesitation. She owed him their survival.
After one last meal, they packed frozen meat on the wolves' backs and set out at dawn.
The tundra gleamed under weak sunlight. The wolves were unfazed; Caelan's psychic field warded him from cold.
Eventually, they reached a human settlement, smoke rising, fires burning bright. The sentries saw them first, sounding alarms. Men gathered with axes and spears behind wooden palisades.
Wolves attacking villages was common, usually at night, for food, not slaughter. But food was life, and defending it was survival.
Caelan stepped forward; Sylvia crouched low beside him in submission.
"We come in peace," he said.
The hunters hesitated, wary yet awed; no man had ever tamed Fenris wolves before.
"I am Eris," said the village leader, an axe in hand. "What do you seek, stranger?"
"I wish to know who rules these lands."
"The great King Tengir."
"Send word to him. Tell him I will meet him."
Eris exchanged quick whispers, then asked, "What may we call you?"
"Caelan."
"We shall send messengers. While you wait, we can offer food, but forgive us, we cannot open the gate. Your companions would frighten our women and children."
Caelan nodded understandingly. The wolves lit fires outside the walls, roasting meat.
The villagers sent oil and even a captive glox-beast, their prized livestock, as tribute, fearing to offend him.
Sylvia tended the spits; the smell drifted through the fence, making children drool.
"Fenrir," Caelan said, cutting a chunk of meat, "give this to them."
The young wolf eagerly carried the roasted meat to the fence. At first, the children flinched, but one brave boy, sturdy, with braided hair, stepped forward.
He reached trembling for the meat, hot grease dripping onto snow.
"Does it taste good?" Caelan asked.
The boy nodded, mouth full. Fenrir stared expectantly, tail wagging.
After a pause, the boy offered half back. The pup gulped it down in a single bite and howled joyfully.
"He said thank you," Caelan translated.
"He… thanked me?" The boy's eyes widened, glowing with pride.
"What's your name?" Caelan asked.
"Jorin Bloodhowl," the boy said shyly. "Can I… pet him?"
"Ask him yourself. His name is Fenrir. He understands."
"Can I touch you?" Jorin asked softly.
Fenrir dipped his head.
The boy ran his hand through the wolf's fur, surprised. "It's soft… I thought it'd be rough."
"Fur protects from cold," Caelan explained. "Hard bristles are for fighting, not warmth. No creature with those would survive Fenris's winter."
Soon other pups brought meat to more children, and laughter and howls filled the air. The wolves and the village children shared food across the fence, small hands feeding beasts once feared.
Sylvia lay beside Caelan, content. Her tail brushed his leg as she watched her pups play with the human children.
"Do you want some?" Caelan asked, holding out a piece of roasted meat…
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu