Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 1: Journey to the End of the World (1)

Dragon Raja 3

Dragon Raja 4

76°N Latitude, North of the Barents Sea, Deep within the Arctic Ocean.

Icebergs floated on the pitch-black surface of the ocean, while a hurricane whipped up swirling sea fog. Despite the harsh conditions, a brightly lit large ship slowly sailed through, its iron-walled, black hull cutting through the ice, carving out a path in the icy wasteland solely for itself.

This was the YAMAL, a nuclear-powered icebreaker, built during the Soviet era. It was the most powerful of the “Arctic-class” icebreakers, its armored bow capable of smashing through six-meter-thick ice. Two heavy-water reactors provided it with an inexhaustible source of power. The ship embodied the Soviets’ aspirations for dominance over the Arctic Ocean. However, by the time it was completed, that great nation had already disintegrated. After being idle in the Arctic fleet for several years, it was leased to a European cruise company, which transformed it into a luxury cruise ship, now regularly sailing through the Arctic Ocean.

“Navigator reporting: We are currently sailing above the Lomonosov Ridge, at a depth of 1200 meters, 234 nautical miles from the North Pole!”

“Meteorologist reporting: Weather conditions continue to deteriorate! Visibility is down to 800 meters! Temperature is -30°C, and the ice is significantly thickening!”

In the cockpit, the radio calls were constant. The Russian crew members nervously operated the massive vessel. It was winter, and very few ships dared to venture this far into the Arctic at this time of year. The nearest ship was at least a hundred nautical miles away, meaning that if they encountered any marine disaster, the earliest rescue vessel would take at least ten hours to arrive.

In the living quarters, however, the scene was entirely different. Elegantly dressed passengers gathered around long dining tables, enjoying their three-course meals. A small symphony orchestra played music in the dance hall, while waiters in white formal suits hurried back and forth with silver trays. The casino, though small, was lavishly decorated in gold and jade. The dealers were charming Belarusian girls, dressed in sensual backless gowns, their skin as white as milk. The warm air was filled with the mingling scents of whiskey, hand-rolled cigars, and high-end perfumes. Gamblers spent money freely. A five-meter-tall Christmas tree stood in the bar, where the captain, dressed as Santa Claus, entertained the children. Meanwhile, single travelers sat in the corner of the lounge, exchanging flirtatious glances over their drinks.

According to Greenwich Mean Time, tonight was Christmas Eve, a time for everyone to indulge in revelry. Upon boarding, they had all been reassured that this was a safe voyage. The YAMAL was an unsinkable steel island in the icy sea, and even if it were to collide with the iceberg that sank the Titanic, it would be the iceberg that would crumble, not the YAMAL. However, if they were to step outside the cabin, they would immediately feel the terrifying force of nature. Ice-laden waves pounded against the ship’s hull, thundering like a massive storm. Thick sea fog swept across the ocean, carrying fine salt particles that could tear the skin if exposed, leaving the face bloodied in moments. But the m​​ost dreadful was the bone-chilling cold; after just a few minutes outside, one would feel their joints stiffen and become brittle from the freezing temperature.

The White Wolf stood silently atop the ship’s deck, an AK-47 automatic rifle slung over his shoulder. A thin crust of salt had formed on his thermal suit from the sea mist, and he hadn’t moved for two hours.

Behind him, the warm steam exhaust vent provided a slight respite, creating a barrier of hot steam that somewhat shielded him from the biting wind. But even with this, no one else was willing to stand watch with him.

He was once a seasoned sailor in the Russian Arctic Fleet. After being caught illegally selling military supplies, a military court sentenced him to life imprisonment. However, the military judge offered him an alternative: a mysterious employer who would take over his long-term contract. This employer valued his ability to withstand the cold. The White Wolf had once survived for four hours in near-freezing seawater, waiting for rescue, while his comrades had died of hypothermia in less than fifteen minutes. From the moment he signed his name on that contract, he lost his original identity and name—his life now belonged entirely to his employer.

But he had never seen this employer, as he wasn’t yet qualified to enter the top deck of the ship.

The YAMAL had 11 decks in total. The top six decks, above the waterline and bathed in sunlight, housed 56 luxury guest rooms. However, only 55 of these rooms were ever available for booking, as the ultra-luxurious suite occupying the entire top deck was permanently reserved for the ship’s owner. Like the White Wolf, this mysterious owner had boarded the ship 13 years ago and had never set foot on land since. There were only three ways to access the top deck: a VIP elevator, a fire escape, and the helicopter landing pad that the White Wolf was currently guarding. Only the owner’s closest associates and a few select guests were permitted to enter these areas.

Faint sounds of laughter floated through the wind. The White Wolf imagined the wealthy passengers, surrounded by gourmet food, fine wine, and the seductive smiles of Belarusian girls, while he stood there like a lone ghost guarding a wall at the world’s end. He dared not leave his post, fully aware of the severe punishment that would follow if he did. As he cursed the wealthy passengers in his mind, he saw a figure climbing the ladder to the helicopter pad, slowly approaching him with a thermal box in hand.

It was a waiter, dressed in a crisp white suit with a plain black tie, a white napkin draped over his forearm. He waved from a distance to greet White Wolf, though White Wolf didn’t recognize him.

The waiter set down a thermal box in front of White Wolf and opened it. Inside was a beef burger wrapped in foil, freshly made crispy fries, and a bottle of hot mulled wine.

White Wolf plopped down on the ground, grabbed the burger, and devoured it without acknowledging the waiter or asking where the food came from. It was Christmas Eve, and all the other on-duty men had already enjoyed their dinners of red wine and mushroom stew. He was due for his share as well. The waiter stood politely to the side, picked up the bottle of warm wine, and poured it into a sparkling crystal glass.

As White Wolf ate, he suddenly felt something was off and glanced up at the waiter. He was an Asian man with sharp, defined features, and his thick black eyebrows looked almost drawn on. He had a slender build and delicate hands with long fingers, faint veins visible on the backs, gripping the crystal glass stem. Such a man posed no threat, White Wolf thought. There didn’t seem to be any weapons hidden beneath his white suit, and White Wolf prided himself on being the best knife fighter on the ship. Even after standing in the freezing cold for hours, he could still pierce the waiter’s heart in less than a second if needed.

The waiter noticed White Wolf’s glance and promptly handed him the cup of hot wine, seemingly unaware that the guest had entertained some dangerous thoughts. White Wolf dismissed his paranoid thoughts and reached out for the wine. But as he took the glass, the liquid suddenly rippled and spilled over the rim. In that instant, White Wolf realized what had been bothering him all along. The polite waiter was out of place for several reasons: despite the freezing temperatures, he was dressed in thin clothes and wore no gloves; the ship was swaying violently with the waves, and White Wolf had to sit to balance himself while eating, yet the waiter stood steadily on the salt-covered helipad as if rooted to the spot like a tree; and not a single drop of wine had spilled from the glass while it was in the waiter’s hand!

White Wolf leaped up without hesitation, yanking his rifle strap. The barrel slid from under his arm like a snake flicking out its tongue. But the waiter’s delicate hands were faster—by the time White Wolf pulled the trigger, the rifle’s firing mechanism had already been dismantled. He drew his knife for a lightning-fast stab, but in the next moment, the knife was gone, and somehow he was gripping the waiter’s hand instead. He tried to pull back but couldn’t. The waiter moved his arm slightly, and White Wolf’s elbow and shoulder joints dislocated at the same time. He had no time to register the pain before the waiter’s hand pressed against his carotid artery. The waiter’s fingers danced over the artery like a pianist tapping keys, and White Wolf slowly sank back down, the remnants of his unfinished burger falling from his mouth.

The waiter tapped his earpiece. “EVA, I’ve neutralized the guard. Ready to proceed to the top deck.”

A clear female voice replied, “I’ve sent the target’s photo to your phone. Enjoy the ‘Imperial Saintess’s’ renowned beauty.”

The waiter pulled out his phone and zoomed in on the black-and-white photo. It showed a girl with striking eyes, wearing a long black dress and a black cloak, holding a sword like a star. She stood beneath a marble altar, with a crystal-embedded ceiling representing a sky full of stars. The photo was several decades old, slightly blurred in places, but the girl’s elegance and beauty were still evident. The wind from those long-past days seemed to still lift the hem of her dress, as if she might float into the air at any moment. However, the swastika on the altar made for an unsettling contrast.

“No wonder she was the darling of Berlin’s high society back then. Shame she didn’t become a movie star, opting for a cult leader instead. Such a waste,” the waiter remarked, rare praise from him about a woman’s appearance.

“You’re late. She was born in 1895, and now she’s almost 130 years old. I doubt she’s as pleasing to the eye anymore.”

“How does a 130-year-old woman manage to control a bunch of desperados?” the waiter asked, standing in front of the steaming exhaust vent.

“Their thirst for a divine kingdom must be sustaining her aging body and soul. At least 20 of her team are former special forces or international mercenaries. Did you bring a weapon?”

“No need. If I bring a weapon, I’ll want to use it. And if I use it, things will get messy.” The waiter spoke calmly.

He crouched down and pulled a hooded asbestos suit with a mask from the bottom of the thermal box. He slipped it over his suit and then fixed his gaze on his wristwatch.

The steam exhaust vent connected directly to the nuclear reactor below deck, which heated the steam to over 120 degrees Celsius. The high-temperature steam flowed through stainless steel pipes, warming each cabin on the ship level by level. A simple asbestos suit wouldn’t be enough to protect him from being scalded; the steam would seep through every gap and condense into boiling water droplets on his skin.

Yet, a few minutes later, the vent ceased its rumbling, and the crucial heat supply for the Arctic voyage temporarily halted.

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Dragon Raja 4; Chapter 2: Journey to the End of the World (2) >>