Simon had searched the map and confirmed that Boethiah's Altar was deep in the Velothi Mountains of Eastmarch Hold, at the easternmost edge of Skyrim.
He took out his Necromantic Motorcycle and sped towards Windhelm.
At this moment, inside High Hrothgar Monastery, two boys clutched their empty stomachs and gazed at the sky.
"Sir! Please come back soon!"
...
The second-generation Necromantic Motorcycle was massive, with wheels five feet in diameter, practically a siege engine. Its overall design followed the first generation's concept, with no significant technological advancements apart from the addition of a mechanical Core and a braking system. However, these changes were enough to make it excellent, capable of traversing mountains with ease, agile and responsive in both starting and braking, no longer a rough and wild contraption.
Simon had no intention of making a third-generation motorcycle because it was completely unnecessary. At most, he might remove the necromantic module to turn it into a stripped-down steam motorcycle with potential for mass production—but even that was unnecessary, as Simon wasn't short on money.
Simon envisioned his future ride as a land fortress or a spaceship; when it came to vehicles, he thought big.
At the Windhelm stables, on a cold morning, the stableman took a swig of wine and howled, "Anyone need a ride?" At this hour, pedestrians coming and going from the city gate were sparse, mostly locals, and then some sailors. The White River flowed east into the sea, and the largest port was in Windhelm, with very busy operations, injecting vitality and gold into the city. In a season where hot water thrown out would freeze into ice and shatter on the ground, the stableman's business was quite slow.
In the distance, a low snow mist spread from the hillside. The stableman blinked, confirming repeatedly that the airflow was rushing straight towards him. Many people along the way gasped, shouting words like "Monster, iron monster!"
The stables were quickly hit by the snow mist. The stableman had already jumped off his cart, narrowly avoiding the snowy air. At this point, there were only four or five onlookers. Everyone stared blankly as wisps of frost and snowflakes slowly settled. The draft horses in the stables had fine ice beads on their thick fur, glistening in the morning light. Their gazes were deep and calm as they lowered their heads to munch on the hay in the trough, showing no panic. As the ice mist dissipated, the iron monster that people had been shouting about also revealed itself.
What a huge fellow!
It was even larger than the most majestic horse, and its rider was astonishingly robust.
"Friend stableman, do you know the way to Boethiah's Altar?" Simon sat on the motorcycle, waving at the dumbfounded stableman.
"Are you... human...?"
"Of course I'm human, unless I'm a ghost?" Simon chuckled and patted the handlebars. Fire glowed eerily from the ram skull's eye sockets, looking very evil, but also very cool.
After some troublesome and tiring negotiation, Simon learned the specific route. Bidding farewell to the curious onlookers, Simon took the Dunmer Path up the mountain, passing two farms on gentle slopes along the way, their fields bare. A goat suddenly darted out from the roadside bushes and had a leg crushed by the wheel. Simon was quite helpless; this had happened many times before. Previously, some very small creatures like rabbits and foxes had been shattered by the wheels, leaving the front wheel almost covered in blood, which he had to scrape off with a knife and sword.
After simply treating the unfortunate goat's leg, Simon unceremoniously took it into his Pure Land. The flock now had a new member.
The Pure Land now had a separate livestock area for cattle, sheep, rabbits, and chickens. There were also some freshwater fish in the fish pond; the previous sea fish had all been diligently processed into dried fish and salted fish by the numbered undead. The Wolf Pack was now very lazy, each one like a pig, completely devoid of wildness, turning into a group of silly dogs. The change was so great that it made one smile.
The sun was about to rise. After driving for a long time, the sky above was gloomy. To his right were rugged mountains, and to his left was a wide, desolate mountain plain. The scenery made one feel melancholic. Windhelm always had such weather; the damp and cold climate made one feel a bone-chilling cold.
At this moment, a brightly lit wooden cabin appeared on the hillside. Many firewood logs were piled in front of the door, and a strong man was chopping wood. It was a tavern, and faint sounds of laughter drifted out, carrying an aroma of sweetness and warmth. How comfortable would it be to go inside and have a drink in such cold weather?
The man chopping wood raised his hand to shade his eyes and peered for a while, then greeted the rider. Just as Simon had been driving all night and was exhausted, he took the opportunity to stop the motorcycle. The flames in the ram skull extinguished, and the undead fell silent, effectively locking it.
Inside the tavern, there weren't many customers, just a few scattered groups. Simon had breakfast and rented a room to sleep for half a day. Halfway through his sleep, he found someone rummaging through his pockets.
It was a small thief in a hood. Seeing Simon awaken, he immediately threatened, "You'd best not... Ah—!"
Whichever hand stole the item, that hand would be broken. The Troll snapped the thief's arm and threw him out of the room.
The next moment, a group of bandits with knives and swords rushed in. They were the customers; it turned out to be an ambush trap, a black inn. There was also a Breton woman, a half-baked mage, who raised her hand and conjured a lightning bolt, intending to strike Simon dead.
Half an hour later, Simon emerged from the inn, mounted his motorcycle, and continued his journey.
The numbering reached seventy-one.
After driving for another half hour, the elevation gradually increased. A collapsed tower appeared by the roadside, inside which was a group of Icefield Wolves. They howled twice, but ultimately dared not challenge the Troll.
This tower was built by refugees from Morrowind, with colorful banners still hanging on its outer walls. Simon had no interest in admiring ruins. Upon seeing this tower, he had to dismount. According to the stableman, there was a winding path leading up the mountain nearby.
Simon walked for nearly two hours until he finally heard faint sounds of shouting and fighting. After another hour, he finally saw people.
Boethiah's outdoor altar.
A terrifying, tall, and eerie idol stood upon the cliff. A flat area by the roadside served as a gathering place for the cultists.
The cultists, dressed in tattered, simple clothes, were fighting each other in a wooden fenced enclosure.
Several bandaged cultists watched the battle. A female Orc greeted Simon, the outsider, "Hey! You, have you also come to undertake Boethiah's trial?"
The Troll removed his greatcloak, untied his headscarf, revealing his third eye, and slowly raised the Great Soul-Trapping Sword in his hand.
"By the command of Hircine, the Great Hunting God," Simon's voice was slow and powerful, "I shall pave your hot blood into the grandest feast of slaughter!"
The next moment, cold light flashed!
The female Orc leaned back to dodge the blade. The two people beside her were not so lucky, their waists and abdomens severed by the sharp edge. They quickly lost their lives, their souls extracted and collected into a pouch of soul stones at Simon's waist.
"Divine Armor, Divine Weapon, Divine Power!"
A god descended!
A cyan energy ball burst forth, engulfing the entire area. Everyone was struck by fear.
Killing Intent Aura!
A bloodthirsty orca plunged into the bloody hunting ground. Those cultists who pleased Boethiah with pain, they twisted in madness, and died in madness!
Three minutes later, only Simon remained on the field.
Hircine's joyful laughter faintly echoed in the wind. Boethiah's statue suddenly trembled. A deep rift tore open in the thick clouds above, and a pair of malicious snake eyes stared fixedly at Simon from behind the clouds. The Troll met its gaze indifferently.
After a long while, the snake eyes vanished.
Hircine's form gradually solidified from illusion, imposing and extraordinary, holding a ball of light in his hand, which was Gaelina's soul.
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