American comics: I am full of martial virtues and I love to be kind to others.

"How are we going to bring all of this back?" Lynn asked. "Our backpacks can't hold it all."

“Let’s make a simple sled,” Wolverine said, “with a reindeer hide for the base and branches for the frame. It’s a method the Inuit have used for thousands of years.”

It took another half hour to complete a simple but practical sled. They wrapped chunks of meat in reindeer hides and secured them to the sled.

“You pull,” Wolverine said. “It’ll be a good workout for your stamina and strength. I’ll keep watch.”

“You just want to slack off,” Lynn joked, but still grabbed the sled rope.

The sled glided more smoothly on the snow than expected; although it was heavy, it was still within Lynn's tolerance. The two began to head back, this time without trying to conceal their tracks, but instead following the most direct route.

“You know,” Wolverine suddenly said after walking for a while, “I haven’t hunted like this in many years.”

"Why?" Lynn asked, though pulling the sled had made him a little breathless, he could still speak.

“Because most of the time, I’m fighting, on missions, on the run,” Wolverine said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “There’s rarely time like this, purely hunting for survival, struggling for food. It reminds me of a long time ago, in the Canadian wilderness, when I was young.”

"When you were young? That was so long ago?"

“At the end of the nineteenth century,” Wolverine said, “I didn’t know I was a mutant then, I was just an ordinary lumberjack. I would go into the forest in the winter and live alone for months on end, surviving by hunting. Sometimes I miss that simple life.”

“Why not go back to that kind of life?” Lynn asked.

“Because the world has changed, and so have I,” Wolverine said. “I’ve seen too much, experienced too much, and know too much. I can’t go back to that naive state. And I find myself carrying certain responsibilities—to the X-Men, to those who need help, and to the world.”

"But you still came to this island, trying to get away from everything."

“Yes, I’ve tried,” Wolverine admitted, “but you see, even here, trouble still comes knocking. Maybe this is my fate—wherever I go, I get caught up in something.”

“Or,” Lynn said, “maybe it wasn’t fate, but a choice. You chose to stand up for the Mother Beast when she needed help, you chose to train me, you chose to fight the Gene Hunters. You could have chosen to ignore it, you could have chosen to leave, but you didn’t.”

Wolverine was silent for a moment, then chuckled, "You're starting to sound more and more like Professor Charles; you always manage to find the deeper meaning in things."

“I’m just stating what I’ve observed,” Lynn said. “And the fact is, Logan, you’re a good man. Even if you don’t admit it yourself, even if you always put on a rude and indifferent act, your actions speak for themselves.”

"Don't give me that psychological analysis," Wolverine said, but there was no real anger in his voice. "Focus on pulling your sled; we're still halfway there."

The two continued on their way. The sun had risen to its highest point—although at this latitude, even at noon, the sun was only hanging low near the horizon. The light cast long shadows on the snow.

“By the way,” Lynn said, “you mentioned you were a lumberjack in the late nineteenth century, so what was your name back then? Surely not Logan too?”

“James,” Wolverine said, “James Howlett. That’s my birth name. Logan is a name I adopted later, a long story involving many things I don’t want to remember.”

“I won’t ask any more questions,” Lynn said, sensing the heaviness in Wolverine’s tone.

“Thanks,” Wolverine said, then changed the subject, “What about you? Why did you choose to join the FBI? With your abilities, you could easily earn much more money in the military or a private security company.”

“Because I wanted to do something meaningful,” Lynn said. “My father was a policeman who died in the line of duty during a chase when I was fifteen. He often told me that true strength doesn’t come from bullying the weak, but from protecting those who cannot protect themselves.”

“A good father,” Wolverine commented.

“Yes, he was,” Lynn said, her voice tinged with nostalgia, “so when I grew up, I wanted to carry on his legacy. The FBI gave me that opportunity—to fight criminals that ordinary police officers couldn’t handle, and to protect the most vulnerable victims.”

“Your father will be proud of you,” Wolverine said.

“I hope so,” Lynn said.

They walked in silence for a while longer, until finally, the camp came into view. The bound prisoners were still in place. Seeing Lynn and Wolverine return, a complex emotion flickered in the eyes of several of them—was it envy for their freedom of movement, or surprise that they had managed to hunt prey under such circumstances?
“Put the sled here,” Wolverine pointed to a sheltered spot. “We need to start a fire and roast the meat.”

Lynn stopped the sled and stretched his slightly sore shoulders. Although tired, it was a fulfilling kind of exhaustion, unlike the utter exhaustion after a battle.

Wolverine began gathering fuel—some dry driftwood collected from a nearby beach. Lynn, meanwhile, processed the meat, cutting it into barbecue-appropriate sizes according to Wolverine's earlier instructions.

"Should we share some with the prisoners too?" Lynn asked, looking into their hungry eyes.

“Of course,” Wolverine said, “we’re not barbarians. Besides, a well-fed prisoner is easier to manage than a hungry one.”

Soon, a fire was lit, and warm flames and smoke rose into the cold air. Wolverine made some makeshift roasting forks out of branches, skewered chunks of meat, and placed them above the fire.

"Would you like some salt?" Lynn asked, pulling a small packet of salt from his backpack.

“Of course, seasoning is always important,” Wolverine said, “but don’t add too much; the key is to let the natural flavor of the meat come through.”

The meat began to sizzle over the fire, releasing an enticing aroma. Drips of fat onto the flames crackled softly. Lynn's stomach immediately began to rumble, a reminder of just how hungry he was.

“It’ll take about twenty more minutes,” Wolverine said, expertly flipping the meat. “To ensure the heat penetrates evenly while maintaining the caramelized exterior.”

While waiting, Lynn processed more pieces of meat, salted them, wrapped them in reindeer hides, and refrigerated them in the snow. At this temperature, the meat could be preserved for several days without spoiling.

“That’s enough,” Wolverine finally announced, taking the first piece of roasted meat off the fire.

Lynn eagerly took it, and after letting it cool slightly, she took a bite.

The meat was tender and juicy, with a smoky, caramelized exterior and a delicate pink interior—perfectly cooked. The simple salt seasoning brought out the natural flavor of the reindeer meat—somewhat similar to beef, but more refined, with a hint of wildness. "My God," Lynn said, closing her eyes and savoring the bite, "this might be the best meat I've ever eaten."

“Because you put in the effort to get it,” Wolverine said, taking a bite himself. “When you track your prey with your own hands, process it with your own hands, and cook it with your own hands, the food tastes different. It’s not just about the taste; it’s about the satisfaction of accomplishment.”

“I’m starting to understand why you like this kind of life,” Lynn said.

The two enjoyed their food in silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional gust of wind. It was a primal sense of satisfaction—the ability to obtain food and sustain life through their own efforts in harsh conditions.

After roasting more pieces of meat, Wolverine distributed some to each of the prisoners, along with water. Although they were enemies, the prisoners couldn't help but show expressions of gratitude upon receiving the food.

“Thank you,” one of the young mutants said in a low voice.

“Don’t thank me,” Wolverine said coldly. “When the FBI arrives, you’ll be sent to a special prison for mutant criminals. Enjoy what might be the best meal you’ll eat for the next few years.”

Back by the fire, Lynn roasted some more liver and heart. These offal had a richer flavor and a more unique texture, but were just as delicious.

“You know,” Lynn said, gnawing on a piece of rib, “when I was in the FBI, I often had to socialize, attending banquets at all sorts of upscale restaurants. Exquisite dishes, expensive ingredients, complex cooking techniques. But never has I felt as satisfied as I do now.”

“That’s because those foods lacked the most important seasoning,” Wolverine said.

"What seasoning?"

“Effort, risk, and the instinct to survive,” Wolverine said. “When you’ve truly fought for food, when you’ve experienced the threat of hunger, when you’ve relied on your own abilities to obtain nourishment from nature, food becomes more than just a source of nutrition; it becomes a symbol of life.”

Lynn nodded, agreeing that although what he said sounded a bit philosophical, it did make sense.

"Shall we bake some more?" Wolverine asked.

“Of course,” Lynn said, “I feel like I could eat a whole reindeer.”

“That’s because your body is recovering,” Wolverine said. “The damage from the battle, the cold, and the physical exertion of pulling the sled today. You need plenty of calories to replenish. Don’t be shy, eat as much as you want.”

For the next hour, the two sat around the fire, roasting, eating, and chatting. They talked about all sorts of things—past missions, interesting experiences, and plans for the future. Wolverine would occasionally share stories from his long life, always avoiding the most painful parts, but Lynn listened intently.

"You fought in World War I?" Lynn asked incredulously.

“Yes, I served in the Canadian Army,” Wolverine said. “That was my first real experience of war. I’d fought and killed people before, but war was a completely different level.”

"It must be terrifying."

"It was terrifying, but it also taught me some things," Wolverine said. "It made me understand the complexity of human nature, the fragility of life, and the preciousness of peace."

The sun began to set, tinging the sky with a pale orange-red. The temperature dropped further, but the fire provided warmth. Both men were well-fed, and the satisfaction they felt made the harsh conditions bearable.

“The blizzard should be arriving tomorrow,” Wolverine said, looking at the sky. “We need to fortify the shelter, store more fuel, and make sure the prisoners don’t freeze to death.”

“There’s still a lot of work to be done,” Lynn agreed.

“But today,” Wolverine said, adding another piece of wood to the fire, “we’ll rest well today. We’re well-fed, warm, and safe for now. In this kind of life, moments like these are precious.”

Lynn looked at the flames and felt a deep peace. Yes, they were in danger, their future uncertain, and their responsibilities heavy. But at this moment, on this remote polar island, amidst the leaping firelight, he felt a rare harmony.

“Thank you, Logan,” Lynn said sincerely, “not just for today’s hunt and this meal, but for everything you’ve taught me these past few days.”

"What have you learned?" Wolverine asked, his tone carrying a hint of testing.

Lynn thought for a moment, "I learned that fighting isn't just about strength and skill, but also about will and adaptation. I learned to respect nature and be grateful for life. I learned that even in the most difficult circumstances, one can still find contentment and peace."

Wolverine nodded in satisfaction. "Then you haven't wasted your time learning. These things are more important than any fighting skills because they will stay with you for life."

The next morning, Lynn was awakened by a biting wind. The predicted blizzard had finally begun to arrive; the sky turned gray, and snowflakes began to fall heavily. The wind speed increased noticeably, and its howling echoed among the rocks like the roar of some ancient creature.

He climbed out of his sleeping bag and found Wolverine already busy. He was reinforcing the shelter with extra tarpaulins and ropes to make sure the approaching blizzard wouldn't blow them down.

"Good morning," Lynn said, going over to help. "Looks like the weather forecast was right this time."

“Yes, and it’s coming on strong,” Wolverine said, pulling hard on a rope. “I estimate this blizzard will last at least 36 to 48 hours. During that time, visibility will drop to almost zero, and the temperature will drop below minus forty degrees Celsius.”

"What about our prisoners?" Lynn looked worriedly at the gene hunters who were tied up in various places.

“It’s taken care of,” Wolverine said, pointing to a relatively sheltered rock hollow. “I moved them all over there and set up a makeshift windbreak. I gave them extra blankets and some fuel. It won’t be comfortable, but at least they won’t freeze to death.”

“You really are soft-hearted,” Lynn joked.

“They just don’t want to deal with the bodies,” Wolverine snorted. “Besides, dead prisoners can’t provide any intelligence.”

The two continued to reinforce the camp, move extra fuel, and check their food and water reserves. Yesterday's reindeer meat had preserved well in the low temperatures and would last them for several days.

"What do we do during the blizzard?" Lynn asked.

“Stay in the shelter, keep warm, and wait for the weather to improve,” Wolverine said. “Going out in this weather is suicidal. Even I wouldn’t want to be out in these conditions.” (End of Chapter)