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"As expected of Skyrim's city of trade, there certainly are a lot of magic books."
That evening, George, who had already checked into the Bannered Mare Inn in the Plains District, looked at the pile of spell tomes he had acquired, a satisfied smile appearing on his face.
Oakflesh, Candlelight, Summon Spectral Wolf, Fury, Courage, Healing, and Lesser Ward.
Aside from some books on the fundamentals of magic, he had managed to buy most of the novice-level spell tomes for the five major schools of magic.
As for more advanced magic, even in a city like Whiterun, they were very difficult to purchase.
This was because Skyrim was the homeland of the Nords, and the population was predominantly Nord. Nords revered warriors and did not place much importance on magic.
In fact, due to the harm magic had caused in the past, many Nord commoners harbored a deep-seated aversion to magic, bordering on disgust.
To them, fighting with real blades and steel, no matter how intense, wouldn't cause significant damage to buildings or the environment, nor would it likely harm innocent bystanders.
However, if magic was used, especially fire magic from the Destruction school, it could easily start a catastrophic fire, burning many ordinary people alive.
Then there was Conjuration magic. Whether it was summoning Daedra from Oblivion, calling forth Dremora, or manipulating dead corpses, in their eyes, these were all extremely evil practices.
Crucially, Skyrim had many rogue mages and malevolent magical organizations that, in their pursuit of forbidden knowledge, often committed acts that angered both the heavens and the people.
Therefore, the major cities in Skyrim generally prohibited the sale of high-level spells, and it was very difficult to acquire them through conventional channels.
However, the Jarls of the major cities were no fools. They understood the power of magic full well and would actively recruit skilled mages into their forces.
They even retained their own dedicated Court Wizards.
The next day, after finishing breakfast at the Bannered Mare, George led Arvel out of the city. They mounted two fine horses and rode straight for Winterhold.
Taking a carriage from Whiterun to Winterhold would normally take half a month.
If traveling by horse, the journey would take approximately ten days.
Yet George, leading Arvel, took less than five days to arrive outside the snow-covered city of Winterhold, located in the northernmost reaches of Skyrim.
"Eight Divines preserve us, we're finally at Winterhold!"
Seeing Winterhold so close, Arvel shook the snow from his clothes. He clutched his rear end, a look of profound relief washing over his face.
A journey that normally took ten days had been completed in five; one can only imagine how hard they had pushed themselves along the way.
This was especially true because George had adopted a "straight-line" method of travel that no one else dared use. It had left Arvel's backside almost numb from the relentless bouncing, and the journey itself had been so harrowing that he felt he had nearly been scared to death.
What was the "straight-line" method?
It meant not taking a single detour, not veering off course in the slightest, adhering strictly to the principle that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, plotting a direct path from Whiterun to Winterhold.
And why did no one else dare to use this method?
Because that straight line might cut through massive mountains, cross wide lakes, or run along sheer cliffs and precipices. It also meant traversing primeval forests filled with venomous insects and wild beasts, not to mention the various bands of robbers who loved to lurk in the shadows.
If one's luck was particularly bad, they might also run into dark creatures like vampires and werewolves, various magical beasts, or even evil mages.
This was why everyone else, when traveling from one city to another, stuck to the paved main roads. The areas surrounding these roads were kept clear; though they were roundabout, they were superior in their safety.
The only real threat one had to guard against on those roads was the occasional highway robber.
However, for George, none of the dangers listed above were considered dangerous at all.
Whether it was venomous insects, wild beasts, bandits, vampires, werewolves, or any manner of magical creature, George dealt with them all with a single kick.
If they encountered a lake, a single frost spell would freeze the entire surface solid.
If they encountered high mountains, sheer cliffs, or deep chasms, that wasn't an issue either.
He would simply bundle the two horses, Arvel, and all their luggage together, hoist them onto his shoulders, and cross the obstacle in just a few effortless leaps.
It was just that, for a thief whose physique was not particularly robust, this sort of experience was slightly more arduous.
"Let's find an inn to stay at. We need to ask around about the situation at the College of Winterhold first."
Braving the wind and snow, George and Arvel entered the ancient, dilapidated city.
Winterhold had once been the capital of Skyrim. Its prosperity had exceeded that of present-day Whiterun, and its scale had far surpassed even Solitude.
However, in the 122nd year of the Fourth Era, the Sea of Ghosts near Winterhold suddenly produced a series of terrifying, massive waves, causing severe damage to the city.
What was worse, this was soon followed by the event known as the "Great Collapse."
More than nine-tenths of the city sank into the Sea of Ghosts. Because of this, Winterhold fell into decline, becoming the smallest major city in Skyrim.
Because the mages of Winterhold had collectively used their magic to protect the College, ensuring it survived the catastrophe unscathed, many of the surviving residents came to believe the disaster itself had been caused by the College's mysterious and powerful mages.
As a result, everyone in Winterhold, from the Jarl down to the common citizens, held unfriendly views toward the College of Winterhold.
But constrained by the College's formidable power, they didn't dare to actually take any action against it.
This was the history of Winterhold that George pieced together after he and Arvel entered the inn, combining the information he gathered with the memories from his previous life.
Among this information was the criteria for enrolling in the College of Winterhold.
The College of Winterhold had two admission models.
The first was for children aged eleven or younger, who could take a direct test of their magical aptitude. As long as they passed, they could join.
The second was for individuals over the age of eleven, who were required to be proficient in an intermediate-level spell from any one school of magic.
If one only knew novice-level magic, the College would sell them an intermediate-level spell tome at a dirt-cheap price. If the applicant could learn the spell on their own within two years, they would also be permitted to join.
George currently only possessed the novice-level spells he had purchased. He had no intermediate spells, and he was also over the age limit for the first method.
Therefore, he decided to choose the second admission method.
After all, for him, learning an intermediate-level spell from this world was merely a matter of a few minutes.
That evening, sitting by the inn's bonfire, George sipped Winterhold's specialty Snowberry Wine. He watched a Nord dancer perform a dance full of northern flavor and finalized his plan for entering the College of Winterhold tomorrow.
However, just at that moment, his ears suddenly twitched.
"This sound... Has a dragon already been resurrected?"
He calculated the time. It was about right. Seven days had passed since he saw Alduin leaving Riverwood.
Seven days was more than enough time for Alduin to resurrect several dragons.
"Bad news! There... there... there's a dragon attacking!"
The inn's door was violently thrown open, and a city resident shouted, his voice trembling with fear.
As his shout ended, the terrifying roar of a dragon echoed from outside.
"A dragon?"
The patrons in the inn were stunned for a moment, then immediately erupted into chaotic, terrified screaming.
Creatures like dragons, in the eyes of almost everyone in Skyrim, belonged to the realm of legend. And in those legends, dragons were always depicted as evil, cruel, and immensely powerful.
"I just happen to be in need of a mount. I wonder if this one can be subdued."
Hearing the dragon's roar outside, George couldn't help but rub his chin.
(End of Chapter)