Winterfrost Canyon.
This deep valley with sheer cliffs, located in the extre northern reaches of Snow Country, sees no sunlight year-round, and the biting wind is like a knife.
The ice layer is so thick it seems to have frozen the entire land into a silent graveyard.
And at the deepest part of the canyon is the dwelling place of this remnant heretical army—the “Abyssal Camp.”
What is called a camp is actually just a series of narrow caves carved into the ice and stone, with extrely primitive living conditions: cold, slippery, and no fire year-round.
Behind curtains made of coarse cloth are a tattered felt blanket and an iron pot full of snow water.
There is no warmth here, nor is warmth needed.
They live for “revenge.”
And now, in the center of the Abyssal Camp, a massive altar stands amidst the snow mist.
Like a bone pillar protruding from a glacier, it is covered in black ice and wind-snow patterns, with ancient inscribed lines filling the central depression, twisted, intertwined, spreading out like veins.
Above the altar, several human figures hang upside down.
They are dressed in tattered Imperial military uniforms, their chest badges torn off, their mouths gagged with rags, and their wide-open eyes filled with terror and pain.
Blood drips from their fingertips, slowly gathering along the grooves of the altar.
Those lines are not re decorations, but the path of the sacrificial text.
Blood flows along the engraved totem lines, seeping into the ground, as if a certain awakened will is whispering.
And beneath the ice, those inscriptions faintly emit an eerie blue light, as if breathing from another world.
All around, Snowsworn warriors kneel in orderly rows.
They wear ice-white robes, covered in shattered armor, their masks as stern as carvings.
Yet in every pair of eyes, a scorching fla burns—fanaticism and obsession.
A dark figure slowly steps forward; it is the Abyssal Priest.
He wears a robe sewn from black snow vulture feathers, the feathers trembling slightly in the wind, and holds an ice-blue scepter. Embedded at the top of the scepter is a cracked ancient ice crystal, within which a pulsating light seems to writhe.
He slowly opens his mouth, and a chant in the ancient Snow Tongue flows from his lips, like an ancient ice river awakening:
“We, your people, were exiled, abandoned, our nation burned to ruin. The Imperial iron hooves seized our God’s tomb and extinguished the lamps of our Snow Temple.
The blood of this day shall repay that debt; ice and blood shall reopen the path ho for our clan.”
The chant grew increasingly high-pitched, and the wind and snow seed to surge with it.
Ice mist began to rise.
Initially, it was just a few wisps of white vapor erging from the cracks of the altar.
However, in the blink of an eye, it spread across the entire area like a tidal wave, the extrely cold mist churning and rolling, as if to engulf the entire Winterfrost Canyon.
The air beca thick and sluggish, as if even breathing was frozen.
From deep underground ca a low hum of “Thump... Thump...”
That was not wind, nor an earthquake, but a more eerie sound, like flesh rubbing against rock as a creature crawled.
“It’s moving,” a Snowsworn murmured softly, the look in his eyes beneath his mask growing more fervent.
At this mont, the bodies of the upside-down Imperial nobles and knights began to convulse violently.
Their limbs, already weak and withered, suddenly tensed, and blood accelerated, gushing from ruptured veins, yet flowing upwards against gravity, seeping into the core of the altar as if pulled by an invisible hand.
“Aahhh—!”
The gagged captives let out suffocated wails, black blood oozing from their seven orifices, their pupils unfocused.
Their bodies began to collapse, their flesh like drained water bags, dry and cracked, until only a layer of grayish-brown skin and empty skeletons remained, swaying slowly in the cold wind, like wind-dried offerings.
At the very center of the altar, the blood-red eye suddenly flared up with a burst of “Crack—crack-crack-crack-crack—!”
Blue ghostly flas ignited from the top of the totem pole, burning silently, yet releasing a low, grating sound like bones being crushed.
On the ice surface, ancient god of the cold abyss inscriptions lit up one after another, radiating like a complex neural network, connecting the entire Snowsworn camp.
“It responded—”
“It responded!!”
In an instant, the silence was shattered.
The Snowsworn warriors erupted in frenzied cheers, their eyes beneath their masks seemingly devouring the flas.
They knelt heavily, pounding the ground with their palms, and shouted in unison:
“The ancient god of the cold abyss responds! Snow Country shall awaken! Blood for blood! Snow Country is eternal!!”
Standing high on the altar, the Abyssal Priest suddenly raised his scepter, his feathered robe wildly dancing in the cold wind, his voice hoarse yet impassioned:
“Listen! The ancient god of the cold abyss has opened its eyes! Blood awakens the rage of the ice plains, and the flas of vengeance shall rise from the extre cold! The day of the Empire has reached its dusk, and the Snow Country shall return to the stars!”
As if responding to his cry, the ice rock beneath the altar began to crack, and from the bottomless fissures, sothing massive slowly awakened, twisting and writhing, emitting a deep, heavy drumming sound.
That was not wind, nor fire, but the breath of a god.
So believers pressed their foreheads to the ice, tears and wild laughter intertwined, repeating incessantly:
“The ancient god of the cold abyss has awakened—the ancient god of the cold abyss has awakened—the ancient god of the cold abyss has awakened!”
The fire of heresy had already ignited, and the silence of the ice plains was being torn apart.
Before the fervent prayers had faded, a figure slowly erged from the shadows on the other side of the altar.
He stood silently, his cloak draped like night, and ice and snow quietly lted within three feet of him, not daring to approach.
It was a “mysterious person” dressed in a black robe and wearing half a mask.
The mask was shaped like a half-tear, yet it could not conceal a hint of mockery in his eyes.
He looked at the group of Snowsworn trembling with excitent from the “sacrifice,” slowly curled his lips, and sneered softly: “It’s truly not easy to act with such dedication.”
His voice was soft yet cold, like a fingernail scraping across ice, light and airy, yet it made one’s scalp tingle.
It was Despair Witch.
He tilted his head slightly, looking at the several “Imperial nobles” hanging upside down.
They convulsed, struggled, bled from their seven orifices, and finally dried and cracked, looking extrely “realistic.”
But in his eyes, they were rely insignificant illusionary puppets.
“Their true bodies were thrown beneath the altar to feed the Mother Nest long ago; these substitutes don’t even have many bones.”
“But for these poor wretches whose brains are frozen solid, only when ‘nobles’ bleed will they believe that the gods have awakened.”
He shook his head, his eyes full of amusent and indifference, like an adult watching a group of children dancing around a puppet.
For him, this entire sacrifice was rely a multi-threaded experint.
On one hand, it indeed “fed” the Mother Nest beneath the altar.
A parasitic species he had modified and cultivated specifically for cold environnts.
On the other hand, this “miracle” was also enough to ignite a new wave of religious fanaticism among the Snowsworn.
Making them more willing to exchange their flesh and faith for so-called “divine grace.”
However, Despair Witch’s mood was not good at the mont. The last residual signal transmitted from a “lost Mother Nest’s” brain core not long ago was faint, chaotic, and fragnted.
No explanation was needed.
The second Mother Nest had been destroyed.
His fingertips trembled slightly, as if brushing against a net he had spent years weaving with his own hands.
And that net was now being cut, one slice at a ti, by so invisible blade.
“The first ti, I could call it a coincidence, but this ti—” he murmured softly, a rare hint of alarm in his voice.
“Could it be that the Empire—soone has already mastered the thod of ‘tracking Mother Nests’?”
He had been planning in Snow Country for many years, deciding to use the Mother Nests and Snowsworn as seeds to spread chaos to achieve his goal.
Now, it was very likely that his plans had been detected prematurely.
So he decided to activate his plan ahead of schedule, though not too far ahead.
While it would be more effective to start in deep winter, starting a few months early to avoid mishaps was worth it.
Inside the main tent, an oil lamp flickered, its fla dancing uneasily like an agitated mind.
Shiro sat in the center of the tent, facing a damaged Snow Country military flag, already scorched by flas and stained with blood.
His eyes were as deep as a well, and his mouth twitched occasionally, as if he were whispering to so unseen presence.
The air suddenly tightened.
A strange cold wind silently swept through, and the tent flap silently lifted.
“He” had arrived.
Stepping into the lamplight was a figure wrapped in a dark cloak, with silver-white hair flowing like snow and skin so pale it almost ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) glead with cold light.
A half-mask covered the left side of his face, revealing only a chilling silver right eye, while the other half was an almost perfect female face, exquisitely carved.
The corners of his eyes tilted slightly upwards, carrying a lazy yet dangerous smile that seed capable of piercing bone marrow and seeing through souls.
“Still waiting for the dream to wake up—how pathetic.” He chuckled, his voice slowly flowing into the tent.
It was a deep, effeminate male voice, yet so lingering it was almost like a woman’s whisper, sending shivers down one’s spine.
Shiro instinctively drew his knife, but then trembled and put it down.
He recognized that voice, recognized that figure.
It was the “ssenger of God” who had guided him on the path of sacrifice.
Despair Witch slowly approached him, like a phantom moving through the night.
“The ancient god of the cold abyss is awakening faster than I thought. Your revenge—can also begin early.”
As he spoke, he gently lifted a corner of Shiro’s cloak, his fingertips cold and tinged with a thrilling excitent.
Shiro froze.
Initially, there was a second of confusion—he widened his eyes, as if he hadn’t fully heard the phrase “revenge ahead of schedule.”
Imdiately after, his cheeks began to twitch, his brows furrowed, and his lips parted slightly.
His entire being was like a raging fire bursting from frozen ground—scorching and twisted.
“...Revenge—ahead of schedule...?”
He murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling, like a crushed soul speaking again.
Suddenly, he slamd to his knees, his knees hitting the cold ground heavily, his fists pounding the earth, tears and saliva flying, his expression as savage as a wild beast.
“Finally!!! Finallyyyyyyy—!!
Those Imperial bastards—will finally pay the price!!!”
He roared, frantically tearing at his cloak, gritting his teeth, pounding his chest, as if to dig out all the hatred etched in his heart and offer it to soone.
And before him, Despair Witch stood silently.
He said nothing, showed no expression.
His silver eyes held an unspeakable coldness and pity, like watching an old dog, fed for too long, about to be slaughtered for at.
He gently raised a hand, his black cloak swirling like night, and uttered a faint command: “Gather the Snowsworn warriors.”
“Your ancient god of the cold abyss will revive.”
As his words fell, his figure dissipated into the wind like mist, leaving only the frenzied Shiro.
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