《Echoes of the Apocalypse: The Birth of Asofer》


 0-Prologue

    World Trheom, Year 11327 E.M.


    In the north of the Fenesian Empire, in the territory of the principality of Cervid, on the border of the Greenwing forest lies the village Bitterthorn, here people survive thanks to the forest and what it provides.


    Here we find the house of the Riger family, which stands at the edge of the forest, where the wilderness surrenders its right to the land to man. The house was built by Bratson Riger, a southern man born in the Idrham territories. He stopped in the harsh north out of love for Daisy, his beloved companion, with savings accumulated in the war. After two generations of Riger in this old, solid home we find young Aron Riger, born nineteen winters ago, the day before the day of the dragon, when night devours the sunlight of day.


    Aron is a hunter, like his father Tyron. Six winters ago, Tyron died during a hunt, slipping in the fresh snow and breaking his arm¡ªa wound that bled him dry.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    His older sister, Lisa, at the tender age of three fell ill with lung disease and died in this sad but not uncommon way here in the north. The mother, Melissa, within a year of Tyron¡¯s death, Melissa fell ill¡ªnot in body, but in spirit. Her eyes dulled, their gray no longer like the moon¡¯s light, but like old, dirty jade. His mother''s apathy and silence were like another loss for Aron, but one that he faced with unusual calm, even he did not know why, but perhaps part of him already expected it, since in a similar way his grandfather also fell ill. The last member of the family is Betsy, an eight-year-old mule Tyron bought to help with the work. Now, she¡¯s Aron¡¯s only company. Where there is no longer any shelter from the frost of winter, no longer insulated by the thick oak walls, the wind is free to blow everywhere, overbearingly and wildly, seeping into homes and hearts alike.


    Not only was a new current rising in the Riger house, but a storm was also rising from the north. Beyond Greenwing and pushing toward the northeast, past the towering mountain range, Dragonspine, which snakes from the north of the continent to the Tasson kingdom in the eastern empire. Only past this wall of frost lay the Whitewing forest and the domains of the northern tribes, united by their faith in the Dragon Fimbulwinter. Here, a storm¡ªancient in its nature¡ªstirred once more, ready to unleash its imperious breath upon all in its path.

 Chapter 1

    "It¡¯s really cold today, huh, Betsy?"


    Aron¡¯s voice, light and playful, echoed through the sparse, snow-covered underbrush. He stood atop a slope overlooking a small hollow. From there, the square, old house built by his grandfather was visible¡ªset in a spot shielded from the harshest, coldest winds.


    ¡°Not much more than yesterday¡­ or the day before,¡± replied a voice¡ªmocking, almost disdainful, the kind that couldn¡¯t stand pointless chatter.


    ¡°Can¡¯t even talk anymore, huh¡­¡± Aron sighed theatrically, exaggerating as though someone had truly offended him.


    ¡°Aron¡­ are you going to finish loading the wood onto the sled, or will you keep chatting with a stupid mule?¡± This time, the disdain wasn¡¯t sarcastic¡ªit was real.


    ¡°Oh, and talking to you is so different, huh? Yeah, right. You¡¯re just another part of me, imagined by me. You¡¯re no better than the mule you just called stupid.¡± The words burst from Aron¡¯s mind all at once as he threw the last branch onto the sled.


    ¡°You know I¡¯m nothing like Betsy¡­ hahahaha! Don¡¯t pretend otherwise. And admit it, you¡¯re enjoying this. After all, even if all of this is fake¡ªa conversation with no one¡ªthe emotions it sparks are real. And honestly, they warm you up pretty well!¡±


    ¡°Come on, Betsy, time to go home,¡± Aron called. The mule approached, each step sinking into the soft snow that had stopped falling only that morning. In the cold clearing, only the sound of the wind and Betsy¡¯s breathing broke the silence. But as Aron tied the sled, the conversation in his mind continued, absurd and comical.


    ¡°Yes, we know it very well. We know it soooo well!¡±


    ¡°Finally, we can head home. To shelter.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, shelter, sure.¡±


    ¡°The warmest, coziest place of all.¡±


    "AHAHAHAHAHA!" Aron¡¯s laughter echoed across the slope leading home.


    The door opened with a loud creak, dragging across the wooden floor and deepening the groove already worn there. ¡°The hinge,¡± Aron muttered with a look that showed he¡¯d forgotten to fix it too many times¡ªor maybe he just didn¡¯t care anymore.


    Before him, at the far end of the room¡ªtoo large and too empty¡ªsat his mother near the stove. She was in a chair, not just any chair, but a special one covered in furs to make the wood warmer and less hard. Melissa sat motionless, expressionless, like a frozen corpse. Despite the blankets draped over her shoulders and the fire¡¯s proximity, nothing melted her. Her gaze was fixed on the table before her, her hands resting folded on her lap, pale as death.


    ¡°Here I am, Mom! Your handsome boy is back! Won¡¯t you give me a big smile?¡± His cheerful voice, accompanied by a wide grin, filled the room, drowning out the crackling of the wood in the stove. But nothing. The only reply was the wind against the windows and the sound of the burning fire.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± he said, his tone returning to monotony. His cheerfulness had been a mockery, but directed at whom, even he wasn¡¯t sure.


    ¡°Come on, time for lunch.¡± In the large room, which served as both a living area and a kitchen, Aron began to cook. A simple soup of rye and dried meat¡ªenough to warm and feed them. Throughout the entire preparation, Aron spoke to his mother with the same cheerful tone as before, though it was destined to be a one-sided conversation. Her only action was the movement of her spoon. Watching it, Aron thought, ¡°I wonder when she¡¯ll stop even doing that.¡± The thought, directed at his mother, scared him¡ªnot for the act itself, but for the lack of fear it caused in him. It felt like an expectation, or something he dared not delve into.


    Once they¡¯d eaten, Aron added wood to the stove and adjusted the blanket to cover his mother better. Then he lay down on his bed, but in that moment¡­


    ¡°It¡¯s time. The sun sets earlier every day.¡±


    ¡°I know, I know. It¡¯s just that¡­ I¡¯m tired.¡±


    ¡°So what do you want to do? You¡¯ve been tired for years. Now grab that damn bow and go kill something.¡±Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°Yes, fine, I¡¯ll go! I¡¯ll go!¡±


    ¡°You love playing the victim, don¡¯t you? It¡¯s clear you inherited your mother¡¯s blood¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, I have her blood, and yes, maybe I¡¯m crazy. But damn it, I won¡¯t end up like her, and you know it. I¡¯d rather die in some stupid, ridiculous way.¡±


    With the final thought, and as he left the house, a muffled laugh escaped him. It was an expression of joy that betrayed something far darker.


    Aron entered the forest, moving beyond the younger trees where he¡¯d gathered wood that morning, stepping into the true wilderness. ¡°Nothing here either¡± he whispered to the wind.


    ¡°That was the last one, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, you know it¡­ and don¡¯t laugh, bastard.¡±


    After checking all five traps, he¡¯d found nothing¡ªnot that it was surprising. But today Aron didn¡¯t feel very ¡°balanced,¡± and his face showed it: furrowed brows, corners of his mouth turned upward, forming an expression of disdain mixed with rage.


    ¡°Oh, poor little Aron is angry. The world¡¯s out to get him, nothing ever goes his way! Oh, shut up, idiot. Do you really think anyone would waste their time playing with us? We¡¯re nothing in the middle of nothing, finding NOTHING! That¡¯s the truth. And don¡¯t even think about going home empty-handed like every other day. Get out there and kill something. Anything.¡±


    Silence. There was only silence and frost in the forest. Even Aron¡¯s eyes were icy. In contrast to the fire raging in his mind, his body stood still, like a frozen statue in a frozen world. Slowly, his body began to move¡ªtoward a prey he knew he would find. He had to. And deep within his eyes, something began to reignite, though it remained too hazy to take form.


    Scrak¡­ scrak¡­


    The sound of Aron¡¯s steps broke the silence, his boots sinking into the snow, occasionally crunching forgotten branches hidden beneath the white blanket, left there since autumn. He walked on, aimless and instinctive, like a puppet whose limbs moved only because someone else pulled the strings. His face, at that moment, bore an uncanny resemblance to his mother¡¯s¡ªpale, empty, as if his mind had frozen at the very moment it shattered. Fractured, yet held together by an unyielding frost, keeping it from breaking entirely.


    Aron didn¡¯t know how long he had been walking or how far he had gone when his eyes came back to life. It felt like hours, but the mere fact that the sun was still visible proved him wrong. The sky was already turning red¡ªthe twilight drawing near.


    Then, a sound¡ªa branch snapping.


    He froze. Something was there. A prey. His body transformed instantly, his movements becoming light and feline. At that moment, Aron seemed less human and more predator, perfectly camouflaged against the forest. The pale tone of his skin matched the snow, his dark furs blended with the trees, and his balanced frame was poised for the hunt. Neither tall nor short, neither frail nor broad, he moved with purpose. His long black hair framed his face, shielding him from the cold but not obscuring his sharp gaze.


    His mind fell silent, replaced by an intense focus. Slowly, he crept toward the sound, ascending a small ridge. From there, he spotted it¡ªa deer, digging through the snow with its muzzle, searching for the ground beneath. Then, a second movement caught his eye at the base of a tree: a hare.


    The choice was before him.


    ¡°So, which one?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­¡±


    ¡°Logically, you should take the hare. Easier to carry. It¡¯s getting late, and you don¡¯t even know how far you are from home.¡±


    ¡°True.¡±


    ¡°Buuut that¡¯s not what you want, is it? You want the deer. Not for the meat, but because it¡¯s stronger. More satisfying to kill.¡±


    Aron didn¡¯t respond, but his lips curled into a smirk as the voice cackled in his head, feeding the chaos in his mind.


    ¡°Fuck¡±


    ¡°Hurry up. You can¡¯t wait forever¡ªit¡¯s getting late.¡±


    He raised his bow¡ªhis father¡¯s bow¡ªcrafted from dark oak with a string made of animal sinew. Simple in design, but effective. He drew the string, the arrow already nocked, his eye aiming at the hare¡ªwhich, by now, had moved closer to the deer. He couldn¡¯t hold the string taut for long.


    Swishhh.


    The arrow cut through the air and embedded itself in the deer¡¯s neck.


    The sacred silence shattered. Painful cries and the sound of hooves thrashing echoed through the clearing. A white shadow darted away across the snow. Blood stained the monochrome landscape with vivid color.


    ¡°Nice shot. Sure, it¡¯s fine to change your mind at the last second¡ªI¡¯m all for irrational decisions¡ªbut fuck, at least do it right!¡± the voice sneered as Aron took off after the deer.


    Aron chased after the deer, following the tracks in the snow. Blood stained the path. It was bleeding out, but it was still running. After five minutes, he found it. The deer lay collapsed in the snow, surrounded by crimson. It watched him approach, its legs twitching weakly. Aron knelt down, their eyes locking. Two pairs of black eyes met¡ªtwo souls. One had just ended the other.


    The knife plunged down, silencing the deer¡¯s struggles but not its gaze. Aron stared into its lifeless eyes, unmoving.


    ¡°You did it on purpose, didn¡¯t you?¡± the voice whispered. ¡°You wanted to watch it bleed. To see it run for its life, terrified, trembling in its death.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Maybe. Just shut up. I don¡¯t want to talk about it.¡±


    ¡°Coward.¡±


    Aron exhaled, glancing at the horizon. ¡°What a beautiful sunset, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    The sun was setting, dipping behind the Dragonspine in the distance. It reached the lowest point of its descent, where orange and yellow vanished, leaving only blood-red hues to spill across this white world.

 Chapter 2

    ¡°So¡­ what do you want to do?¡±


    The Voice questioned Aron, as he stared down at the deer, his head bowed.


    ¡°It must weigh forty, maybe fifty kilos. I can¡¯t drag it all the way home, let alone carry it on my back¡ªnot with night falling.¡±


    It was Fillbror, the month that ended the year and flung open winter¡¯s gates. The sun barely grazed the sky, its fleeting light already fading into the cold afternoon. Darkness was descending, unstoppable.


    ¡°A shame. Dragging it was a fun option. Ahhh, so?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll cut off the best parts, wrap them in its hide, and head back with just those.¡±


    ¡°Works for me.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡± The words carried on the wind as Aron gave a slight nod, his gaze fixed on the carcass, thinking about where to start the task.


    With the speed born of experience, Aron removed everything he needed from the animal and turned back just as swiftly.


    ¡°Home. Finally, we¡¯re heading back. But you¡¯d better hurry¡ªdidn¡¯t you hear them?¡±


    The Voice¡¯s mocking tone sliced through the silence.


    ¡°What the hell am I doing?!¡± he thundered, quickening his pace and clenching his fists.


    Aron moved as fast as he could, putting distance between himself and the scene of the kill. It was a rare, clear evening, and only the moonlight let him see where he was going. In the thick woods, he could barely trace his footprints in the snow, but something else weighed on his mind.


    He¡¯d heard them. Oh, he¡¯d heard them. Wolves. The scent of blood must have drawn them, and a hungry pack was the last thing he wanted to meet.


    ¡°Weak.¡±


    ¡°And tell me, what should I do? Fight off a damn pack of wolves, alone, in the dark, with just a bow?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re scared. You haven¡¯t changed. Still weak.¡± The Voice spoke with its icy, divine tone, like a judgment passed down from the heavens.


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m scared, a little. It¡¯s natural¡­¡± His words came out as a whisper. ¡°It¡¯s not my fault I didn¡¯t have the qualifications, the talent, or whatever the hell it takes to become a knight!¡± Aron spat, his voice shaking with frustration.


    ¡°Whose body is this? You say it¡¯s yours, so the fault is yours too. And we¡¯re not talking about some special kind of knight¡ªit was the simplest method, Aron. It only required prana¡­ literal life energy. Even plants have it. Even that idiot Dick managed it.¡± The Voice, sly and cutting, jabbed at an old wound Aron had never managed to heal.


    ¡°Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!¡±


    Awooo¡­ Awooo¡­ Awooo¡­


    Aron¡¯s thoughts were ripped away, silenced by the howls of wolves carried on the wind. Snow was beginning to fall.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming from where the deer was. Strange¡ªthey wouldn¡¯t be making this much noise over a carcass.¡±


    ¡°It seems there¡¯s more there than just the carcass.¡±This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    Rrowwwl¡­ Grrrr¡­ Rrowwwl¡­


    ¡°They sound frightened. Afraid.¡± Aron stopped, glancing back toward where he had fled.


    ¡°Mphh¡­ you recognize fear well,¡± the Voice replied, relentless as always.


    Rrrraaaaaghhhh!


    A deafening roar shattered the air¡ªa sound that blended the hiss of a reptile with the screech of a raptor. It drowned out the wolves¡¯ howls and the wind that hissed through the snow-laden treetops.


    Then, in the eerie silence that followed, came a series of sharp screeches, like flags whipping in a gale. Through the snow and darkness, a long, winged figure emerged. With the moon at its back, it looked like nothing more than a colossal shadow. But in its talons, something glinted¡ªprey.


    Aron froze, breathless. ¡°What¡­ what was that?¡± he whispered, his voice trembling with both curiosity and shock. His eyes, wide and glassy like the deer¡¯s, were locked on the talons¡ªor rather, what they held.


    ¡°I¡¯d guess a wyvern. More specifically, a green wyvern. We are, after all, in the Greenwing Forest¡± the Voice replied seriously, answering a question directed at no one in particular, but one both of them needed answered.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard of them¡­ but I¡¯ve never seen one. No one talks about them anymore, not even in the village¡­¡± Aron¡¯s voice wavered, his gaze still clouded with the image of the deer, its broken body clutched in those monstrous claws. Words escaped him, searching for comfort.


    ¡°What do you want to know? Why it¡¯s here? Whether it¡¯s alone or brought its whole family of flying lizards? I don¡¯t know everything, but you could try asking her. She seemed friendly.¡±


    ¡°Asshole.¡± The word carried a frosty edge, as Aron¡¯s mind was dragged back to the frozen wasteland around him.


    ¡°Home. Do you remember what we¡¯re doing?¡±


    Aron resumed his journey, cloaked in darkness and snow, with each step sinking deep into it. The moonlight grew weaker, but his house came closer¡ªa distant beacon in the frozen night, offering the promise of shelter, though not of solace.


    SBAM!


    The door burst open, halting halfway and earning an angry glare from Aron.


    ¡°When will you fix it?¡± The Voice¡¯s mocking tone cut through the wind.


    ¡°Never!¡± Aron shot back, his voice firm.


    The door, along with Aron, welcomed the biting cold and the snow, carried inside by the howling wind of the snowy night. With a sharp motion, Aron slammed it shut and stormed toward the stove, ignoring everything else in the room. He needed warmth¡ªnow.


    The fire inside was nearly dead, its embers faint and fragile. He grabbed some old wood from the basket nearby, dry and ready, collected days earlier. As he opened the stove¡¯s door and added the logs, the fire crackled to life, flames springing up in a desperate surge.


    A sudden burst of hot air and smoke rushed into his face, stinging his eyes and filling his nostrils with its sharp, acrid scent. His head jerked back instinctively, trying to escape the onslaught, as his watering eyes blinked rapidly against the irritation.


    After warming himself enough to feel the blood flowing back into his limbs, Aron stepped out of the house. He still wore his coat; it had been only a brief pause to thaw out, but the work wasn¡¯t done yet.


    At the shed behind the house, he placed the meat into the ice pit dug into the ground. It was a temporary measure; he would use the drying rack the next morning, but for now, he lacked the energy. His mind was unusually quiet, perhaps from exhaustion, or perhaps because it hadn¡¯t yet processed the events of the night. It was a heavy silence, in sharp contrast to the storm raging outside.


    Braving the icy wind that bit at his face, he went back inside. He removed his damp clothes and boots, leaving them near the stove to dry. Finally warm and dry, he reheated the leftover soup from lunch and sat at the table. Across from him sat his mother. She hadn¡¯t moved an inch since the afternoon. Only the slow rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she was still alive. The soup in her bowl remained untouched; she must not have been hungry, though she hadn¡¯t moved during the day.


    Aron finished his meal and left the table as it was. Then, without haste but with determination, he made his way to his room. He threw himself onto the bed, letting the warmth of the blankets envelop him. For a moment, the cold, the wind, and even his thoughts seemed to vanish.


    The days passed, and Fillbror grew colder. The twenty-first of the month approached: the Day of the Dragon, when frost and darkness descend upon the earth. But for Aron, it also meant something else¡ªhis twentieth birthday, on the day before, the twentieth.


    As the date drew closer, the strange stillness that had enveloped him began to crack. His mind stirred, tormented by a growing restlessness. The Voice, once a whisper, grew into a resounding song. Dormant emotions surged, a crescendo that the ice could no longer hold back.


    The current wanted to overflow, to break through its banks and flood everything in its path. The wind wanted to blow free, uncaring of the earth. The fire wanted to burn, to destroy everything¡­ even if it meant consuming itself.

 Chapter 3

    It was the 19th of Fillbror, as cold as ever, each day worse than the last.


    That morning, Aron had to head to the village center to run some errands. He needed to sell the pelts; working them into clothing would fetch a higher price, but that had been his mother¡¯s trade. He had never learned it, and even if he had wanted to, he wouldn¡¯t have had the time.


    He also needed to buy salt, as their supplies were nearly gone. The nails were completely out as well, which had complicated his attempt the day before to repair Betsy¡¯s small stable. During the night, probably frightened by the storm, Betsy had kicked, hitting some beams, detaching them, and even breaking a few.


    Leaving the house, Aron stepped into the frigid world outside, where even his padded coat couldn¡¯t shield him from the cold that seeped into his bones. Tied outside the door, Betsy waited patiently. Aron loaded onto her back all the pelts he had gathered over the last few weeks: mostly from small animals, with the exception of a roe deer he had hunted a few days prior. Alongside the pelts, he added some dried meat to sell, as the roe deer¡¯s kill had left them with more than enough provisions for two people, especially considering that one barely ate.


    ¡°To the village, hooray! It¡¯s been a while since we¡¯ve gone¡± exclaimed the Voice, cheerful as always just to irritate Aron.


    ¡°Yeah, it must have been a month or more. There wasn¡¯t even snow last time¡± he replied, trying to stay calm. He had learned that ignoring it didn¡¯t work; he had to feed it to keep it from consuming him.


    ¡°Oh, oh, oh, how wonderful! Finally, some different faces and voices. I can¡¯t stand you anymore!¡±


    ¡°You? Can¡¯t stand me?¡± Aron¡¯s calm tone wavered under the weight of such absurd accusations.


    The Voice answered with utter seriousness, ¡°Yes, yes, you. You¡¯re the problem.¡± Then, with growing heat, ¡°Watching your miserable life every day is BORING. You live in a shithole with practically the only company being a mule. The other one, I don¡¯t even know what it is. And you¡¯ve lost everything. Oh, and I don¡¯t mean family or friends, but yourself¡ªyour ambition, your desires, your passions. You¡¯re EMPTY. In your insignificant routine, you¡¯ve nearly reached twenty, and your worries have boiled down to salt and nails. Pathetic.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right, I can¡¯t deny it,¡± Aron responded seriously, but then, trying to defend himself, said, ¡°But it¡¯s not my fault the path was closed to me. Yes, I wanted to become a knight, to fight, to travel, to kill; I didn¡¯t care for whom, where, or why, even at the risk of dying, but I wanted to do it! But without the opportunity to grow, what¡¯s the point? Tell me!¡± The words drained him of energy, each one as heavy as a mountain.


    ¡°You¡¯re the same as always,¡± the Voice replied, cold and glacial, like the wind descending from the Dragonspine. ¡°It¡¯s never your fault. You couldn¡¯t do anything. But you know¡­ even if the door was closed, you could have broken it down! At least tried. But you didn¡¯t. So, you made this NOTHING your home, your place of comfort. Even if it¡¯s barren and hard, at least it¡¯s familiar.¡±


    Silence met those words. Finally, though, something different began to fill the air: human voices, smells, the sounds of life. They had reached the village. They were leaving the life of the forest behind for that of men, perhaps less familiar than the former.


    Walking through the muddy paths that connected the village outskirts to its center and eventually reaching cobblestone streets, one could glimpse the everyday life of the northern empire. Scant people, heavily dressed, rushed back and forth through the streets, leaving behind clouds of warm breath, the only trace of their passage, which the cold devoured just as quickly.


    They arrived at a shop, the hunter¡¯s house, marked only by a shabby sign outside, swaying in the winter wind.


    ¡°It¡¯s always the same,¡± said the Voice as Betsy was tied outside.


    ¡°What did you expect? Nothing ever changes here,¡± Aron thought as he pushed open the heavy door, designed to protect those inside from the voracious Fillbror.


    A mix of smells infiltrated his nose, ranging from acidic to acrid. They came from the spices and animal fats used to treat pelts. But here, it wasn¡¯t just clothing that was bought and pelts that were sold: anything a hunter might need could be found. Traps, medicinal ointments, arrows, and bows; even dried meat could be sold at a preferential price. Everything a hunter needed or could produce was available here.


    ¡°Aron, still alive, boy! It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve seen you, but then again, it¡¯s been years of the same,¡± came a deep voice.


    It belonged to a burly man emerging from the back room near the stove, where the dancing light of the fire cast itself into the entryway. He was tall and robust, with a large receding hairline and a face marked by the harsh northern climate. Every man born and raised here became like the environment: rigid and unyielding.


    ¡°I¡¯m not that weak. It¡¯s just the start of winter,¡± Aron replied arrogantly.


    ¡°I have my doubts about the weak.¡±


    ¡°Mph¡­ Boy, it¡¯s not just the cold that¡¯s dangerous,¡± he said, giving Aron a disapproving look. ¡°So, what do you have for me today?¡±


    ¡°Brandon, I brought you 21 rabbit and hare pelts. I also have a full roe deer hide and a few kilos of dried meat.¡±


    ¡°Bring them in and let me take a look.¡±


    With that, Aron stepped out to retrieve the pelts and the bag of meat, untying the bundle from Betsy¡¯s back.


    SLAM!


    He dropped everything onto the long table near the entrance on the right. Brandon immediately began examining the quality of the pelts, taking all the time he needed.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    After more than half an hour, Brandon raised his head and declared, ¡°8 rabbit pelts intact, 5 slightly damaged, 8 heavily damaged, and 1 perfect roe deer hide. I can give you 345 Sparks for the pelts and another 100 for the meat. 445 total, okay?¡±


    ¡°Only 345 for the pelts? It¡¯s winter; the price should go up, but instead, it¡¯s lower than last time. What¡¯s going on, Brandon?¡± Aron was stunned, feeling cheated, and the thought annoyed him.


    ¡°Damn it, Aron, this fat bastard is trying to screw us! Who the hell does he think he is? We should skin him alive and throw him into the snow, then see how much he offers for his own hide!¡± the Voice concluded with a laugh full of expectation.


    ¡°Aron, merchants arrived last week. I don¡¯t remember where from, but they brought loads of woolen clothing. So, you can imagine¡­ I didn¡¯t like it either, but asking around, my price is still the best.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s trying to deceive us. Don¡¯t believe him.¡±


    Aron looked straight into the burly man¡¯s eyes and said, ¡°Make it 500. I don¡¯t want to play merchant games here, so be serious. That¡¯s the fair price.¡±


    ¡°Haaah¡­ Let¡¯s make it 450 and a portion of disinfectant ointment and one of hemostatic. They¡¯re worth 50 Sparks each. Deal?¡± Brandon made his offer, also looking the boy straight in the eyes. But his gaze held no anger or anything else¡ªjust pity. Pity for a creature that seemed to bare its teeth and growl out of fear, cornered and terrified.


    ¡°Okay¡­¡±


    They finished the exchange in silence. Aron pocketed 4 silver coins. Three were the well-known Silver Wings, bearing the imperial crest on one side and the phoenix wings on the other. The other came from the nearby kingdom of Forak: the imperial crest was still present, but the other side featured an armored helmet resembling the mandibles of a large ant. In addition to the silver, he received 5 copper coins, each worth 10 Sparks.


    ¡°Why did you accept?! He could have gone higher. And what were those eyes?! How dare he look at us like that! At us!¡± The Voice was furious, burning with rage. It wasn¡¯t about the money, clearly. It didn¡¯t care for that human game; it was the eyes.


    "That filthy bastard! We¡¯ll gouge out his eyes and eat them! Savor his screams¡­ heheheh yes, we¡¯ll do it! Who cares if he¡¯s known us since we were kids or was a friend of our father? None of that matters."


    ¡°Stop it!¡± Aron shouted firmly and decisively. ¡°We won¡¯t do anything of the sort. He wasn¡¯t lying, and you know it. Your behavior is childish. We¡¯re not children anymore.¡± He finished the sentence, and with it, the debate ended. The Voice hated being scolded; it was proud.


    Untying Betsy, the two headed toward a tavern. Aron was starting to feel hungry; it was around noon, and the pale sun was high in the sky.


    After leaving the mule in a small shed next to the tavern¡ªa place specifically set up for tying horses or other animals¡ªhe made his way toward the entrance. For one Spark, they also provided hay, a useful service for those stopping to eat.


    He entered the tavern and found it nearly empty. After all, who could afford to spend money on a meal away from home? It would certainly be busier in the evening when tired workers gave in to the thirst for fresh beer.


    Aron sat at the counter, and shortly after, a waitress approached. She was new. Despite rarely coming to the village, he had known this tavern since he was a child: Mrs. Berta had always been the hostess taking orders, while her husband handled the cooking. Only on the busiest evenings did other girls step in to help with the service.


    ¡°Hello! What can I get you?¡± The waitress¡¯s voice was lively and youthful.


    ¡°The dish of the day and a beer. Also, some hay for the mule outside.¡±


    ¡°Perfect! Anything else?¡± The girl looked at him with a bright smile and an energy that left him feeling unsettled. He wasn¡¯t used to such warm and welcoming faces, especially not in the village.


    ¡°No, that¡¯s all. But¡­ where¡¯s Berta?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Berta! She¡¯s been home for almost a week. One of her daughters, the pregnant one, isn¡¯t well. She decided to leave the tavern to me and go help her.¡±


    ¡°Ah, I¡¯m sorry to hear that¡­¡± He never knew what to say in situations like this. He had never been good at it.


    ¡°By the way, where are you from? I¡¯ve never seen you, and the others you see here have been around the past few days. Are you from a nearby village? What do you do for a living?¡± The girl¡¯s vitality continued to disorient him. Seeing such youth and positivity in someone his age forced him to compare himself to her.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m from here. I live on the edge of the forest. No particular job: just a simple hunter,¡± he replied calmly, trying to mimic a gentle tone.


    ¡°The wolf in sheep¡¯s clothing. Pathetic,¡± murmured the Voice, disgusted.


    ¡°Ah, that explains it! You must rarely come into the village. I imagine it¡¯s a tough life¡ªnot everyone could handle it!¡± the girl concluded cheerfully, extending her hand. ¡°Lucy.¡±


    Aron hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand as well. ¡°Aron.¡±


    Lucy smiled at him, then turned, her long blonde hair swirling as she disappeared into the kitchen.


    Aron sat there, still stunned, staring at his hand. A question came to his mind: ¡°How long has it been since I last felt the touch of a living person?¡±


    ¡°Well, excluding the creature that inhabits your house, I¡¯d say¡­ months? Years? Tsk¡­ I have no idea about such insignificant things,¡± the Voice replied.


    ¡°Could you stop acting like that? You¡¯re pathetic. She¡¯s just a pretty girl. Get your hormones under control.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not that¡­ it was just¡­ the way she behaved and spoke.¡±


    ¡°Sure, if it makes you feel better, keep believing that.¡±


    A plate placed in front of him interrupted the conversation.


    ¡°Rabbit leg with potatoes,¡± announced Lucy, placing the plate alongside a pint of beer. ¡°The hay has already been taken outside. That¡¯ll be 5 for the meal, 2 for the beer, and 1 for the hay. A total of 8 Sparks.¡±


    Aron pulled out a 10 Spark coin and handed it to her.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right back with your change,¡± said Lucy, disappearing briefly into the back room. When she returned, she placed two coins on the counter.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± mumbled Aron, almost under his breath, as if the words were foreign to him.


    ¡°Mph¡­ Since when do you know how to say thank you? You¡¯ve never said it to me. Ungrateful, with all the great advice I give you,¡± scoffed the Voice.


    Aron ignored her for the rest of the meal. He ate slowly, savoring the food¡ªnot just to fill his stomach but to truly enjoy it. He drank his cold, bitter beer, which felt refreshing. Then he left as soon as Lucy disappeared into the kitchen again, preferring to avoid another interaction.


    After leaving the tavern, he headed to the nearby salt shop. The purchase was quick: 5 kilograms for 60 Sparks, as their stock was running low.


    From the salt shop, Aron moved on to the hardware shop, a cluttered shop full of iron trinkets. The village didn¡¯t have a smith¡ªit wouldn¡¯t have been practical¡ªso everything was imported, often from the kingdom of Forak, nestled at the base of the southeastern Spinedragon mountains.


    Entering the shop, he immediately asked the owner for about forty nails. After the experience at lunch, he had a strange desire to return home¡ªto that home.


    ¡°That¡¯ll be 30 Sparks.¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± he said, handing over a Silver Wings coin.


    As the shopkeeper prepared his change, he suddenly remembered something. ¡°Hey, I just remembered¡ªyou asked about a hinge last time. Do you still need it? 15 Sparks; it¡¯s on sale!¡±


    Aron hesitated for a moment. The idea of fixing the door felt like a distant, almost alien thought, but a useful one. With a tired sigh, he answered, ¡°Yes, I need it. Add it on.¡±


    It was finally time to head home. The early afternoon sun was also the last sun of the day. The road back seemed strangely long, an endless wait. The wind, growing stronger and more violent, heralded his arrival home. It wasn¡¯t welcoming, it wasn¡¯t warm¡ªit was the opposite. But it was his refuge, the place he called home.

 Chapter 4

    Returning home, Aron tied Betsy to the stable out back and did something unusual.


    He cooked for his mother. Only for her.


    ¡°And what do you think you¡¯re doing¡­ do you think you¡¯ve changed? Ah! You¡¯re really, ugh¡­¡± The Voice trailed off, unable to find the right words, almost disgusted by the scene.


    Aron ignored the comment. He was feeding his mother, bringing the spoon to her lips with calm and care. His eyes, glistening, were fixed on her face. He observed every detail, with a tenderness he hadn¡¯t felt in years. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, even though he saw her every day.


    It was a silent meal, but a different kind of silence: real, alive.


    After they finished eating, he carried his mother to her room and laid her down on the bed, tucking her in tightly under thick blankets to shield her from the cold. Then, with a faint smile on his lips, he picked up a hammer and nails and headed to the back of the house.


    The Voice, unusually quiet, watched him work. It knew this was a time to stay silent. Only then would it hurt more later.


    Plank by plank, nail by nail, the hole in the wall was sealed. Poor Betsy would no longer have to endure the relentless winter wind.


    Aron stroked her muzzle and spoke to her gently: ¡°You¡¯re such a good mule, my beautiful Betsy.¡± She seemed to understand, rubbing her head against his hand in response.


    ¡°Go on, rest now. You¡¯ve worked hard today, and last night you had to endure the cold. Goodnight, Betsy.¡±


    He returned to the shelter as night had already fallen. Darkness had engulfed everything. He made his way to the pantry, where he grabbed a piece of meat and chewed it slowly, washing it down with a glass of water. That was his dinner. He still felt full from lunch; the portion had been ordinary, but it had filled him in more ways than one.


    Aron sat in his mother¡¯s chair, right in front of the fire. Wrapping himself in a few blankets, he stared at the dancing flames. The warmth enveloped him, and his mind, empty and carefree, began to blur. Eventually, he fell completely asleep.


    He thought he heard a whisper, but paid it no mind.


    ¡°Goodnight, Aron. Rest well¡­ tomorrow is a special day. I¡¯ll prepare a wonderful gift for you.¡±


    Darkness and peace embraced him entirely.


    The rays of the sun crept slowly into the room, inching their way toward the cloaked figure seated before the dying embers of a fire.


    A sudden start. ¡°Huh¡­?¡± His voice was groggy, still caught in the haze of sleep.


    ¡°Good morning, Aron! You slept so long last night. Ready for another wonderful day?¡± The Voice was cheerful¡ªunbearably cheerful.


    ¡°What the hell time is it? Why is the sun so high already?¡± He was starting to make sense of his surroundings.


    ¡°It¡¯s probably nine or ten,¡± the Voice replied, unnervingly gentle.


    ¡°Why didn¡¯t you wake me?! Shit, it¡¯s late!¡± He leapt to his feet, not waiting for an answer, and rushed to get dressed. He grabbed everything he needed: the pouch at his belt, the hatchet for woodcutting, and his bow.


    Hurrying to the back of the house, he prepared Betsy, hitching her to the sled. It was just another day of routine¡ªwood and traps.


    As he climbed the ridge, his stomach growled. ¡°I was in such a hurry, I didn¡¯t eat anything. Good thing I brought some of this,¡± he muttered, pulling a piece of dried meat from his bag.


    Crack!


    The sound of a snapping branch echoed through the stillness of the grove. Aron, shrouded in the steam of his physical exertion, was busy collecting or cutting fallen branches.


    ¡°I just realized¡­ why are you so quiet?¡±


    ¡°Oh, Aron, don¡¯t you like my gift? My silence. You always ask for it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not bad, I admit. But¡­ since when do you give gifts?¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°Arooon¡­ do you think I¡¯m a monster?¡± The Voice dragged out the words, almost playfully. Aron shuddered as an involuntary twitch crossed his eye. ¡°And yet, contrary to what you believe, I am not. Well, now you¡¯ve forced me to come up with a new birthday gift.¡± Its tone turned languid, filled with long sighs, as though imitating someone deeply regretful.


    ¡°Let¡¯s say you are a mon¡ª¡±


    Aron froze mid-sentence. His body stopped, as motionless as another tree in the forest. Even his mind seemed paralyzed.


    Then, with rising panic in his voice, he stammered, ¡°W-w-what did you just say?¡±


    His body remained stiff, shaken only by the icy wind threading through the trees.


    ¡°Aron, where is your head? It¡¯s your birthday today! And not just any birthday, your twentieth! It¡¯s an important milestone in a man¡¯s life. Happy birthday!!¡±


    Aron¡¯s breathing quickened. His chest rose and fell frantically, like a blacksmith¡¯s bellows. His mind, calm and clear until then, was like a lake suddenly shattered by a landslide¡ªmurky, turbulent, out of control.


    ¡°Aron, why are you sitting under a tree? Oh, I see.¡± The Voice was sweet, almost tender. ¡°You liked my gift so much that you¡¯re crying with joy! It was so astounding that you can¡¯t even stand anymore.¡±


    Its tone rose, becoming a melody broken by laughter, a discordant harmony that rang like nails on stone.


    ¡°I should have known. The truth is always better than silence, isn¡¯t it? My earlier gift was kind, but this¡­¡± A long, theatrical sigh. ¡°This is perfect.¡±


    Aron felt every word burrow into his mind like blades of ice. His hands sank into the frozen earth, searching for something solid, something to anchor him to reality. The wind howled through the branches, a mournful wail, but it couldn¡¯t drown out the Voice. There was no escape.


    ¡°I see you¡¯re not moving¡­ perhaps this is the place you¡¯ve chosen to celebrate? I¡¯d say it¡¯s a fitting choice for you. Empty, cold, and sad.¡± The last words dropped in tone, devoid of any sensitivity.


    ¡°Splendid, let¡¯s begin!¡± The Voice cleared its throat, preparing for a speech. ¡°I must say, Aron, since I¡¯ve known you, you¡¯ve changed. True, you¡¯ve become more pathetic, but hey, at least you¡¯re getting worse.¡±


    Aron, immobile, felt every word reverberate through him. Even if he covered his ears, he couldn¡¯t block it out¡ªit was inside him.


    ¡°In all these long years we¡¯ve shared, you¡¯ve accomplished nothing, aside from surviving, of course,¡± the Voice continued, its tone shifting to something more unpleasant, laced with palpable disdain. ¡°Your dreams and ambitions, you brutally extinguished them with a dull life. You convinced yourself that it was for your mother, for the house your father left behind. But it was all false! You were afraid, so you decided not to think, not to look. But guess what? I did it for you.¡±


    ¡°And don¡¯t even think about living a life like yesterday afternoon. About getting married, having a family, realizing your dreams through your children. That¡¯s not for you, Aron. And I¡¯ll do whatever it takes to stop you if you dare try.¡±


    The Voice lowered its tone, each word heavy and final, like a sentence handed down by a judge.


    ¡°For six years, you¡¯ve been down, Aron. Six years. It¡¯s true, you couldn¡¯t become a knight. Your father died in the forest, your mother fell ill. You lost so much¡­ but you never saw what you gained.¡±


    ¡°W-w-what?¡±


    The trembling word was carried by the wind, fragile, almost broken. His body seemed frozen, his breath held, as if even his heart feared to beat.


    The Voice became more solemn, stripped of all human emotion. It was divine¡ªor perhaps the opposite.


    ¡°Opportunity and freedom.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand,¡± Aron murmured, his confusion evident.


    ¡°Life freed you, Aron. It removed your chains. No family, no home, no dreams. You were a man without ties, and therefore without limits. You could have become anything. You could have discovered yourself.¡±


    The Voice paused, as if to let the weight of its words settle. Then it continued, harsher:


    ¡°Instead, you clung to a rusty chain. A chain you knew, one that kept you anchored. It protected you from the currents, true. But it also denied you the open sea. It bound you to a life that was barren, lifeless. And you accepted it.¡±


    Aron felt the world stop for a moment. Then, an explosion.


    The truth had struck him deep, destroying everything in its path. Inside him, there was only chaos.


    ¡°I am responsible for my life,¡± he thought, each word a blade that cut through the silence. ¡°For my choices. For those I didn¡¯t make. I chained myself to that parasite living in the house. I kept doing what my father did.¡±


    His inner voice rose, breaking into a muffled scream: ¡°How many opportunities and chances I¡¯ve wasted¡­ but no more. NO MORE!¡±


    With a violent jolt, he sprang to his feet like an arrow loosed from its bow, clutching the axe in one hand. His heart pounded like a drum. He left everything else behind, except for the clothes and bag strapped to his body.


    ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what happens,¡± he said to himself, his breath short and ragged. ¡°Now I just want to run. Run into the depths of this forest. I¡¯ll journey, even if it¡¯s for the first and last time.¡±


    A laugh burst from his lips.


    It was unfamiliar, foreign to his mouth, yet so clear in his mind. As if it had always been there, waiting to emerge. It was the Voice¡¯s laugh, and yet¡­ it was his.


    Wild and childlike at once, it echoed through the forest, resonating among the trees. The wind carried it far, but not far enough to break its echo. The laugh wove itself into the whispers of the leaves, as if the forest had embraced and amplified it.


    For a moment, Aron felt the weight pressing down on him disappear. The laugh continued, free, untamed, carrying with it the chaos he had accepted as part of himself.

 Chapter 5

    ¡°Huh-hu¡­¡±


    Aron¡¯s ragged breath condensed in the frigid air, hanging like smoke on a cold morning. After an aimless run, with no clear sense of time or distance, he found himself leaning against a tree, one arm resting on its trunk. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he struggled to catch his breath.


    ¡°It was fun,¡± the Voice whispered.


    ¡°Yes, it was,¡± Aron replied, chuckling between breaths, a faint smile lighting up his face.


    Slowly, he lifted his head to look around. The tree he leaned against was broken, its trunk bent at an odd angle. He sharpened his gaze, noticing other details. Everything felt familiar. Then, realization struck him.


    This was the place where he had killed the deer.


    No trace of it remained. It was as though time had swallowed everything¡ªeverything except two things: his mind and the tree.


    Both bore the marks of what had happened. But while the tree had been bent and shattered under the weight and force of the creature, Aron¡¯s mind was beginning to bloom. Like a seed driven deep into the richest soil, nourished by death and life intertwined.


    ¡°We were afraid, and we will continue to be.¡±


    ¡°Yes, but we will no longer crawl away from it. No. From now on, we will spread our wings toward the sky and beat them with strength. Even if every bone breaks¡­ we will continue.¡±


    Aron spoke the words with a determination that felt entirely his own. In his spirit, each word echoed, solidifying his resolve.


    After holding the tree in his gaze for a moment longer, he turned and resumed his journey. Each step carried him deeper into the unknown.


    The sun had already passed its zenith and was slowly descending toward the horizon. Aron¡¯s stomach twisted with hunger, but a deeper hunger, rooted in his spirit, dulled the physical sensation. Yet there was something else¡ªsomething that had been starving for far longer and was now preparing to feast.


    ¡°Something¡¯s following us.¡±


    ¡°I know. I can feel its eyes, but I can¡¯t pinpoint where they are,¡± Aron replied, continuing to walk with calm, measured steps. He feigned indifference, though his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings.


    ¡°The good news is that it seems to be alone. Otherwise, it wouldn¡¯t need to wait,¡± he reasoned, speaking with the Voice.


    ¡°That might not be so good,¡± the Voice countered, its tone calculated and sharp. ¡°If it survives out here alone, it must be a skilled and powerful hunter.¡±


    ¡°Time will tell. But I imagine it¡¯s waiting for nightfall,¡± Aron concluded, maintaining his pace as though nothing had changed.


    Within a couple of hours, darkness fell over the forest. It was a starless night, with the moon playing hide and seek behind heavy clouds. Aron kept walking, his breath heavy and his eyes constantly scanning. Along the way, he had searched for possible escape routes; a few had seemed plausible, but the Voice had ruthlessly dismantled them with its cold logic.


    Time was running out. He could feel it¡ªsomething was changing. The beast was preparing to act.


    His only hope lay ahead: a sheer rock face. Each step brought him closer to salvation, but the forest¡¯s edge in front of him seemed to loom larger and closer. He was about to leave the shelter of the trees and step into a clearing¡ªan open space, perfect for a swift attack.


    ¡°What do we do? Should I sprint for it? It¡¯s 100, maybe 150 meters. I¡¯m fast.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d die instantly,¡± the Voice replied, icy and firm. ¡°It¡¯s definitely faster than you. And turning your back on it isn¡¯t exactly a good idea."


    ¡°So, what then? Should we just die here like this?¡± Aron¡¯s frustration boiled over¡ªnot at the Voice, but at the fact that it was right.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t say that,¡± the Voice replied, its tone growing heavier with every step Aron took toward the moment of decision. ¡°If logic can¡¯t give you a satisfying solution, then abandon it. Act on instinct. You¡¯re challenging a beast¡­ so act like one.¡±


    With those final words, Aron stepped past the tree line.


    10 meters.


    15 meters.


    20 meters.


    BAM!


    He fell to the ground. His body lay sprawled in the snow, his eyes reflecting the grim sky above.


    Five minutes passed. Only the howling wind broke the silence. Aron lay still in the snow, feeling no cold; his body burned with heat, ready to ignite.


    Ten more minutes passed.


    Crack¡­


    The sound of a snapping branch was all it took. Aron sprang to his feet, his hand gripping the axe tightly. His mind focused as his heart raced, his senses attuned to every vibration in the air. Above him, the moon finally emerged from behind the clouds.


    Then he saw it.


    A black creature, the size of a large calf, stood at the edge of the clearing. Its thick black fur swayed in the wind. Its eyes¡ªred slits like pools of blood¡ªlocked onto him with a silent hunger. Its legs, covered in thick gray scales, ended in claws that seemed to merge the talons of a eagle with the ferocity of a wolf. Beneath the scales, the skin glowed faintly red, as if steeped in ancient blood.


    It was an Strixwolf.


    A solitary creature, unlike its canine relatives. Known among hunters as legendary predators of the darkest nights, Strixwolves were skilled at surviving the harshest conditions. Upon reaching maturity, they were considered apex magical beasts of the first level, and rare individuals even achieved the fearsome status of second-level existences.


    However, this one was still young. Its claws were not yet completely red, a sign it had not reached full maturity.


    Aron tightened his grip on the axe, while the creature, momentarily frozen by the unexpected encounter, studied him with a calculating gaze.


    Their eyes met, both predatory, both feral.


    Two predators ready to claim the life of the other. There was no fear¡ªonly an insatiable hunger to dominate.


    In the moments before the storm erupted, Aron¡¯s voice merged with the Voice in his mind.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°This lowly beast dares to devour us! TO DEVOUR US! How dare it! We¡¯ll make it feel fear. We¡¯ll embed pain into its very bones. Its howls will be our song. Its flesh, our feast! RAGHHH!¡±


    The declaration ended in an animalistic, guttural roar, bursting forth from Aron¡¯s lips. It shattered the confines of his mind and reverberated through the physical world.


    It was the horn that signaled the start of the battle.


    The creature froze for a fraction of a second, its claws scratching the snow-covered ground. Then, with a deep growl, it accepted the challenge.


    They charged at each other, both with the same goal: to claim the other¡¯s life.


    One was faster; the other, more desperate.


    The 20-meter gap vanished in an instant. The Strixwolf raised a claw, aiming to tear through Aron¡¯s left side.


    A split second before the strike, Aron abruptly stopped and swung the axe with all his might. The blade sank deep into the creature¡¯s shoulder, ripping through flesh and spraying blood. But the beast¡¯s claws still found their mark, tearing into Aron¡¯s side and sending a warm gush of blood spilling onto the snow.


    The charge ended abruptly, but the fight had only just begun.


    The Strixwolf lunged again, its jaws aimed at Aron¡¯s exposed stomach. Aron raised the axe and drove it into the creature¡¯s extended neck. At the same time, he threw his body backward to avoid the bite, stumbling and falling to the ground.


    The axe remained lodged in the wolf¡¯s neck, but it wasn¡¯t enough to stop it. The beast pounced on him, pinning his left shoulder with its uninjured paw. Its massive jaws closed in on his face.


    With a desperate move, Aron grabbed a handful of snow and dirt and threw it into the creature¡¯s eyes. It hesitated, momentarily blinded and disoriented.


    His hand instinctively reached for the axe¡¯s handle. When he tried to pull it free, the blade snapped, leaving the weapon embedded in the wolf¡¯s neck.


    The beast¡¯s teeth came dangerously close to his face once more. This time, Aron jammed the broken axe handle straight into its throat.


    With a savage cry, Aron plunged his hand into the gaping wound on the creature¡¯s neck. His fingers slid into the searing heat of its blood, gripping nerves and tendons. He squeezed and pulled, feeling the flesh give way under the pressure.


    Each motion was accompanied by the sickening sound of tearing flesh, wet and sticky, as blood poured out in waves. It splattered across his face, seeping into his mouth with a metallic tang.


    At one point, his fingers latched onto something hard and rubbery. With a final, brutal yank, he ripped it free. The blood erupted like a geyser, drowning his senses. The Strixwolf let out a guttural, strangled cry, a sound swallowed by the flood of blood filling its throat.


    Aron didn¡¯t stop. He tore and clawed like a feral beast, his movements driven by primal fury. His nails cracked and broke, but he didn¡¯t feel the pain. His desperation to survive overwhelmed everything else.


    The scalding heat of the blood contrasted sharply with the biting cold of the snow beneath him, merging into a chaotic, all-encompassing sensation.


    The creature shuddered violently, its body stiffening as it reached the brink of death. With one final tremor, it collapsed onto Aron, its lifeless weight pressing him into the blood-soaked snow.


    Aron lay there, panting heavily, his eyes wide and unseeing. His face was a mask of blood, his hands still buried in the creature¡¯s mangled neck.


    For a moment, everything was silent.


    Then, a laugh¡ªwet and choked with blood¡ªbroke the stillness.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy,¡± Aron whispered, his voice hoarse and trembling. His blood-soaked eyes fluttered open, tears mingling with the crimson streaks on his face.


    ¡°Have I ever felt this way before?¡± he murmured, the question barely audible.


    ¡°No,¡± the Voice replied, calm and unwavering. ¡°You¡¯ve never lived before today. You couldn¡¯t have known it.¡±


    ¡°At least I¡¯ll die having lived¡­ even if just for a day,¡± Aron muttered, a bitter chuckle escaping his cracked lips.


    ¡°You won¡¯t die as a man,¡± the Voice continued, solemn and deliberate. ¡°A slave to fears and false morals. You won¡¯t die as a beast, shackled to its instincts. You¡¯ve been something more: free. You¡¯ve truly lived, even if only for a single day.¡±


    The Voice¡¯s words echoed in Aron¡¯s fading consciousness, guiding him as the world around him blurred.


    ¡°But you don¡¯t want to die,¡± the Voice said, firm and resolute. ¡°Fight. Fight until the very end.¡±


    Pinned beneath the Strixwolf¡¯s heavy corpse, the only source of warmth in the frozen wasteland, Aron forced his trembling hand toward his bag. After fumbling, he found two jars. With excruciating effort, he unscrewed them with one hand and poured their contents onto his palm.


    Slowly, agonizingly, he slipped his hand into the narrow space between his body and the dead beast, pressing the salves into his wounds. His fingers pushed deep into the gashes, spreading the healing balms over torn flesh.


    When the grueling task was complete, Aron¡¯s body gave out. His head slumped back into the blood-soaked snow, and darkness claimed him.


    Whispers and songs accompanied Aron in his unconsciousness. The Voice murmured in the shadows of his mind¡ªor perhaps it was his own voice. Memories and truths swirled together in a confusing storm, both familiar and alien.


    The icy cold that seeped into his body wasn¡¯t merely paralyzing. It was like an anvil, hardening every fiber of his being, transforming his flesh into something as unyielding as iron.


    At the same time, a searing heat radiated from the Strixwolf¡¯s corpse and his very mind. It coursed through his veins like molten lava, invigorating him. Fire and ice¡ªopposite forces¡ªintertwined within him, finding a fragile balance. They didn¡¯t destroy him. They remade him. Stronger. Wilder. More dangerous.


    In the sound of the wind, which seemed to herald a storm that never came during the night, dawn arrived. With it, every cloud dissolved, leaving behind a clear and bright sky.


    Aron slowly opened his eyes, confused and groggy, wondering how he was still alive.


    And yet, something was different. Despite his still-open wounds, he felt stronger. And there was something flowing through him, a new and alien sensation.


    ¡°How am I alive? And¡­ what¡¯s happened to my body?¡± he entrusted his doubts to the Voice.


    ¡°Your old dream, that¡¯s what it is.¡±


    Those words left him even more confused, perhaps even frightened by the idea of clinging to false hope.


    He focused. Slowly, he began to feel them: two opposing energies flowing strangely within his body. It was mana.


    The realization hit him like a thunderbolt. He could become a knight. No, he already was, albeit weak and inexperienced. But something in him had already begun to change.


    ¡°How is this possible? Don¡¯t you need specific methods to sense and channel mana through your body? And besides, to do it, you usually need to imitate an advanced form of life¡­ unless¡­¡± He stopped for a moment, the thought striking him like lightning. ¡°No, it can¡¯t be! Only pure knights of prana don¡¯t need models to follow.¡±


    Aron paused, incredulous. He examined his hands again, feeling those energies flow within him once more. ¡°And yet, these are fire and frost mana, not prana¡­ What the hell am I imitating?¡±


    ¡°Does it really matter?¡± the Voice sounded like someone asking a child a rhetorical question.


    It continued, ¡°I believe the most important thing is the result. Everything else? Irrelevant.¡±


    ¡°But you know, don¡¯t you?¡± Aron asked, with a hint of irritation in his tone.


    ¡°Of course I do. But so do you. Your spirit screamed, demanded, proved itself. And the answer was given to you.¡±


    The Voice concluded, no longer willing to discuss it further.


    Aron¡¯s doubts didn¡¯t diminish; they only grew. But the Voice was right¡ªnone of those details mattered.


    As he crawled out from beneath the Strixwolf¡¯s corpse, which had shielded him from the night¡¯s frost, Aron heard a sound. Rhythmic, low, like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Slowly, it grew louder. It reminded him of the wind, but as if it had been tamed. It felt familiar, yet distant.


    Aron froze, his movements stopping entirely. He hid beneath the corpse.


    The sound intensified, nearly deafening, until he saw them.


    Emerging over the cliff¡¯s edge, they appeared in the sky: wyverns. Massive, at least thirty of them, with broad wings and scales of ice-gray that gleamed in the dawn light. These were not like the ones he had seen before. They were different. Bulkier, with wider wings. Their scales glimmered a cold, icy hue, unlike the dark green of those from the past.


    But the most striking detail was the metal armor they wore and the saddles strapped to their backs.


    The meaning of it overwhelmed him. And even more so, the realization of where they were heading, as he watched them vanish beyond the treetops from which he had emerged the day before.


    ¡°Does it matter?¡± hissed the Voice, cold and relentless. ¡°You abandoned that place yesterday, and today, look at yourself. You sacrificed your old life and gained a new one¡ªthe one you¡¯ve always desired. Everything has a price, Aron. Everything is attainable. The question is: what¡¯s your limit? How far are you willing to go?¡±


    Standing in the clearing, Aron continued to stare in the direction where the wyverns had disappeared, the Voice¡¯s words carving deeply into his mind. His internal conflict, like fire and frost, burned within him.


    ¡°When you completely abandon your past,¡± the Voice continued, ¡°then you¡¯ll be reborn.¡±


    The wind howled across the clearing, and Aron remained motionless as dawn dispersed the clouds. But this day, the 21st of Fillbror, was no ordinary morning. It was the Day of the Dragon¡ªthe coldest and darkest hour of the year.


    And Aron, standing there, was only at the beginning of his transformation.

 Chapter 6

    Aron was preparing for his journey back. He couldn¡¯t wait any longer. Impatience consumed him, a burning need to discover what had happened in his absence. But he knew he would only find the consequences, not the cause. And, despite being convinced that he had left that place behind, his heart told a different story.


    His wounds throbbed with every movement, and hunger clenched his stomach like a fist. Becoming a knight didn¡¯t mean he could ignore the limits of a body made of flesh and blood¡­ at least, not yet.


    As he lifted his foot to take the first step toward Bitterthorn, the Voice stopped him.


    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going in this state?¡± It spoke with a tone of mild irritation, but there was something else, almost a sense of ease. Perhaps the fact that Aron had begun to listen to it was changing it as well.


    Aron didn¡¯t respond. His expression was determined, almost stubborn. But the Voice wasn¡¯t foolish, and if it was trying to play a game, it wasn¡¯t one Aron intended to join.


    ¡°The Strixwolf,¡± it pressed, insistent. ¡°It has something that belongs to us. Something you need.¡±


    Aron¡¯s eyes narrowed, puzzled. He didn¡¯t understand. His gaze drifted toward the beast¡¯s corpse.


    ¡°Its flesh!¡± the Voice snapped, exasperated by his slowness.


    ¡°The flesh? I don¡¯t have anything to cut it with, and it would just be extra weight to carry,¡± he replied, his doubt still lingering in his eyes.


    ¡°Stop pretending you don¡¯t understand!¡± The Voice was truly annoyed now. ¡°You know what you need to do: bend down and eat! You don¡¯t even know why you¡¯re still alive¡­ don¡¯t tempt fate!¡±


    Each word struck like a blow, ruthless as always: the harsh truth.


    Something inside him resisted that primal, almost bestial action. But the call of his stomach grew stronger, a cry he couldn¡¯t ignore.


    With a single step, he found himself bent over the beast¡¯s neck. That step also pushed him past a boundary in his mind.


    The meat was tough¡ªraw and frozen¡ªand his bare hands weren¡¯t enough to tear it apart.


    Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the head of the axe and began using it to cut small pieces. The blade sank in slowly, accompanied by the dull, squelching sound of steel biting into frozen tissue.


    He managed to tear off a chunk. He brought it to his mouth, but chewing was a challenge: tough, rubbery, almost impossible to break down. After a while, he gave up and began swallowing the pieces whole, ignoring the knot forming in his throat.


    But the anxiety gnawed at his soul. He had to move, had to act. He was too slow.


    With growing agitation, he raised the axe again and started using his mouth as well. He lifted strands of meat with the blade, then tore them off with his teeth. Each bite was accompanied by a wet, sticky sound, an echo that seemed to reverberate in the cold silence of the forest.


    His face, still smeared with old blood, buried itself in the carcass, his heavy breaths mixing with the steam rising from the beast¡¯s icy body.


    ¡°We can go back now,¡± Aron thought, as he touched his now full stomach.


    ¡°Yes, now we can,¡± the Voice replied.


    With slow and dragging, but steady steps, Aron set off toward the abandoned house. The cold tormented him, seeping into his open wounds, and at the same time nourished him, dulling the pain and making him stronger.


    But his mind was a whirlwind of doubts and memories.


    ¡°How much have I changed in one day?¡± he wondered, pausing in front of his trembling reflection in a frozen stream. The face staring back at him was unrecognizable: a mask of coagulated blood, red and black, with weary eyes lit by something new. His tattered clothes barely covered the wounds beneath, tangible evidence of the battle he had just survived.


    He lifted his right hand and examined it. Broken or missing nails, skin torn by deep cuts¡ªit resembled a claw more than a human hand, as if the fight had carved the beast¡¯s savagery into him.


    ¡°A lot,¡± the Voice responded, calm but relentless. ¡°But not enough.¡±


    Aron averted his gaze and resumed walking. Each step brought him closer to Bitterthorn, while his mind wrestled with the contrast between the man he was now¡ªreborn under the body of a beast¡ªand the man he had been two mornings ago, busy and anxious about going to the village center. His priorities, his thoughts¡ªeverything had changed so quickly that he could barely comprehend who he had become.


    The hours passed slowly, and the sun, having reached its zenith, began its descent toward the Dragonspine. Aron finally arrived at the small grove where he had collapsed before.


    His eyes scanned the area, taking in the scattered remnants: his old bow and gloves propped against a tree. But Betsy and the sled were nowhere to be found.


    Something else, however, caught his attention. On the horizon, toward the village, a thin column of smoke rose into the clear sky. Black streaks marred the pristine blue, like an omen of something irreparable.


    From the crest of the hill, Aron could already see the tragic scene waiting for him.


    The roof of the house had collapsed, a faint black soot covering the point of impact. The stove must have caught fire but hadn¡¯t burned enough to consume everything, overwhelmed by the cold.


    And then there was Betsy.


    She lay sprawled in the snow, her broken body surrounded by a red pool expanding across the white surface.


    ¡°You knew what awaited you,¡± the Voice whispered, calm, almost comforting in the face of the grim sight.


    ¡°Yes, but¡­¡±


    The words choked in his throat, unable to escape. His wide eyes seemed to hold a thousand unspoken thoughts, but none had the courage to form.


    Slowly, step by rigid step, he descended the slope, drawing closer and closer to the mule¡¯s lifeless form. When he reached her, he crouched down.


    Betsy was mutilated: her belly completely torn open, bones broken and jutting out like jagged spears. It looked as though she had fallen from a great height, a final violent act preceding a death already filled with cruelty.


    Then he looked at her face.


    And there they were.


    Those eyes.


    They were filled with fear, a terror that seemed to still scream silently, trapped in the frozen stillness of death. Betsy had suffered. She had understood what was happening to her. She had died in agony¡ªa pain Aron recognized all too well.


    Those eyes¡­ he had seen them before.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Those eyes¡­ he had caused them before.


    ¡°She was just a mule, nothing more.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ that¡¯s all she was,¡± Aron whispered, his voice barely audible, as if trying to convince himself. But the words felt hollow, weightless.


    He forced himself to keep walking, each step an act of sheer will, his legs moving forward despite the storm of thoughts raging inside him. His destination was clear: the wide-open door of his house, waiting silently, an ominous shadow on his path.


    Stepping inside, Aron could barely make out the pantry to his left. Beyond the center of the room, everything had collapsed. The roof, the walls¡ªeverything had crumbled into a heap of debris that extended all the way to the bedrooms.


    But it wasn¡¯t the wreckage that froze him in place.


    It was the blood.


    A dark stain stretched across the floor, pooling beneath the collapsed roof.


    His breath hitched, his heart pounding as if to escape his chest. He knew his mother should have been in her room¡ªhe had tucked her into bed himself two nights ago.


    But the thought that she might now be in the living room tormented him.


    No, both possibilities were killing him.


    ¡°You already decided this was the past. None of this should matter to you anymore,¡± the Voice said, calm and implacable.


    ¡°Yes¡­ but maybe¡­ maybe she was waiting for me,¡± Aron whispered, his voice trembling, barely holding together.


    ¡°Or maybe the followers of Fimbulwinter brought her here. And the rest¡­ well, you can imagine it.¡±


    Aron clenched his fists. ¡°I don¡¯t need to know,¡± he murmured, as if the words could shield him from the truth.


    ¡°Exactly,¡± the Voice continued. ¡°Once again, life has made the choice for you. It¡¯s taken away even your last, rusted chain.¡±


    ¡°Something or someone always decides for me,¡± Aron hissed, frustration bubbling to the surface. ¡°When will I get to choose?¡±


    ¡°When you are truly strong,¡± the Voice replied, solemn and prophetic. ¡°When your name becomes a whispered fear among men and beasts. When a single thought of yours can alter the course of the world.¡±


    The words echoed in Aron¡¯s mind like a thunderclap. He understood them; he even accepted them. Yet, they felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.


    They were like a cloak too large for him, words too proud and bold for someone like him to wear.


    Within him, hot ambition and cold despair waged a silent war. As he turned to leave the house forever, his gaze fell upon something on the floor.


    A hinge.


    It was the one he had purchased in the village: new, clean, and out of place amidst the destruction.


    He picked it up, clutching it in his fingers. For reasons he couldn¡¯t quite explain, he decided he needed to mount it on the door. He had put it off for far too long.


    ¡°It¡¯s pointless. A waste of time,¡± the Voice remarked, skeptical and confused.


    ¡°Yes, it is. But it doesn¡¯t matter. I want to do it, so I will,¡± Aron said.


    As he spoke, a strange sense of relief washed over him. When everything loses its meaning, everything gains the same value. And in that seemingly meaningless act, Aron found a fragment of purpose.


    With conflicted emotions, Aron left the house behind. A door to his past, a doorway that led only to destruction, frost, and death.


    An unnatural silence hung in the air as he approached the village. The faint smell of smoke lingered, though no flames or plumes were visible anymore.


    From the ridge overlooking the settlement, the truth became clear. Many of the houses and buildings bore the same scars of ruin as his home. Yet, only by descending further could he grasp the full extent of the damage.


    Advancing from the outskirts toward the center, Aron noticed the grim details that painted the scene. Mud streaked with blood formed dark, sticky patches on the paths. Doors hung broken or lay shattered; some houses had collapsed entirely.


    In the homes that still stood, faint, muffled cries could be heard¡ªexpressions of grief and despair. Other buildings stood eerily silent, their empty windows like hollow eye sockets staring into nothingness.


    When Aron reached the cobblestone streets, his gaze settled on the Hunter¡¯s Lodge.


    The heavy door was gone, and the interior lay shrouded in chaos.


    Aron stepped inside, his movements hesitant but deliberate, as if every step weighed on his soul. His emotions swirled within him: anger, guilt, sorrow¡ªnone finding clarity.


    Inside, the scene was one of utter disarray. The missing door lay flat on the floor like a tattered welcome mat. Shelves had been torn apart, their contents strewn everywhere. The walls bore marks of destruction, as if someone had unleashed their fury indiscriminately.


    ¡°Brandon¡­¡± The name escaped his lips before he even realized it.


    ¡°Brandon¡­¡± he called again, louder this time, but the silence was unbroken.


    As he turned to head toward the back, a voice, worn but steady, broke through the quiet.


    ¡°I¡¯m here¡­ is that your voice, Aron?¡±


    The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the rear room. Then, the familiar figure of Brandon appeared in the doorway, his presence filling the room despite his weariness.


    ¡°Damn! It really is you, Aron?¡± Surprise flickered across the older man¡¯s face.


    ¡°Yeah, who else would it be?¡± Aron replied, though his tone was confused, uncertain.


    ¡°Honestly? With all that dried blood on you, you¡¯re not exactly easy to recognize. Your face¡­ it¡¯s almost unrecognizable.¡±


    ¡°Oh¡­ right, this,¡± Aron murmured, running a hand across his face. The blood, dirt, and grime came away on his fingers, a reminder of the battles he¡¯d endured.


    The tension between them eased, but a silence lingered, heavy with unspoken words.


    Aron¡¯s gaze dropped to Brandon¡¯s missing arm.


    ¡°Your arm?¡± Aron asked, gesturing toward the absent limb.


    Brandon gave a wry chuckle. ¡°Ah, that. The Frostreavers came through and razed everything. I guess I was lucky¡ªthey only took my arm and the Sparks.¡± His laugh carried a bitter edge. ¡°Turns out I¡¯m pretty damn good at playing dead.¡±


    His voice was light, almost jovial, but the truth beneath it was raw and brutal.


    ¡°The Frostreavers¡­ those were the ones on the wyverns?¡±


    ¡°Yes. The Frostreavers. The Blizzard¡¯s Edge. It was them,¡± Brandon said, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and anger. ¡°We never stood a chance. Thirty wyverns, each carrying three Frostreavers. That¡¯s ninety elite fighters. And every single one of them was a Level 3 existence. And that¡¯s not even counting the wyverns themselves. It was 120 against zero.¡±


    The hopelessness in Brandon¡¯s voice was palpable, each word a testament to the overwhelming odds.


    ¡°120 Level 3 existences¡­¡± Aron¡¯s voice trailed off, the weight of those words sinking in. Level 3¡ªGreat Knights. Existences close to the legendary realm and capable of shaping the outcomes of wars.


    ¡°What were they doing in a village this small?¡± he asked, almost to himself.


    ¡°How should I know?¡± Brandon snapped, his bitterness rising.


    ¡°Yeah¡­ I let my thoughts wander,¡± Aron muttered, averting his gaze.


    Brandon sighed, his eyes distant as though recalling a memory he wished to forget. ¡°From what I know, since the great battle in the eastern plains sixty years ago, they¡¯ve never ventured this far from their homeland. And certainly not in such numbers¡­¡±


    He paused, his voice growing quieter. ¡°Maybe this was an isolated case. But if it wasn¡¯t¡­¡±


    The unspoken implications hung in the air, heavier than any words could express.


    The weight of Brandon¡¯s statement settled deeply in Aron¡¯s chest, yet it didn¡¯t evoke fear. Instead, it ignited something else within him¡ªa flame of desire.


    ¡°I need to rest now, kid,¡± Brandon said, breaking the silence. His exhaustion was evident in his voice, each word seeming heavier than the last. Then, as if remembering something, he added, ¡°Oh, by the way, have you been to your house yet? Was it hit?¡±


    ¡°Yes, it¡¯s gone,¡± Aron replied tersely, his tone devoid of emotion, as though stating a fact he had already accepted.


    ¡°I see¡­¡± Brandon¡¯s expression softened into one of pity as he looked at the man before him. Aron¡¯s demeanor was changing, becoming colder, more distant¡ªlike those hardened souls from the northern territories.


    ¡°Thanks for the salves the other day,¡± Aron added, his voice flat but sincere. He turned without waiting for a response, heading toward the door.


    Behind him, Brandon watched his retreating figure, unable to shake the sense of loss that lingered in the air. He let out a deep sigh, muttering to himself, ¡°It was your reward¡­ You owe me nothing.¡± His words, meant for no one, were carried away by the wind.


    As Aron continued walking, the village unfolded before him like a grim tapestry of suffering. Every step brought him face-to-face with more pain and loss. Broken doors, shattered windows that stared out like hollow eyes, and the faint sound of muffled sobs mixed with the relentless whisper of the wind.


    Then something caught his attention. Even from a distance, it was impossible to miss: the remains of the inn. Or rather, what little was left of it.


    The building was a skeleton of its former self, its charred beams jutting into the sky like accusing fingers. The roof had collapsed, and beneath it, the ground was a mixture of ash, mud, and debris, a grim testament to the destruction that had unfolded there.


    But it wasn¡¯t the sight that stopped Aron in his tracks. It was the sound¡ªheart-wrenching cries and anguished screams that tore through the still air, raw and unrelenting.


    His pace slowed as he approached. The source of the commotion became clear: a woman knelt in the muck, clutching a small, shrouded figure in her arms. Her cries were a knife, cutting through the silence and stabbing at the hearts of anyone who heard them.


    Aron walked closer, his steps deliberate but heavy. His shadow fell over the scene, and as he drew near, his gaze fell upon the shrouded figure.


    Then he saw them.


    Those same eyes.


    They stared back at him, lifeless, filled only with fear and pain.


    It was Lucy.


    The small, tattered blanket couldn¡¯t fully cover her. Her neck was exposed, crushed and mangled, bearing the marks of something inhuman. His gaze traveled downward, taking in her bruised, scratched legs, and the remains of her torn clothing strewn about like the remnants of a brutal story no one wanted to read.


    Aron¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. He didn¡¯t stop.


    He continued walking, his boots splashing softly in the mud and filth that lined the road.


    The path stretched out before him, a grim and endless expanse. It wasn¡¯t just a physical road¡ªit was a promise.


    A promise of the future that awaited him: one filled with death, with war, with suffering.


    Every step he took carried him closer to that destiny.


    Every breath was a prelude to the world he would soon confront.

 POV: Bitterthorn Attack

    It was a morning like any other for Thomas, a carpenter from Bitterthorn. It was a very common job in the village and craftsmanship was one of the most widespread professions: the strong and durable wood from the area was shipped throughout the Empire.


    The dawn had already painted the sky in pale orange when Thomas made his way to the table, where breakfast awaited him.


    ¡°Good morning, dear,¡± he greeted with a smile, directing his words to Olivia, his wife, who was setting the table.


    ¡°Good morning,¡± she replied without turning, already busy tending to the fire and plates. Her movements were quick and precise, honed by years of daily routine.


    Two children were already devouring their eggs and bread, their appetite justified only by the boundless hunger of youth. Ben, the eldest, was twelve years old, while Emily, a few years younger, smiled mischievously between bites.


    Thomas sat down and poured himself some water into a cup. ¡°Where¡¯s Lucy? Has she already left?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Olivia replied as she moved a pot over the fire. ¡°Berta¡¯s daughter isn¡¯t feeling well, and you know Lucy¡­ she offered to help. She needed to leave early today.¡±


    Thomas nodded, content but with a faint trace of worry on his face. ¡°Alright. Ben, hurry up and finish eating; we need to go.¡±


    With practiced efficiency, Thomas finished his own eggs and bread, then stood up. He bent down to kiss his youngest daughter on the head. ¡°Emily, help your mother around the house today, alright?¡±


    ¡°Yes, Father!¡± she chirped with a cheerful voice.


    They stepped outside onto the cobblestone streets of Bitterthorn, with the tavern standing prominently in front of them. After all, they were a moderately well-off family. The house they lived in had been part of the dowry received during the marriage; Olivia¡¯s father had once been a merchant, though he had since lost nearly everything.


    Thomas, on the other hand, had earned his higher status through skill. At the carpentry workshop, he was responsible for working with the finest woods¡ªtasks that required an expert¡¯s hand and exceptional precision. This allowed him to provide a relatively comfortable life for his family.


    And perhaps that was why he could never quite stomach the idea of his daughter working in that tavern, surrounded by boorish, rowdy men. Every time the thought crossed his mind, a shadow of displeasure clouded his expression. But times were what they were, and work, however humble, was necessary.


    They had barely taken a few steps along the street when an unnatural sound broke through the morning air.


    Thomas instinctively raised his gaze northward, and what he saw froze the breath in his lungs. Massive figures soared across the sky, their dark shapes etched against the distant mountains. His eyes widened, his pupils dilated, and his heart began to pound like a frantic drum.


    Then, the first cry tore through the silence.


    Rrrraaaaaghhhh!


    It was a sound that struck fear into the depths of one¡¯s soul, a predatory call that seemed to dig into the very marrow of his bones. It reminded him of the screech of an eagle, but more guttural, layered with a serpentine hiss that made it even more unnerving¡ªlike nails raking across his ears. Every fiber of his body screamed for him to run.


    ¡°Ben! Let¡¯s go!¡± Thomas shouted, his voice trembling with fear as he grabbed his son¡¯s arm to drag him along.


    The boy stood frozen, paralyzed by terror, unable even to protest as his father yanked him toward the door of their home.


    Sbam!


    The door slammed open with force, crashing against the wall before Thomas pushed it shut with all his strength. The house, which had only moments ago been steeped in peaceful morning quiet, was now consumed by chaos.


    Olivia and Emily turned to face the entrance, their eyes wide with panic. Olivia clutched Emily protectively against her chest. The little girl, sensing her mother¡¯s fear, clung to her tightly, her small hands trembling.


    ¡°What are those sounds?! What¡¯s happening?!¡± Olivia cried out, her voice a mixture of fear and desperation. Her words came out broken, barely louder than a whisper over the chaos outside.


    The two children, dragged inside like lifeless dolls, were too stunned to speak. Ben clung to his father¡¯s side, while Emily stared up at the adults, searching their faces for answers they couldn¡¯t provide.


    Panting heavily, Thomas leaned against the door as though his presence alone could hold back the storm outside. His voice came out in short, strained bursts: ¡°I don¡¯t know! Massive things¡­ in the sky! They¡¯re everywhere!¡±


    Each word felt like a struggle. His mind raced, desperate for a plan, a solution, anything to make sense of the nightmare unfolding. He wasn¡¯t prepared. No one was.


    ¡°Take the children to the bedroom. I¡¯ll block the windows and the door.¡±


    Thomas¡¯s voice was tight, his attempt at calm betrayed by the urgency laced in his tone. He was trying to impose order on a situation spiraling beyond his control.


    The wooden shutters were closed hurriedly, his hands trembling yet unrelenting. Each movement was quiet and deliberate, as though any noise might summon the chaos outside. He barred the door with the heavy iron latch, then dragged the large wooden table across the floor to brace the entrance.Stolen novel; please report.


    Outside, the familiar sounds of village life had vanished, replaced by an orchestra of screams and guttural roars. The ordinary morning air was now thick with the echoes of horror, alien and grotesque.


    When Thomas finished securing the house, he headed to the bedroom where his family was hiding. Opening the door, he saw Olivia clutching both children close. Their small bodies trembled against her, and her tear-streaked face turned to meet his.


    ¡°Lucy,¡± she whispered, her voice quivering. ¡°We have to bring her here. She¡¯s in danger out there!¡±


    Her words hit Thomas like a dagger. A cold realization settled over him: not everyone was there. Not all of his family was safe. In the panic and the rush, he had forgotten Lucy.


    But now? With the house sealed and his wife and children clinging to each other, could he truly put them all at risk?


    ¡°We can¡¯t,¡± Thomas said, his voice breaking under the weight of his own words. The anguish on his face was unmistakable.


    ¡°You¡¯re insane! We can¡¯t leave her!¡± Olivia¡¯s whispered cry was laced with fury and desperation, her eyes blazing with disbelief.


    ¡°Shh! Lower your voice!¡± Thomas snapped, his hand gesturing frantically for silence. Olivia¡¯s anger faltered, her lips trembling as she realized that even her whispers might bring them harm.


    ¡°I can¡¯t go out there,¡± he continued, his voice barely audible. ¡°I won¡¯t put all of you in danger. Lucy is smart. She¡¯ll have hidden in the tavern. You know our girl¡­ she¡¯s clever.¡±


    His words were a feeble attempt at reassurance, spoken as much for himself as for his wife. He needed to believe them. He had no other choice.


    BRAMM!


    A thud. Something heavy had landed on the roof.


    Then, like an unstoppable torrent, a terrifying sound poured above their heads: the creaking and collapsing of wooden beams, accompanied by screams of despair and the guttural cries of a sinister joy.


    The family living upstairs¡­ they must have met their end.


    Thomas held Emily even tighter, his hands pressing against the girl¡¯s mouth to stifle any sound. Olivia was next to him, trembling, her gaze fixed on nothingness. They didn¡¯t move; they didn¡¯t breathe, as though silence itself could save them.


    But the beating of their hearts seemed to betray them, growing louder and faster with each passing moment.


    Then, a different noise. Strange words echoed from above¡ªa guttural, cruel language that reminded Thomas of the slow, relentless movement of a glacier.


    TONF! TONF!


    Two thumps came from in front of the house.


    Terror seeped into their minds like poison. Thomas didn¡¯t dare move his hand from Emily¡¯s mouth, but his eyes were already on the blade he had grabbed from the kitchen.


    Time seemed to stand still. Yet, no further noise came from the door.


    Amid the chaos¡ªthe screams, the roars, the despair¡ªThomas managed to hear something new. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Moving away.


    Thomas crept toward the window in the living room. Each step was accompanied by the faint creak of the floorboards, a sound that seemed to amplify in the oppressive silence of the house. His breath, short and strained with anxiety, blended with the distant sound of screams and guttural cries.


    When he reached the edge of the window, he noticed a narrow gap, a small hole between the wooden shutters. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest, but finally leaned slightly forward, squinting to peek outside.


    And he saw them. Two figures loomed in front of the tavern. At least two meters tall, they were entirely encased in a thick layer of gray, rough ice, which seemed fused to the massive armor they wore. The ice covered every part of their bodies, creating the appearance of dragon-like men carved from stone and frost. Ice crests lined their shoulders, backs, and limbs, giving them an imposing and menacing air.


    It wasn¡¯t just their appearance that terrified him. There was something in the way they moved¡ªheavy, yet uncannily fluid, like predators who had no need to rush.


    Then, a new sound emerged¡ªa sharp, rhythmic clicking.


    Click-click-click.


    The noise was irregular, almost insect-like, but Thomas knew it came from the beast on the roof. It sounded as if its jaws were snapping together, the sharp teeth clashing in a grotesque rhythm. Interspersed with the clicking were wet, viscous noises¡ªgurgles and hisses that made his skin crawl.


    Then came the screams. Horrific, desperate cries burst from the tavern. Some fell silent abruptly, like lives extinguished in an instant. But one voice rose above the others, a voice Thomas would recognize anywhere.


    ¡°Let me go! Let me go!¡± Lucy¡¯s voice, cracking with terror.


    Olivia, having hidden the children in a chest in the bedroom, rushed toward Thomas, who remained frozen at the living room window, his fists clenched and his knuckles white.


    ¡°Where is she?!¡± she whispered, her voice trembling with desperation. But Thomas didn¡¯t answer.


    Driven by fear, Olivia leaned closer to the window, sharing the small gap with him. Her breath caught as her eyes locked onto the scene outside.


    One of the icy figures emerged from the tavern, dragging Lucy with it. It held her by the neck with one hand, lifting her like a rag doll. Lucy kicked frantically, her hands struggling in vain to break free from the iron grip. The creature stopped in the middle of the street, raising her even higher toward another figure watching from above.


    The creatures exchanged guttural, incomprehensible words, their tones deep and jagged like the cracking of a glacier. Then, without warning, the figure on the ground ripped away the upper part of Lucy¡¯s dress with a swift, brutal motion. The fabric tore with a dry sound, leaving the girl exposed to the cold and the unyielding gaze of the creatures.


    Olivia couldn¡¯t hold back anymore. She turned toward the door, determined to intervene. ¡°I have to go! I can¡¯t leave her there!¡± she whispered, her voice breaking as tears began streaming down her face.


    ¡°No!¡± Thomas stopped her before she could take a step. His hands gripped her shoulders, holding her in place. ¡°You can¡¯t¡­ We can¡¯t¡­ We¡¯d all die,¡± he whispered, his desperate tone trying to sound resolute. ¡°Ben and Emily¡­ they need us.¡±


    Olivia struggled against his grasp, her sobs growing louder. ¡°But it¡¯s Lucy!¡± she gasped, trying to break free. Thomas didn¡¯t let go. He pushed her back, away from the window, and wrapped his arms around her tightly to keep her from moving. ¡°We can¡¯t do anything¡­¡± he whispered, but his voice broke at the end.


    When Olivia finally stopped resisting, Thomas returned to the window. He pressed his eye to the small gap, unable to look away. He didn¡¯t want to see, but he had to know.


    Lucy had been pushed against a barrel near the tavern. Her body trembled, her arms vainly trying to cover herself, while the creatures continued to speak in that monstrous language. Thomas could hear every word he couldn¡¯t understand, every guttural sound that made his soul shiver.


    Lucy screamed. Her voice was broken and desperate, but no one came to her aid.


    Thomas repeated the same phrases to himself, over and over: We can¡¯t do anything. I can¡¯t risk everything for nothing. But other words crept into his mind, relentless: Coward. Craven. You¡¯re afraid to die.


    Each of Lucy¡¯s screams was a blade slicing into him, breaking him apart piece by piece.


    When it was over, Thomas saw the creature lift Lucy one last time. Its massive hands wrapped around her neck. The sound was brief¡ªa simple snap. Like a branch breaking.


    Thomas remained motionless, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. He felt Olivia¡¯s heavy, broken breath behind him, but he couldn¡¯t muster the strength to turn around. There was nothing left to say.

 Chapter 7

    ¡°How far do you plan to go?¡± The Voice returned, its tone unusually mocking, almost amused.


    Aron had reached the other side of the village. He paused for a moment, scanning the path ahead before decisively turning to the right.


    ¡°To the stream,¡± he finally said, his voice calm and cold, as his steps carried him toward the watercourse.


    He crouched by the water, watching the crystal-clear surface reflect a face he barely recognized. Plunging his hands into the stream, he washed his face. The cold was almost violent, yet invigorating, like a jolt radiating from his skin to his stomach. With a deep breath, he opened his mouth, letting the icy water fill his throat.


    ¡°Mmh, now you look more human¡­¡± The Voice paused, infusing each word with meaning. ¡°What do you intend to do?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Aron replied without turning. His tone was flat, devoid of emotion, almost tired. ¡°But it definitely won¡¯t have anything to do with this place.¡±


    ¡°What?!" The Voice turned sharp, its sarcasm biting. ¡°This was your home for so long, and you don¡¯t even have a shred of desire for revenge?¡±


    Aron clenched his fists but didn¡¯t react immediately. He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and then stood up. ¡°Yes, honestly,¡± he finally admitted, surprising even himself with his sincerity. ¡°Who would I seek revenge for? For my mother? She¡¯s been dead for years. Everyone else¡­ they were just acquaintances at best. They don¡¯t matter.¡±


    Silence followed those words, heavy as the truth he had just spoken. The Voice didn¡¯t respond immediately, as if reflecting on what it had just heard. Aron found himself staring back at the stream, watching the ripples carry away his reflection.


    For a moment, he wondered if he truly believed what he¡¯d just said. Were those words a defense or the raw truth?


    He was about to climb back up the bank and return to the path when he heard a sound. He froze, holding his breath. It was faint but steady: the rhythmic clatter of hooves. Something was approaching.


    Horses, he thought, straining to listen. And not just one. Without hesitation, he moved into the thicker vegetation by the roadside, crouching among the branches and leaves to hide. His heartbeat quickened, slow but forceful, as he waited silently.


    Clop-clop.


    The horses passed his hiding spot, the sound of hooves echoing on the dirt road. Aron leaned out slightly to get a better look. From the insignias on their armor, he recognized the troops: soldiers of House Cervid, allies, not more invaders.


    With a sigh of relief, he slowly emerged from his refuge among the vegetation. He stood still for a moment, listening, then decided to follow the knights to see what was happening.


    The sun was setting, and the shadows of the houses stretched across the road, painting it in shades of crimson red and orange. The air grew colder, but Aron didn¡¯t care. Guided by curiosity, he continued until he reached the village square, where the knights had stopped. A crowd was beginning to gather around them, murmuring voices blending with the crackle of torches being lit.


    ¡°Why?!¡± ¡°Where were you?!¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t protect us!!¡±


    Shouts rose from the growing crowd. Anger and fear mingled, creating a suffocating atmosphere in the square. The knights, at the center of the commotion, seemed to be looking for the village administrator, though someone whispered among the crowd that he¡¯d died during the raid.


    Suddenly, a strong voice echoed from the center. One of the knights removed his helmet, revealing a face worn and tired but with a steady gaze.


    ¡°Citizens of Bitterthorn, I know you have many questions, but calm yourselves now!¡±


    ¡°And why should we listen to you?! You did nothing for us!¡±


    The shouts multiplied, and the crowd seemed on the verge of exploding, roiling like a stormy sea.


    ¡°SILENCE!¡±


    The word, deep and commanding, thundered over every other voice. It came from a man at the center of the group of knights. His hazel eyes seemed to scrutinize every face, his thick chestnut hair and unkempt beard framing an austere visage. He hadn¡¯t shouted, but the power of his voice drowned out the chaos, and for a moment, everyone fell silent.


    When the quiet settled over the square, the first knight resumed speaking. ¡°As I was saying, what happened to you today was not an isolated incident. Northern tribes have attacked every village along the border, pushing into the heartland and leaving destruction wherever they passed.¡±


    He paused for a moment, letting those words sink in, then continued in a heavy voice. ¡°It seems that four groups, similar to the one that struck here, crossed the Dragonspine. They passed through the mountain range, destroying our forts and observation posts. Their speed outpaced every effort to warn us.¡±


    A murmur of fear spread through the crowd, but the knight didn¡¯t stop. ¡°After over sixty years, they had the audacity to attack, celebrating their vile rituals. But know this: House Cervid will bring vengeance for you all. The Empire will not let these atrocities go unpunished.¡±


    The crowd seemed to understand those words, but their meaning might have been too overwhelming to fully grasp. Now, however, they knew who their enemy was and where they came from. And for many, that was enough. Enough to give them something to hate and curse, someone on whom to pour their anger and grief.


    Aron stood apart, watching the scene with a mix of detachment and interest. ¡°It¡¯s worse than I thought. It seems Brandon¡¯s fears have come true¡­¡±


    The Voice responded, as sharp as ever. ¡°Yes, perhaps. But did you see the man who spoke just one word?¡±


    Aron nodded. ¡°Yes, he¡¯s very strong.¡±


    ¡°Not just strong,¡± the Voice continued. ¡°Look closer: his armor, his horse¡­ they¡¯re different from the others.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    At those words, Aron¡¯s eyes focused on the warrior. He was tall and robust, but not bulky. His bearing conveyed an air of authority, unlike the knights surrounding him. His armor gleamed in the fading sunlight, clearly made of superior material. But it was the horse that truly caught Aron¡¯s attention: taller and more slender than the others, with long, muscular legs built for effortless galloping, even on the harshest terrain.


    ¡°He¡¯s a Flying Stag Knight, isn¡¯t he?¡±


    The Voice turned mocking. ¡°So, you do know how to use your eyes.¡±


    The Flying Stag Knights were the pride of House Cervid, feared and respected throughout the Empire. Each one was a Grand Knight, a formidable warrior of unmatched prowess.


    But what truly set them apart were their mounts: the stag-horses. These creatures, classified as first- or second-level beings, combined the strength and endurance of a horse with the agility of a stag. Equipped with sharp hooves and a natural elegance, they could traverse mountainous terrain and dense forests with ease, where ordinary steeds would falter.


    Every detail about these knights¡ªtheir proud demeanor, their masterfully crafted armor¡ªexuded excellence. They weren¡¯t merely soldiers; they were a living symbol of the power and determination of House Cervid.


    Suddenly, the knight who had spoken earlier stepped forward again, breaking the silence that had fallen after the Flying Stag Knight¡¯s commanding presence.


    ¡°Citizens, we¡¯ll camp here tonight,¡± he announced. ¡°The administrator¡¯s house is unusable. Where can we find a place that will accommodate us all?¡±


    A brief hesitation rippled through the crowd, followed by an unexpected wave of enthusiasm. It seemed everyone wanted to volunteer a solution. Voices overlapped, offering suggestions, each louder than the last.


    The knight raised a hand, motioning for silence. This time, the crowd had learned and quieted quickly.


    ¡°Speak,¡± the knight said, pointing to a man at the front of the gathering.


    ¡°Sir knight,¡± the man began, his voice trembling slightly, ¡°most of the structures that could have housed travelers were destroyed this morning. But, if it¡¯s not an offense to you, I can take you to a warehouse we use for lumber. I assure you, it¡¯s well-insulated and spacious.¡±


    The man¡¯s nervousness was palpable, as if he feared his offer might be seen as a grave insult. He spoke cautiously, as though his words were on the verge of breaking.


    The knight turned his head toward the Flying Stag Knight, seeking his approval. A slight nod from the latter sufficed.


    ¡°Lead us,¡± the knight commanded, addressing the man.


    The crowd parted like a wave, making way for the knights. With silent precision, the group of thirty or forty riders began moving toward the northeastern part of the village, following their guide.


    As the crowd dispersed, returning to their grief and shattered lives, Aron lingered in the shadows of the square, his gaze fixed on the departing knights.


    ¡°And now?¡± The Voice broke the moment of quiet, its tone almost lazy.


    Aron shrugged, his eyes still on the figures vanishing toward the northeast. ¡°I¡¯ll rest. I need it. I¡¯ll figure out the rest tomorrow.¡±


    The square, now silent and cloaked in darkness, bore witness as Aron made his way toward the northeast, through the ruined houses and desolate streets. Each step echoed faintly against the ghostly quiet of the village.


    After a few minutes, he found an abandoned house. The door hung ajar, and Aron pushed it open cautiously, the creak of its hinges cutting through the night. He stepped inside, and the smell of blood hit him immediately¡ªsharp and metallic. A shiver ran down his spine, but he pressed on.


    In the dim moonlight filtering through a broken window, he saw the bodies. A small family, torn apart: two adults, perhaps two children. Blood stained the floor, the walls, and the furniture¡ªa chaotic scene that told of a brutal end.


    Aron averted his eyes, his face impassive but his breath heavy. He approached the pantry, finding it miraculously untouched. He took what little food he could find¡ªstale bread and a few roots¡ªand ate quickly, never glancing back at the corpses.


    Then, he moved to the main bedroom. The bed was still intact, and without thinking too much, he lay down, letting exhaustion overtake him. The mattress was uncomfortable, steeped in smells he didn¡¯t want to identify, but the cold night air forced him to accept it.


    He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing. The Voice said nothing, and for the first time in a long while, the silence felt unbearable.


    The darkest day of the year was coming to an end.


    Morning broke, pale and cold, casting weak light over the ravaged village. Aron awoke slowly, his body heavy with fatigue but his mind surprisingly clear.


    ¡°Now that you¡¯ve recovered, have you finally decided what to do?¡± The Voice sounded impatient, weary of Aron¡¯s constant evasion.


    Aron rose from the bed without answering immediately. ¡°Yes,¡± he said at last, with a calm that seemed to defy the Voice. ¡°I¡¯ll eat something.¡±


    A sharp laugh echoed in his mind, cruel and biting. Then silence. The Voice fell quiet, but its tension lingered, like a bowstring drawn too tight.


    After eating what remained of his meager findings, Aron stepped outside. The chill of dawn struck him as soon as he crossed the threshold, but he didn¡¯t stop. He was crossing the street when a sound made him pause: the slow but steady rhythm of hooves. He stepped aside, watching as the group of knights approached.


    At the center, the Flying Stag Knight stood out.


    Their eyes met. The Knight¡¯s gaze was deep and dark, like an eagle preparing to strike. A chill ran down Aron¡¯s spine, and an oppressive weight enveloped him, as though those eyes could see through his very soul and decide his fate with a single thought.


    Aron froze, cold sweat trickling down his back. A primal fear wrapped around him, stripping him of all strength. For a moment, all the courage he thought he¡¯d gained dissolved into nothing.


    The knights passed, their steady hoofbeats fading into the distance. Only when the sound had disappeared entirely did Aron recover. His heart still pounded, but something else now stirred within him: an answer.


    He turned and began running down the road¡ªnot after the knights, but in the opposite direction.


    After some time, his pace slowed. Before him stood a large warehouse, simple but sturdy. This was it.


    He approached, noting a group of people working to tidy the interior. He entered, drawing the curious glances of some workers. With a slight breathlessness, he addressed a man he recognized from the square.


    ¡°You,¡± he said, trying not to sound too harsh. ¡°Do you know where they¡¯re going? Where are they headed?¡±


    The man looked at him, a mix of surprise and irritation on his face. ¡°That¡¯s none of your business.¡±


    The words hit Aron like a door slammed in his face. His jaw tightened, and his gaze grew cold and sharp. He didn¡¯t want to waste any more time.


    ¡°Unless¡­¡± The man paused, his eyes darting to the pouch at Aron¡¯s waist.


    Aron held his icy gaze steady, reaching into his pouch. He pulled out a coin and placed it in the man¡¯s hand.


    A spark.


    The man inspected it, his face twisting with displeasure. He seemed ready to protest, but when he looked up and met Aron¡¯s unflinching stare, something shifted. Those eyes were unwavering, sharp as a blade poised to strike.


    Swallowing nervously, the man let out a long sigh. ¡°Crescentmoon City,¡± he finally said, his voice tense and reluctant.


    Aron left the warehouse behind, the Voice returning as he walked.


    ¡°Let me guess: we¡¯re going there, right?¡± It was mocking, its tone laced with amusement.


    ¡°Exactly. I¡¯m going there,¡± Aron replied without hesitation.


    ¡°Why? You don¡¯t even know where it is.¡± The Voice¡¯s sarcasm was as cutting as ever.


    ¡°I¡¯ll find it. I know it¡¯s south. I¡¯ll ask someone along the way.¡± His words carried a newfound certainty. Finally, he had a goal.


    ¡°But you still haven¡¯t told me why.¡±


    Aron paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he admitted. ¡°I have nothing better to do. And if knights that strong are going there, it¡¯s bound to be interesting.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it? That¡¯s your grand plan?¡± The Voice sounded more acidic than usual. ¡°Follow a group of knights because¡­ what? You were impressed by their predator stares?¡±


    Aron didn¡¯t answer immediately. The truth was, he didn¡¯t have an answer. At least, not one he could articulate. He kept walking, the sound of his steps filling the silence.


    He had nothing left. No one to protect, nowhere to return to. Bitterthorn was a faded memory, a place that no longer meant anything.


    Those knights were the only thing he¡¯d seen that day that didn¡¯t seem dead. Something about them spoke of strength, of purpose. He didn¡¯t know if it was envy or simple curiosity, but for now, it was enough.


    And so, he walked on, leaving Bitterthorn¡¯s ruins behind. Ahead of him, the path stretched into the unknown, marking the beginning of a journey far beyond the village¡¯s borders.

 Chapter 8

    The dirt road was half-muddied due to the snow and the passage of the cavalry. Each step sank slightly, making the journey slow and laborious. Aron walked along the edge of the road, wrapped in a heavy cloak he had found in the abandoned house. The cold wind, ceaseless and biting, was his only companion.


    ¡°The cold feels different,¡± he murmured to himself, pulling the cloak tighter. ¡°Or maybe I just feel it differently.¡±


    ¡°Of course,¡± the Voice replied, its tone almost amused. ¡°You¡¯ve got frost mana coursing through you.¡±


    ¡°Speaking of which¡­ care to explain where this method comes from?¡± The question drifted into the wind as Aron gazed up at the overcast sky.


    ¡°You already know,¡± the Voice replied cryptically. ¡°In time, you¡¯ll figure it out.¡±


    Aron gritted his teeth in frustration. ¡°Always with your damned games¡­¡± he muttered, knowing full well that if the Voice didn¡¯t want to answer, it never would.


    ¡°Anyway,¡± he continued, his gaze shifting back to the road ahead, ¡°at least explain how this all works. You seem to know everything, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°As always, you need me,¡± the Voice said, its tone dripping with satisfaction.


    Aron huffed but didn¡¯t reply.


    ¡°It¡¯s simple,¡± the Voice began without waiting for permission to continue. ¡°Do you remember the Prana training from when you were younger?¡±


    ¡°Of course I do,¡± Aron replied, a shadow of frustration in his tone. ¡°Not that I ever really felt it¡­¡± The memory of his failure still stung.


    ¡°Logical. Without me, you were useless,¡± the Voice said with a sharp laugh. Then, more seriously, it continued, ¡°Prana is the energy generated at the intersection of the physical and spiritual dimensions, produced by every living being¡­¡± It paused, as if giving him time to process. ¡°¡­whereas mana is the same thing, but originating from matter and energy. Everything in the world¡ªearth, metal, air, fire¡ªhas its own emanation in the spiritual dimension. From this intersection, mana is born.¡±


    Aron frowned, trying to absorb all this information. ¡°So that¡¯s how it all works? That¡¯s why I feel frost mana so strongly but barely sense fire mana¡­¡±


    ¡°Congratulations, genius,¡± the Voice replied, dripping with sarcasm. ¡°We¡¯re in winter, surrounded by frost. Which mana do you think is most abundant?¡±


    Aron sighed, ignoring the provocative tone. ¡°I¡¯m starting to understand now¡­¡± A part of him felt relieved to finally put his thoughts in order, though another part remained irritated by the Voice¡¯s attitude. At least he wasn¡¯t getting angry anymore.


    After a moment, he spoke again. ¡°Then why couldn¡¯t I sense Prana when I tried as a boy?¡±


    ¡°Because both mana and Prana have a spiritual side. You need to be in sync with what you¡¯re trying to attract. It¡¯s like dancing with someone¡ªif you don¡¯t find the right rhythm, you can¡¯t follow their lead.¡±


    Aron raised an eyebrow, surprised by the unexpectedly poetic analogy. The Voice continued, oblivious to his reaction. ¡°Prana is usually the simplest to access. After all, you¡¯re a living being: flesh, bones, blood. It¡¯s natural for you to align with the energy of life. But even that requires concentration and understanding. And, as I recall, you were terrible at both.¡±


    Aron let the jab pass, though he grimaced slightly in irritation. ¡°So it¡¯s all about being in sync?¡±


    ¡°More or less. And that harmony shifts based on your surroundings and mentality. Here, for instance, you¡¯re surrounded by frost. Frost mana flows everywhere¡ªin the wind, in the snow, even in your body. It¡¯s easy to sense. But if you were in a desert, fire and sand would dominate, and frost would be almost impossible to perceive. It¡¯s a game of balance. Nature decides. And you¡­¡± The Voice paused deliberately, drawing out the moment. ¡°¡­you must adapt.¡±


    Aron nodded slowly, more focused than ever. Every word added a piece to the puzzle he was trying to solve. For the first time, he felt like he had a foundation for understanding this power that had always eluded him. And as much as he hated to admit it, he had the Voice to thank for that.


    ¡°Alright, what about knights?¡± Aron asked, his tone more direct. ¡°I remember that, in theory, as soon as we sensed Prana, we were supposed to channel it through our bodies in specific ways, gradually constructing pathways so that it could flow to every part of us.¡±


    ¡°Wow, seems like you paid attention during the knights¡¯ lectures, unlike with mana,¡± the Voice replied with a sharp edge.


    ¡°Anyway, in general terms, yes, that¡¯s correct. But remember: when you¡¯re building those channels, you¡¯re starting to emulate another living being. Take the Cervid family, for example. Every noble practices the method of the Draken adorned as their banner¡ªa Draken with the body of a stag but the beak and talons of an eagle.¡±The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Draken?¡± Aron furrowed his brow at the unfamiliar term.


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you only focused on the knights and ignored everything else? You¡¯d be lost without me,¡± the Voice said, with a mix of disdain and self-satisfaction.


    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I¡¯m the stupid one, and you¡¯re the genius,¡± Aron replied sarcastically.


    ¡°I see you¡¯re finally opening your eyes,¡± the Voice retorted, taking his words as genuine. ¡°The Draken, anyway, are one of the seven superior races. Our empire bases its training methods on them. The Eastern Empire, on the other hand, uses the model of the Titans, while the Southern Empire draws from the Demons.¡±


    It was a lot to process for Aron, and each word felt like it was revealing a world he hadn¡¯t even known existed. It was hard to believe that, in such a short time since leaving his village, he had already learned so much.


    ¡°And the other races?¡± he asked, curiosity rekindled within him¡ªa feeling he hadn¡¯t experienced in a long time.


    ¡°I know of two more,¡± the Voice replied after a brief hesitation. ¡°One is the human race, of course. The other¡­ I don¡¯t know its name, but the elementals are part of it. Monomantic methods, in fact, are based on them.¡±


    Aron was silent, surprised. Even the Voice didn¡¯t seem to know everything, and he found that subtly amusing.


    ¡°Humans too?¡± Aron asked, incredulous. ¡°All the other races sound innately powerful, but us¡­¡±


    ¡°Yes, even humans. But I don¡¯t know why,¡± the Voice admitted, sounding irked by the question¡ªor perhaps by its own lack of knowledge. ¡°And now, enough with the useless questions!¡±


    Aron had been walking for a long time when, after a bend in the road, he saw signs of a village ahead. Houses¡ªsome destroyed, others intact but eerily quiet¡ªlined the sides of the path like dark silhouettes. With each step, more details came into view, but the air remained heavy with desolation.


    When he reached what seemed to be the village center, he finally saw people. Their faces were pale and lifeless, their eyes hollow. They didn¡¯t walk so much as drag themselves forward. Aron observed them for a moment, then approached.


    ¡°What a cheerful atmosphere, full of joy!¡± the Voice quipped, sarcasm dripping from its tone.


    ¡°What did you expect?¡± Aron shot back, bitterness creeping into his voice.


    ¡°Well, sometimes I forget they¡¯re just simple humans,¡± the Voice sighed, its tone almost bored.


    Aron walked toward a woman sitting outside a partially collapsed tavern. Her foot looked injured, and her gaze was lost in the distance.


    ¡°Excuse me, ma¡¯am,¡± Aron began, his voice calm but firm. ¡°Do you know how far it is and which direction I need to take to reach Crescentmoon City?¡±


    The woman slowly lifted her face, marked by deep wrinkles and the wear of a hard life. ¡°If you want to reach Crescentmoon City, you need to go south for two more villages, then head east,¡± she answered monotonously, almost mechanically, as though the words were coming from a place too distant to hold any emotion.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Aron turned without further comment and resumed walking southward.


    ¡°How fragile they are,¡± the Voice mused, its tone almost philosophical. ¡°Like branches and leaves at the mercy of the wind.¡±


    Aron didn¡¯t reply immediately. A bittersweet sensation had taken root in his mind. He felt pity for those people, for their miserable state. At the same time, however, a growing disdain stirred within him. He knew he had been like them, that such a fate had been his, and that the Voice was right. But it wasn¡¯t their fault. It was their nature. And for that, he felt pity.


    The journey continued, leaving the small village behind. The road ahead was no different from before: desolate, wrapped in a silence broken only by the wind or the occasional chirping of birds. Aron walked at a steady pace, his cloak shielding him from the biting cold. As his feet moved forward, his thoughts turned inward, trying to untangle his doubts.


    ¡°All right,¡± he began, breaking the silence. ¡°In theory, I¡¯m already a knight, right?¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± the Voice replied, its tone almost bored. ¡°You have the foundation and the mana channels. Now you need to make your entire body capable of containing mana. When you succeed, you¡¯ll reach the peak of a first-level existence.¡±


    Aron nodded, absorbing the information. ¡°And how do I do that, exactly? Is there a specific method?¡±


    The Voice sighed, exasperated. ¡°You really do have a terrible memory. You need to let the mana flow through your channels, keep pushing it into the narrower ones, and eventually, let it overflow. Your body will get damaged, obviously, but over time, it will absorb the mana¡¯s characteristics and become able to contain and channel it without harm.¡±


    Aron furrowed his brow, trying to picture the process. ¡°So, I have to destroy myself to improve?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Think of it like a river,¡± the Voice explained, its tone sharper but strangely patient. ¡°Imagine a main waterway flowing straight. To irrigate the land around it, you need to create secondary channels. But those channels don¡¯t exist on their own¡ªyou have to carve them out. At first, it¡¯ll be a mess. The land will break, and the channels will overflow. But over time, the water will seep in, making the soil fertile and stable. Your body works the same way. You have to break, destroy, and then absorb.¡±


    ¡°And you said this process will make my body take on the characteristics of the mana?¡±


    ¡°Exactly. Air, fire, metal¡­ every type of mana leaves a different mark. Right now, there are faint traces of frost within you.¡±


    ¡°What kind?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have to tell you everything. Use that brain of yours¡­ if you can.¡±


    Aron ignored the provocation, starting to reflect. He noticed his body felt more energetic¡­ or rather, less prone to fatigue. The Voice had a uniquely aggravating way of explaining things, but at least it had clarified the path forward.


    Eager to test himself, Aron started channeling and controlling the mana within him. But the Voice interrupted him before he could focus.


    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t do that if I were you,¡± it said, its tone sharp and condescending as ever. ¡°You could seriously hurt yourself if you try without proper focus. And you¡¯re not even in a safe place¡­ but if you¡¯re feeling lucky, go ahead.¡±


    Aron gritted his teeth, frustrated. ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll wait¡­¡± he muttered, though his tone betrayed impatience. A burning desire surged within him, and to quell it, he quickened his pace, spurred on by the hope of reaching the next village before long.