Ha ha haha (in a pained laugh). "Damn it, this game is going to kill me," I muttered as
I stood up,
brushing my hand through my long hair to adjust my vision. "Tch," I clicked my
tongue, thinking, "I need a bath."
The sound of rolling glass beer bottles met my feet as I walked toward the bathroom.
Tiny drops of beer splashed
onto my foot. I turned on the hot water and waited for the tub to fill. As I exited, I
grabbed another bottle from
the mini fridge, hitting a few more on the way, and returned to the bath.
Slipping slowly into the tub, I murmured, "Ah, this is perfect." I twisted the cap of a
glass bottle and heard a
crack. First, a slow sniff – I wasn't used to this smell yet. I took a cautious sip,
analyzing the taste.
"Shouldn't all German beers logically taste the same?" I muttered. The rest I drank in
one go, submerging my head
slowly underwater.
The cold tile echoed each time my head hit the water, intensifying with each dip. On
the last plunge, I stayed
under longer, finally surfacing after fifteen seconds. Exiting the tub and opening the
drain, I watched the water
empty almost instantly. "How can I finish this stupid game?" I wondered.
Muttering "Ah, I'll figure it out in the game," I grabbed a beer from the kitchen and
returned to my game room.
Placing a glass on the table, I drank half and set the empty beside the others. The
clinking filled the room slightly
as I took my plate and opened the fandom page, murmuring "Origin." 'If I remember
correctly, the first tower
master had such a power,' I thought. "In this game, the first and only most powerful
mage recorded in history
was Valthazar," I whispered.
At that moment, a notification appeared on the screen. I clicked it. "Legacy of Origin," I muttered.
The whitescreen dimmed to black slightly. "Damn… is this a pixel glitch?" I cursed. Then, thescreen shifted, revealing
something beautiful: a woman with white hair and pitch-black eyes, ethereal. "Damn…
I don't care if I owe a
million dollars, this beauty is mine," I murmured. Reaching for the beer, a black
sword-like object pierced my
chest; I fell, unable to comprehend what happened.
I cried out, "What the hell?" but no sound escaped. Across from me, I saw the same
beauty – white hair,
ethereal purple eyes – staring without changing her expression. 'How did she get
here?' I thought. As I gazed
again, my consciousness faded and I closed my eyes for the last time.
When I opened them again, something had changed. I felt my spirit, yet
simultaneously in pain. Voices rang
in my head as my perspective shifted. Initially, it was a vast mansion buried in snow,
almost Antarctic in its
cold. The towering structure defied the sky, black stone walls meeting thick,
snow-covered roofs, corners
encased in white. Snow clung to stair edges and balconies, exuding both grandeur and
cold.
The main tower rose at the center, its tall windows and stonework dazzling. Corner
towers served defense and
lookout purposes. The grand wooden-and-iron main door was flanked by carved wolf
heads. Servants bustled
through the courtyard and garden, carrying wood and letters marked with the wolf
emblem. Statues and hardy
plants lined the frozen pathways, and guards watched from balconies and galleries.
Smoke from chimneys rose from each floor, indicating warm rooms and hearths inside.
The mansion's lower
floors were for service and kitchens, upper floors for private living and guest rooms,
and the top floor
reserved for observation and defense. The blending of snow and stone exuded majesty
and a chilling aura,
simultaneously reflecting power, nobility, and the frozen land itself.
Gradually, another scene emerged. "A room… no, definitely a hall… wait, a bed?
Damn, this must be a room,"
I whispered, both awed and slightly envious. A woman lay on the bed, attended by
three servants. Near her
legs, an older woman, seemingly a midwife, stood, while the other two were beautiful
maids. 'Damn, must
they all be this gorgeous?' I muttered, worried someone might see me. Even in spirit
form, no one noticed.
The woman's golden hair fell over her shoulders, almost glowing in the dim light.
Despite the pain, her posture
exuded elegance and strength; her breathing was shallow, hands tensed, yet
captivating. The midwife moved
with skilled calm, the other two providing water and warm cloths silently and
efficiently. Pain and resolve
painted her expression, creating a mix of fragility and power. I could only watch,
absorbing every detail.
Her breathing quickened with each contraction. The midwife encouraged, "Push
stronger, push stronger!" The
maids supported her with swift precision. Sweat dripped from her forehead, but her
determination never wavered.
Life's energy surged through each strained breath. Finally, a sharp cry echoed—the
baby's first sound. The
midwife whispered, "We did it." Relief washed over her face as she looked upon her
newborn.
I, as a spirit, witnessed the fragile yet potent moment of life, impressed by her beauty,
strength, and the
miracle unfolding before me.
The midwife immediately turned to a servant. "Call the priest at once!" The servant
went to the door, which
creaked open. A bald man entered, holding a metal cross. He approached the bedside,
retrieving a rolled
paper from a hidden compartment.
"In the Valehart Duchy within the Solareth Kingdom, in the Deepfrost region, on
February 9, 402 years
after the Great Cataclysm War, this child was born at noon," he announced. The
newborn still had
closed eyes. "Clean this bloody child with a towel!" I ordered, but no one responded;
the priest continued
scribbling notes.
At that moment, a tall, imposing man entered. The two maids and midwife bowed,
murmuring, "Duke Valehart."
The priest greeted politely, "Hello, my lord. Congratulations, you have a son." I
whispered to myself,
"Damn, that's the guy." In the game, he was known as "Hell of the North."
He stood tall, a frozen statue. Black armor dusted with snow, hair a frosted white-gray,
ice-blue eyes that
pierced the soul. Alaric Valehart, Duke of Deepfrost. Whispers among the people: "Hell
of the North."
No tremor crossed his gaze as the cold wind swept his face.
He had destroyed the Frostvale Barony for defiance, burning villages, erasing them
from maps. Loyalty
was sacred; betrayal meant death and ruin. His words remained: "Those loyal to
Valehart live, those who
forget vanish beneath the snow." Now, he stood there, eyes coldly fixed… then
announced,
"I'm naming my child Adrian Valehart."