In the far northern reaches, an expanse of white wilderness forged from eternal ice stretched between heaven and earth. This frozen land, known to locals as the "Frost-Silent Wastes," was so barren that not even the hardiest ice moss could survive. The perpetual ice cap reached depths of three kilometers at its thickest, continuously expanding toward the frozen sea.
Biting winds and savage magical beasts formed a natural barrier that deterred all but the most desperate. An ancient proverb circulated among northern folk: "To venture deep into the ice plains is like plucking stars with bare hands." Yet each year, countless adventurers still braved the snows—not only to hunt rare magical creatures, but to pursue the divine prophecy left by the Archmage Ryze at his deathbed.
This mage, who had devoted his life to unraveling the secrets of the world's origin, declared with his final breath: "When the blood of all creatures stains the ice plains crimson, and seven-colored radiance illuminates the land, the secret realm sealed for ten thousand years shall open. All I have gained—boundless wealth, lost incantations, even the chance to glimpse the divine realm—lies within."
Greed drove adventurers forward in endless waves, though most would remain forever in this icy graveyard.
Crack—
The eternal silence of the ice fields was suddenly broken by the sound of shattering ice. A line of dark figures emerged from behind a snow-capped peak, gradually taking shape against the howling wind.
A wedge formation of thirty-nine warriors guarded four wolf-drawn sledges struggling through the gale. At their head walked a young warrior wearing only light combat attire, a careless smile playing on his lips. The massive golden greatsword resting on his shoulder emitted a dull gleam, its blade nearly as tall as its bearer, radiating palpable killing intent.
Four guards followed close behind, clad in beast-hide armor and wielding bone weapons, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. The sledges they protected were covered with drapes embroidered with dark golden runes that glimmered faintly whenever the wind blew, warding off the piercing cold.
The wolf team suddenly halted as one, whimpering in fear. Dark clouds churned overhead as fine ice crystals began to fall, quickly thickening into a blizzard that blotted out the sky.
Swish—
A projectile cut through the air. The young warrior raised his sword to block, the ice shard exploding into powder against the blade. Just as the guards began to relax, more dense whistling sounds tore through the storm.
"Icestorm!" someone cried out in alarm.
This was no ordinary blizzard, but a natural force rivaling forbidden spells. Rapidly rotating frigid currents gathered countless ice blades, capable of shearing even mountain peaks. More deadly still were the hidden crevasses, ready to swallow the entire party at any moment.
The formation shifted rapidly as warriors moved forward to establish a defensive line. At that moment, a black-robed mage emerged from the lead sledge. In his hand appeared half of a staff, the broken end still glowing dangerously with crystal clusters. The colorful gem at its tip shone vividly against the curtain of snow.
As incantations rolled from his lips, an emerald light unfolded from the staff, forming a hemispherical shield around the party. The storm crashed against the luminous barrier in rippling waves, and the mage's face grew increasingly pale.
The young warrior drove his greatsword into the ice, sending web-like cracks radiating outward. "Now!" he commanded. The warriors quickly piled broken ice into steps, carving out several spacious ice chambers beneath the surface within moments.
"Kylie." The young warrior gestured toward a woman in a dress standing by the sledges.
The woman bowed and approached the carriage: "The blizzard has blocked our path unexpectedly. We beg your patience for a brief rest."
The curtain stirred as a woman emerged, her abdomen swollen beneath a light blue fur coat. Her brown hair framed a face free of makeup, her eyes like clear springs. "How many times must I say it—a woman from a fallen kingdom deserves no titles." She gently caressed her belly, sorrow flickering in her eyes. "Just call me Debby."
Her gaze lingered on the figure maintaining the protective shield, words caught in her throat. Finally, supported by Kylie, she descended into the ice cavern.
Once everyone had withdrawn, the shield abruptly contracted. The mage tapped his staff, sealing the entrance with a hexagram formation. Staggering slightly, he reported: "Snow cave fifteen hundred meters southeast."
The young warrior gave a strange laugh and leaped into the storm. As the mage retrieved magic cores to replenish his power, he teleported back to the ice cavern. Debby immediately rushed to meet him: "Barlow..."
"Nothing serious," the mage named Barlow gently wiped tears from the corner of her eye. "If not for the damaged staff, such a storm would be trivial." He settled into meditation, his pale face appearing even more haggard in the ice's reflection.
Much later, the ice cavern trembled. The returning warrior dragged a colossal beast behind him, his body covered with wounds from ice blades. Barlow teleported to his side, holy light of healing enveloping him completely.
"Boss's healing magic arrives like timely rain," the warrior Hugh grinned, tossing his prey to the ground. "This beast turned out to be a mutant—almost made me trip in the gutter."
After examining the snow elephant corpse, Barlow nodded in approval. Placing a hand on Hugh's shoulder, he teleported them back to the cavern. The warriors saluted silently and began expertly butchering and roasting the meat.
When the storm finally subsided, the party resumed their journey.
Fifteen days later, mountain ranges emerged against the distant sky. Towering peaks pierced the cloud layer like ice spears cast by gods, pointing straight toward the heavens.
The Benedict Mountains spanning the northern reaches of the Domon continent rose like the coiled spine of an ancient wyrm, their perpetual glaciers casting ethereal auroras across the peaks. This natural barrier stood between the human kingdoms and the Frozen Wastes, revered by the people of Carlos as the "Mountains of Divine Grace."
A roar from behind the carved wooden door made the window lattices rattle. "Useless! Can't even handle such a simple matter!" The officials in the revenue department stood with bated breath, heads bowed, as Tax Collector Herman's scolding echoed through the stone corridors. This efficiency expert dispatched from the royal capital was fuming over Jacob City's perennial tax shortfalls.
As a crucial border town for the kingdom's revenue, Jacob City had seen its tax contributions dwindle year after year. Herman's piercing gaze swept over the trembling village heads before settling on the portly figure at the far left. "Your village's payments shrink annually," he said, tapping the mahogany desk as he approached. "Could it be lining your pockets instead?"
The plump mayor dropped to his knees, tearfully clutching the tax collector's leather boots. "Your Honor, I swear... I'll make up every last coin..." His pleas were cut short as Herman kicked him away, then casually picked up a gilded inkstone from the display shelf. The mayor crumpled to the floor like a deflated sack.
When Herman's eyes shifted to the silver-haired elder standing ramrod straight in the corner, his stern expression softened. Old Charlie from Spruce Village not only paid his taxes in full but often contributed rare magic crystals. Stroking a crystal paperweight, Herman flicked a silver coin into the old man's palm. "Satisfactory."
At dusk, Old Charlie ambled down the village path, his coarse linen cloak fluttering in the autumn breeze. Beneath his straw hat, wrinkles deepened around his contented smile. As administrator of the most remote settlement at the foot of the Benedict range, his days now consisted of lounging in the wicker rocking chair at the village entrance while others delivered taxes and tributes.
This life of ease began two years ago during a thunderstorm. When violet lightning tore across the sky, a couple calling themselves the Grahams arrived with mysterious attendants. Though dressed in simple linen robes, their tailored collars and natural authority betrayed noble origins.
"Now now, little Xize, no wandering beyond the village." Old Charlie stooped to intercept the toddling children. The lead boy blinked eyes like polished glass, his chubby hand clutching a glowing crystal shard. Just a fortnight earlier, when a frenzied thunderbeast charged toward these very children, a shadowy figure had emerged from nowhere to send the massive creature flying thirty yards back.
Watching the children's receding figures, Old Charlie sipped his elven flower tea contentedly. As the setting sun gilded the distant mountain peaks, he fondled the warm silver coins in his purse while children's laughter chimed through the rising supper smoke. This peace, he mused, might be more intoxicating than any nobleman's crown.
A band of children swaggered down the village path, marching like a line of sideways scuttling crabs. The villagers, long accustomed to these little rascals, smiled and made way. Some even dangled dried meat strips and beast milk by the roadside to lure them.
In the blink of an eye, Xize's followers had all been picked off by the treats.
Looking back, his painstakingly assembled "revolutionary force" had been utterly defeated by sweet temptations. Such a fragile alliance truly deserved a sigh.
Little Xize put on a theatrical sigh, the scene suddenly inspiring poetic ambitions within him.
"Drawing swords to part the waters, yet they flow stronger; drowning sorrows in..."
A spark of inspiration flashed in his eyes: Drowning sorrows in wine!
A dilapidated two-story wooden house came into view. Anyone could tell it was a tavern, not because it stood out, but precisely because its shabby appearance was so inconspicuous. What truly gave it away was the tin sign swaying in the autumn wind - hanging from two rusted iron chains that clanked against the wooden door with each swing. Two crudely painted crimson words sprawled across the sign: TAVERN.
The owner, Webb McCardy, was once a moderately famous lone mercenary from the northern ice plains. What puzzled everyone was why this solitary wolf, who never kept company, would choose to run a tavern in such a remote village.
Within the cramped space, a curved bow covered with corrosion marks hung on the rough wall behind the arc-shaped bar, beside which a massive barrel emanated an intoxicating fragrance. A few tables and chairs scattered haphazardly completed the furnishings.
Spur Village housed barely forty families, with few villagers splurging on tavern visits. The hall stood empty enough to hear the wind whistling through, occupied only by three burly mercenaries drinking heartily. Their boisterous laughter and every movement carried the scent of blood accumulated through years of rough living.
On the power-worshipping continent of Domon, mercenary work was the most common profession. People took on missions according to their mercenary rank to make a living.
"Bam! Bam! Bam!"
One mercenary slammed his boot onto a bench, pounding the wooden table until it shook. "I say we take the boys straight there and put blades to that blacksmith's throat! A mere metal-basher daring to set rules for us!"
"Metal-basher?" Webb shot them a sidelong glance, a trace of mockery flashing in his eyes. He leaned lazily against the bar, his slender fingers dancing across piano keys, producing moonlit melodies that created a strange contrast with the rowdy tavern.
"Exactly! Only one commission per month, insists on waiting until the ninth day, demands tenfold materials! Clearly taking us for fat sheep to shear!" another mercenary fumed in agreement.
"Shut it!" their leader snapped, cautiously scanning their surroundings before lowering his voice.
The two jolted as if waking from a dream, nervously glancing toward the entrance. Seeing the owner still immersed in his music, they relaxed and whispered, "What's that blacksmith's background? To make that important figure issue an S-rank mission?"
"Don't ask what you shouldn't." The leader glared at them, but after a moment's contemplation added, "He demands ninefold materials and specifies that day for forging. What does that tell you?"
Seeing their blank expressions, the leader shook his head helplessly. "Needing that much material means the forging difficulty is extreme, with high failure risk. Since it's so challenging, choosing the ninth day specifically..."
"That day must hold some secret!" one mercenary blurted.
"Right! There must be special conditions that day to improve success rates!" the other added excitedly.
The leader nodded approvingly, wearing a teacher-pleased-with-pupils smile.
"Drink! Drink!" The three grinned at each other, raising their glasses for hearty gulps, their curiosity about the mysterious blacksmith growing stronger.