Blade-like snow whipped across his face.
Every breath filled his lungs with the fishy stench of snow mingled with streaming blood,
and the clamor of clashing steel mixed with the savage howls of barbarians from who-knows-where.
The dying screams of soldiers created a horrific cacophony.
If hell truly existed, this had to be it.
The brutal environment here was even gnawing away at the unshakeable resolve of the Dreadnote family's elite among elites.
"Father... Please, pull yourself together!"
"..."
Heron Dreadnote staggered forward, clad in blood-soaked armor.
Slumped lifelessly over his shoulder was his father—the head of House Dreadnote, Eron Dreadnote.
The man who had commanded the entire North and struck terror into the hearts of the barbarians,
the one called the Shield of the North—beneath his tightly shut eyelids,
blood from a deep gash on his forehead had dyed his white hair red.
How had it come to this?
Just a few hours ago, this should have been a routine mop-up operation under control.
When they had detected unusual barbarian movements and led their forces out, both Eron and Heron's faces had brimmed with confidence.
They knew the barbarians inside and out.
Their recklessness, their strength. And their limits.
Naturally, they approached them without a shred of complacency.
As always, they planned to blunt the barbarians' advance toward Dreadnote territory and hunt them down.
But this time was different.
Yes, if only it weren't for that woman.
'That damned bitch...!'
A figure as striking as a fierce winter flower blooming amid the battlefield.
The moment he laid eyes on her—a beauty that didn't belong in this frozen wasteland, one that could make even Heron, who had seen his share of fine ladies in the territory, blush.
"You've had your fun until now? Now it's your brats' turn."
The instant that woman appeared, the tide turned into a one-sided slaughter.
The sturdy shield wall tore apart like paper, seasoned knights fell like autumn leaves,
and even the invincible shield, Count Dreadnote, ended up like this after just three exchanges with that monster.
'Where the hell did a monster like her come from?'
Heron hadn't been on many battlefields, but he was still a son of Count Dreadnote.
He knew the barbarians well from fighting them.
Yet he'd never heard of a monster like her among them.
She could only be described as appearing out of nowhere.
'...Damn it all!'
"Huff... huff!"
Right then, a knight staggered through the blizzard toward them.
He must have lost his helmet in the fighting—it was nowhere to be seen,
and his left arm dangled limply at an unnatural angle.
"Young Master!"
"What happened, Sir Kailun?!"
"That monster... Imir is coming!"
The knight's voice, consumed by terror, screamed out.
The moment that name hit his ears,
a chill raced up Heron's spine.
He gritted his teeth and glanced back.
There, far off in the blizzard, a red silhouette with a massive claymore slung over her shoulder led hundreds of warriors straight toward them.
Her killing intent pierced the air even from this distance, sharp as a blade against his skin.
'Shit!'
Some had stayed behind to hold off their pursuers.
For them to catch up already meant those men were all dead.
...Far faster than expected.
At this rate, it was total annihilation.
His father, himself, the remaining soldiers—all would die here.
Then at least he had to save his father.
That would be the right path for the family.
"Adjutant!"
"Yes!"
Heron shouted desperately, and his loyal adjutant hurried over.
"Take Father back to the territory. Right now!"
"But Young Master, what about you...?!"
"...I'll stay and hold them off as long as I can."
"B-but..."
The adjutant trailed off. He knew full well
what it meant to remain in this hellish battlefield and face that monster.
They had brought a large force precisely because they knew the barbarians' toughness and vitality.
But now their numbers had visibly thinned.
They'd kept forming blocking lines to hold back the rabble.
And now Heron was volunteering to stay.
Adjutant Herald wasn't fool enough to miss the meaning in the words of the man he called Young Master.
It was a suicidal resolve to buy time, even at the cost of death.
"Don't worry. I'll drag it out and fall back. Until then, look after Father."
At Heron's words, the adjutant bit his lip in anguish.
"...Understood, Young Master. I wish you the best of luck."
With a resolute expression, Adjutant Herald hoisted Eron's heavy body onto his back alongside a few other uninjured soldiers.
A horse would have made it easy, but in this rugged, blizzard-ravaged mountain terrain, bringing one was impossible.
No use dwelling on hypotheticals.
As he watched them push through the snow toward the territory,
Heron could only pray to the gods that his adjutant would get his father to safety during the time he bought.
Only after confirming they'd vanished completely into the blizzard did Heron slowly turn around.
Far off, Imir's figure grew ever clearer.
He could almost see the cruel smile on her face.
If she'd wanted, she could have reached them before the adjutant even fled.
Her standing back and watching from afar was just her toying with the defeated prey.
Like a predator granting its quarry a fleeting escape to savor that final, despairing death throe.
'No matter how I look at it, a devil of a woman despite her beauty.'
Shring!
Heron drew his sword from its sheath at his waist. The clear ring of steel cut through the battlefield din.
He raised it toward the remaining dozens of soldiers and bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"Men of Dreadnote! Behind us lie the families and home we must protect!"
A faint spark reignited in the eyes of the despairing soldiers.
"We are the Shield of the North! We hold them here!"
"Waaaaah!"
The soldiers squeezed out their last dregs of courage in a roar.
Heron's gaze fixed on one target alone:
the red calamity approaching from afar.
Their death-defying shouts pierced the storm.
They pressed their backs together and formed one final shield wall against the oncoming barbarians.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
As the barbarians' footsteps drew nearer, the soldiers' breaths grew ragged against their shields.
Though they'd steeled themselves for death, maintaining composure with the reaper at their doorstep was no easy feat.
Finally, Imir at the vanguard came into sharp focus.
Her blood-red eyes gleamed coldly, like a beast spotting prey.
"Oh? I gave you time to run, and quite a few stuck around. Brave for cowards."
Or foolish.
"Chieftain. That helmeted one up front seems to be the Dreadnote bastard's son."
"Oh? He had some skill, alright. Let's see."
She eyed Heron with interest, dragging her claymore along the ground as she approached.
"Little brat. You're that old Dreadnote's son, huh?"
"...That's not a name for the likes of you to utter so insolently."
Heron snapped back at the uncouth barbarian chieftain, unable to hold his tongue.
But she just twisted her lips into a grin, clearly amused.
"Heh... You've got some guts, kid? Looks like that's at an end here, though."
"Shut your mouth, you mad bitch!"
Crack.
His grip on the hilt tightened so fiercely it felt like it might shatter.
Heron swallowed his rage and readjusted his sword.
Charging in blindly would just get him killed like a dog by her.
"You won't advance any further. Not you, not your barbarian scum. This is your grave!"
"Ha. Funny talk."
Grave? From a man covered in wounds?
She sneered at Heron's folly and slung her claymore casually over her shoulder.
"Then come on. Show me."
The words barely left her mouth before she kicked off the ground like a cannonball.
Heron's eyes widened. He'd fought her multiple times to reach this point, but it was still unbelievable every time.
A speed no human should possess.
Were those truly human movements?
Boom!
In the blink of an eye, she closed the gap, stepped on a shield, vaulted over, and brought her sword down on Heron.
He desperately raised his blade, and it clashed with her claymore.
Clang!
The overwhelming destructive force, backed by her full weight, made his arms scream as if they'd snap.
"Urk!"
Now that he knew what she was, if he'd dismissed her as just a woman, he wouldn't have even blocked it—he'd have lost his head in one strike.
Outmatched in strength, he stumbled back several steps and fought to steady his trembling, pained hands.
"Kyahaha! If that's all it takes to make you grimace, what kind of man are you? Put some muscle into it!"
Imir gave him no respite, swinging her massive blade like a tempest.
"Young Master!"
Kights rushed to aid the increasingly hard-pressed Heron.
"Stay out of it, you pests!"
But like swatting annoying flies, she cut them down with a grimace and overwhelming slashes.
"Argh!"
"Gahk!"
Splatter!
Screams erupted as blood sprayed across the snow.
Heron gritted his teeth and endured, but the battle was already decided.
'I can't win...!'
Before their glaring skill gap, despair slowly crept into his heart.
"Little brat. You said this'd be my grave? Come on, show some power!"
Boom!
Imir shouted at Heron, her lips curling mockingly.
"...Tch."
He had no retort to the taunt.
Her relentless assault left no room even for defense, let alone reply.
After several clashes, his battered body's senses dulled, and his arm muscles reached their limit.
"Kyahahaha!"
Their blades met once more. But this time, he couldn't hold.
Clang!
Unable to withstand the impact, his sword flew from his grasp and tumbled into the snow.
His body exposed. A fatal opening.
"All over, little brat?"
With a seductive, succubus-like smile,
her claymore crashed mercilessly toward his right shoulder.
Crunch!
"Arrrgh!"
A gruesome tearing sound and surging agony sent him rolling backward with a scream.
A deep gash from shoulder to chest.
Bones ground to pulp, hot blood fountaining out.
Not severed, but without immediate treatment, fatal blood loss was certain.
"Cough..."
Heron clutched the wound with bloody hands, gasping raggedly.
His vision blurred, strength draining from his body.
'Is this... the end...'
He needed to buy more time...
Crunch. Crunch.
"Not bad for southerners. I'll make the end painless, kid."
Her breathing steady, she readjusted her claymore and advanced slowly, reaper come to claim his soul.
It was the moment death's shadow sought to swallow Heron whole.
BOOM!
From one corner of the battlefield, a massive explosion ripped through the sky like tearing thunder, a blinding flash erupting.
The shockwave made everyone stagger.
"...What?"
Even Imir halted her attack in surprise, looking toward the blast.
There, an unbelievable sight unfolded.
Dozens of Frost Giant warriors were engulfed in black flames, screaming as they turned to ash.
Turning toward the flames' source,
"Haa... haa!"
a single girl hovered in the air, silver hair whipping around her.
Dozens of magic circles shimmered around her like stars, her hands trembling.
"Celine?"
Heron murmured blankly at the sight.
...Why was she here?
"As expected of my little sister. Her skills are the real deal."
"...Shut up, big brother."
A frivolous tone.
But a familiar voice.
A voice that should never be heard here.
Crunch. Crunch.
From beside her, slow footsteps approached.
Leisurely, as if out for a stroll.
Dull gray hair, dead-fish eyes indifferent to all.
Heron doubted his own eyes.
"E...van?"
The disgrace of the family he'd scorned and ignored.
...Why the hell was he here?
Evan glanced fleetingly at the fallen Heron before fixing his gaze on Imir.
"Lying there all pathetic, little brother."
Then he grinned.
As if the whole scene was utterly amusing.
"You're Frostfang Imir, aren't you?"