A/N: Yes, the protagonist is a penguin ;)
Chapter 1: The Scream Within the White Silence
The world was white. The sky was white, the ground was white, and even the breath they took was a mass of white vapor suspended in the air.
This place was the Forgotten Lands of the North. The mana in the atmosphere was so dense and erratic that the howl of the wind sometimes resembled an enchanted whisper and sometimes the snarl of a hungry beast.
Deep within the glaciers, the mana cores of ancient creatures frozen hundreds of years ago emitted a pale blue light leaking from beneath the earth to the surface. However, this light did not warm anything. On the contrary, it made the ancient cold that penetrated to the marrow even more distinct.
In the middle of this endless whiteness, there was a black stain moving with a monotonous rhythm: The Herd.
Thousands of penguins. Thousands of black and white bodies, identical to one another, copies of each other. All of them had their heads bowed, taking waddling steps on the ice with their short legs, moving forward.
This was an aimless march with no end. When they got hungry, they would dive into the freezing waters of the ocean and try to hunt fish that threw spears of ice.
The lucky ones filled their stomachs, while the unlucky ones became bait for the Crystal Snakes lying in ambush in the depths or the Ice Wyverns gliding down from the sky.
The cycle was simple: Eat, breed, walk, and die.
In the middle of the herd, there was a penguin who looked no different from the others but carried a strange glimmer in his eyes.
He had no name. No one in the herd had a name. Names were for individuals, whereas they were a whole. But today, he felt the weight of his steps more than the others.
An old penguin walking on his left stumbled. He had fallen weak. The fat layer under his skin had melted, and his feathers had become dull from a lack of mana.
The old penguin tried to straighten up once more but failed. The herd did not stop. No one turned to look. Those coming from behind walked around the old body and filled the gap in front of them. The one who fell was left behind. The one left behind ceased to exist.
A penguin cast a brief glance at the fallen elder. How many times had he seen this scene? Ten? A hundred? A thousand?
Why? he asked inwardly. This question was like lightning echoing in his mind. Why are we walking?
When he was little, when his feathers were still gray and soft, he had asked the oldest of the herd this question. It was a night when three moons aligned in the sky and the mana in the sea swelled.
Grandfather, he had said. Where are we going? Where is the end of this march?
The old penguin had fixed his eyes, which had lost their light from seeing too much snow, on the horizon and given that memorized answer. Those before us followed the herd too, child. Our duty is to follow. Not to question, but to survive.
But why? the little penguin had insisted.
Because the herd is life. The one who leaves the herd freezes. The one who leaves the herd becomes prey. Beyond the herd, there is only death.
The answer was that simple. Follow to live. Live to follow.
The penguin raised his head. The cold wind was hitting his beak and cutting his face. He squinted and looked at the horizon. There, where the white desert ended, were colossal silhouettes piercing the sky: Nightveil Mountains.
According to rumors, that was a forbidden zone. It was said that the wind cut like a knife there, mana caused storms, ancient dragons slept, and only the strongest monsters could reside there.
The herd feared even the shadow of those mountains and always turned its route in the opposite direction. But the mountains... Those peaks covered with sharp, black, and purple halos were calling the penguin.
The noise of the herd, the rustling sound made by waddling steps on the ice, and the occasional meaningless shouts suddenly began to sound unbearably loud to him.
This sound was not the sound of life. This sound was the lullaby of a slow death and submission.
Every day a few of us get hunted, the penguin thought. His eye caught a young female a few meters away being caught by a thorny vine that suddenly shot out from under the ice.
She was pulled under the water before she could even scream. Her mate beside her flinched for only a moment, then turned forward and continued walking.
While it is not even guaranteed that we will see tomorrow, what was the purpose of this life? Were we born just to end up in a predator's stomach? Or just to be dots in this endless whiteness?
The unrest inside him turned into pressure forcing his ribcage. His heart was beating thump thump as if it did not fit in his tiny body. This was not hunger. This was not fear either. This was a primal, wild, and noble feeling awakening in the depths of his soul.
He could hear the flow of mana and its whisper within the wind right now. And that whisper pointed in a single direction: The Mountains.
The penguin stopped suddenly.
The herd, however, did not stop. It continued to flow past him like a fluid, black river.
The penguins passing to his right and left bumped into him and shouldered him, but none of them turned and asked why he had stopped.
They did not even realize he was standing there like a statue. Their minds were locked. They were piles of flesh programmed to walk on that narrow, restricted path fate had drawn for them.
The penguin's breathing accelerated. His eyes wandered over the empty gazes of his relatives passing him by.
Look at me! he wanted to scream. Stop! Stop for just a moment and look at where we are going! We are just drawing a circle! We have been drawing the same damned circle for centuries!
But his voice did not come out. Even if it did, it would be lost in the howl of the wind.
Minutes passed. The herd moved forward in an unending convoy. And finally, the ones at the very back, the weakest and sickest ones, passed by him too.
The last penguin paused for a moment while passing him and gave him a brief glance. It was as if that look was telling him he was making a mistake and that if he went, this would be his end. Then he turned forward again and continued to follow the herd.
After the last penguin passed him and moved meters away, a terrible silence descended.
There was no longer the warmth of the sheltered crowd. There were no longer bodies hiding him from the wind. He was all alone.
The penguin's small heart was beating so fast in his chest that he thought it would break his ribs. Fear wrapped around his throat like an icy hand. His logic was screaming at the top of its lungs.
Run! Catch up with them! If you stay behind, you will die! A Snow Leopard will catch your scent! An Ice Golem will crush you! Don't be foolish, you are just a penguin! You are not a warrior, you are not a mage, you are prey!
His legs trembled. For a moment, just for a second, his body made a move forward to run after the herd. This was the command of millions of years of evolution, of the survival instinct engraved in his genes.
But then... The wind changed direction.
The airflow coming from the mountains hit his face. This air was different. It seemed to hold an ancient power. This scent touched the invisible chains in his soul.
No, said the frail but determined voice inside him. If I run now, if I return to that herd, that is when I will truly die.
Even if my body lives, my soul will drown inside that crowd. I... I was not created just to eat and die. There must be more than this. There must be a meaning to this world.
Break the fate and rules that constrain you.
This thought flashed like a spark in his mind. He felt a small warmth right in the middle of his chest, next to his heart. This warmth gave him courage.
The penguin lifted his foot hesitantly. Unlike the safe, crushed snowy path the herd took, he stepped onto the untrodden, rough, and dangerous ice.
He turned his direction to the mountains.
To the colossal, terrifying mountains vanishing among the clouds.
He took the first step. Then another one.
At the beginning, his steps were slow, as if gravity was trying to pull him back.
But with every step, he felt the invisible bonds breaking. He accelerated. His waddling walk turned into a strange run. He opened his short wings to the sides to maintain his balance and started running into the whiteness.
He did not look back.
He knew that if he turned his head and saw the safe blackness and familiar warmth of the herd, his will could be broken. If he hesitated, this cold desert would swallow him.
That was why he only looked forward.
The wind was blowing harder now, as if the world wanted to punish his rebellion. Snowflakes were hitting his face like bullets. But for the first time in his life, he felt he was truly breathing. The air filling his lungs was not just oxygen, it was freedom.
The sounds of the herd gradually decreased. First the shouts ceased, then the footsteps... And finally, the presence of that suffocating crowd was completely erased.
Now there was only him, the wind, and the mountains.
A small penguin was running towards the unknown to write his own destiny in this cruel world where gods and monsters roamed.
History would not write about those who followed the herd. History would write about those who walked against the storm.
And his story had begun at that exact moment.