Chapter One: The End of Winter

Carlos surveyed his squire squad with satisfaction. Regardless of their actual strength, at least their spirit was remarkable. Unlike the Night Watchers or the Sentinels, these men, having undergone knightly training and been steeped in the chivalric code, all carried an imposing and dignified aura.

Curious about this transformation, Carlos squeezed time out of his daily schedule—already packed with scholarly pursuits, alchemy, and golem craft—to join his squire squad on the back hill, where he too received McLean’s instruction and completed the basic knightly drills.

Life was fulfilling.

As the days slipped by, Carlos’s alchemical skills improved by leaps and bounds, and his body grew visibly sturdier, no longer the slight, frail figure he’d once been, resembling more a young lady than a future knight.

Amidst this diligent effort, several milestones stood out: the first time he truly sensed the spatial laws he’d been studying—an achievement owed to countless nights spent exploring the mysteries of alchemy; the first time he successfully refined a mid-grade alchemical product using a proper array, personally validating the principle of equivalent exchange with space as the medium; and the exhilarating moment when he invoked the laws of space to cast a teleportation spell, even if it only shifted him a mere meter or two forward.

What delighted Carlos even more was that, as his understanding of spatial laws deepened, the efficiency with which he transformed the dark energy within him increased as well. He was confident that, within six months, he could fully master the dark energy and finally free himself from that damnable, unequal pact with the witch.

Carlos’s efforts did not go unnoticed. His teacher, Dubois, observed his progress in alchemy with a mixture of surprise and admiration. With daily knightly training, Carlos grew ever more robust, and the synthesis of dark energy with the spatial laws wrought subtle changes in him. He became distinct from ordinary men, exuding a charisma born of inner strength radiating outward.

These changes astonished everyone around him, including the dwarf McLean and old Grant, the stable master. They called it the "aura of the gifted."

Time flew by. As the year 203 of the Imperial Calendar drew to a close, the Black Iron Dwarves, having conquered West Cyprus, refrained from launching a reckless assault on the East Cyprus Administrative District. The Loa Avenue at the eastern border, now rebuilt, was firmly held by the Blackstone Fortress.

This news finally brought a sliver of warmth to the residents of East Cyprus as winter’s chill settled in.

Snow blanketed the entire northwest as heavily as ever. Most of Saltwell’s inhabitants were bounty hunters who had retreated from the Droni Mountains. With the mountain passes sealed by snow, those who did not leave before winter risked being trapped deep in the wilderness, their fates all but sealed.

In the backyard of the Stevenson estate, Carlos, having returned home for half a month, gazed quietly at the drifting snow. The heavy flakes had lightened to a gentle flurry; the thaw was close at hand.

Grant had just been kicked out of the stable by his horse, likely annoyed that the old man was napping on the hay and blocking its meal. Carlos called out cheerfully to the uncle, who was scrambling awkwardly in the snow, inviting him to rest on his battered deck chair, covered with a thick, soft wolfskin.

Grinning, Grant revealed his yellowed teeth, then politely excused himself and went inside to find the household staff, instructing them to prepare a warming winter broth for the young master.

Sheltered from the wind beneath the eaves, Carlos sipped the fragrant soup, its surface flecked with threads of egg. The warmth seeped into him, both body and soul. Hungry, he finished the bowl, and as his empty stomach sloshed noisily, he dabbed his mouth in satisfaction and continued to watch the sky, where the snowflakes had thinned even further.

Grant knew the young master was waiting for the snow to stop.

This damned snow had fallen all winter without pause. Even God must rest and catch His breath, but in the bleak northwest of the Empire of Light, such winters were commonplace.

Carlos watched the gray skies and drifting flakes, and suddenly asked, "Uncle, have you ever seen anyone come out alive from the Droni Mountains after the winter snows seal the passes?"

Grant’s expression was stony. "Young master, unless one is at least a Warlord—capable of burying himself in the deep snow to retain warmth—no one survives the frozen hell of the Droni Mountains."

"What about the monsters and otherfolk in the mountains? How do they survive?"

Grant hesitated, then replied, "Perhaps it’s because they do not worship the God of Light or the Almighty. Their own true gods guard them in those forests, and so they endure, even in the winter."

Carlos almost laughed. Clearly, this was nonsense, but the old groom’s words conveyed just how hopeless it was to be stranded in the Droni Mountains during winter.

He remembered a book he’d read—"A Study of Creatures in Ice and Snow"—which described how such beings survived the cold. Wild beasts hibernated or migrated before winter; monsters stockpiled food and huddled together for warmth. Hunters lost in the mountains before the snows fell would die of starvation, or, if the prey they sought was too powerful, they’d become the winter feast of the monsters.

Anderson and the three hunter brothers, Carlos thought, would likely meet such ends—if they hadn’t perished already.

Looking out at the snowy expanse, Carlos was suddenly overcome with guilt.

His squire squad was out training under Instructor McLean, despite the freezing weather. Not even a fifty-man team could escape the dwarf’s rigorous regimen. Their relentless training over the past five months had wrought dramatic changes.

Carlos had once privately expressed his gratitude to McLean, but the knight had politely declined, saying he was already well compensated and was merely fulfilling his duties. This only deepened Carlos’s respect for the dwarves’ professionalism and honesty.

As Carlos mused over the snow, a servant hurried into the backyard. "The Night Watchers have captured a few people coming out of the Droni Mountains," he reported. "Some suspect they are monsters in disguise, awakened and now taking human form. The Watchers plan to hang them or burn them, and have sent me to ask for your decision, young master."

Carlos rubbed his ears, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing. "How many were captured? What do they look like?" he demanded.

The servant, startled by Carlos’s gaze, stammered, "I do not know their faces, only that there seem to be three or four of them."

At these words, Grant paused in feeding the horses, and exclaimed in shock, "A five-star swordsman leading three men unfit to be called bounty hunters—how could they possibly survive the snowbound Droni Mountains? It’s simply impossible."