North of the coastal corridor in the Northern Lands lay a vast, untamed wilderness. Cold-resistant forests and bizarre terrain made this region a paradise for werewolves, ice bears, and other creatures—even more formidable magical beings prowled the depths of this expansive territory, such as silver dragons, white dragons, and frost giant lords.
For this reason, although the road to the Eastern Exile Lands had been carved out bit by bit over generations of adventurers who avoided the most dangerous zones, caravans and travelers who walked these paths still frequently encountered all manner of attacks, lending the Northern Lands a bloody hue of chaos and earning it the reputation of a fugitive's paradise.
In the Month of Frigid Ice, this region had long since been blanketed in white. Even trees that maintained their deep green foliage year-round were draped in immaculate veils of snow. A single glance revealed not a speck of any other color, and if one stared at the landscape for too long, the brightness alone would force one's eyes shut.
Yet along the road—where cart tracks had not yet been buried under the ceaseless snowfall—alarming splotches of crimson were spreading outward. Discarded longswords, spears, and war hammers lay strewn about, testimony to the fierce battle that had unfolded here.
Following the footprints off the main road and pressing steadily northward, one would eventually reach a primordial forest stretching to the horizon. Deep within that forest lay a concealed fissure that descended underground, its end opening into a subterranean cavern of considerable size.
Inside the cavern, torches had been driven into the stone walls at regular intervals, bathing the entire space in brilliant illumination. Yet the flames burning on those torches were a deeply unsettling pale white, as though they possessed no warmth, no soul—utterly lifeless and silent.
The pallid light cascaded down from the torches onto the rows of black-robed figures prostrating on the cavern floor, casting them in a ghastly, horrifying glow.
These black-robed worshippers pressed their foreheads flat against the ground. Judging by the contours of their bodies and the profiles of their faces, it was clear they did not all belong to the human race—some had fur growing along their jawlines, marking them as werewolves; others bore the unmistakable features of various beastkin; and still others occupied large swathes of the cavern, their massive frames unmistakable as frost giants.
They remained utterly motionless, like corpses laid out for burial. At the center of their worship stood an altar constructed entirely of bleached bones. Before the altar stood a black-robed figure whose eyes seemed to flicker with pale flames. He gazed in silence at the dense, death-laden arcane sigils carved into the bone, and at the enormous sickle resting atop the altar—the symbol of life's harvest.
"Birth marks the beginning of death, an ending from which none of us can ever escape…"
The black-robed figure threw his hands skyward, chanting incomprehensible prayers in a rising voice. Instantly, a silently burning pale flame surged upward from the altar.
"Birth marks the beginning of death…"
The black-robed worshippers, who had lain still as corpses, finally stirred. A hoarse, droning chorus rose from their throats, setting their bodies trembling in unison.
The High Priest at the forefront spoke in an eerie tone, his extreme fanaticism expressing itself as extreme cold: "Compared to the eternity that follows death, life is so brief as to be meaningless. Only darkness, cold, and death are the eternal, unchanging themes…"
"We shall all return to decay. Only by entering the realm of death's repose can our souls avoid the slow erosion of oblivion…"
The High Priest's gaze gradually grew hollow. "Today we shall offer sacrifices to our Lord, and offer our very lives, so that our souls may find anchor—and truly endure for eternity!"
"I am willing to offer my life to the Lord, in exchange for my soul's anchor…" The black-robed worshippers responded as if hypnotized, their voices flat and devoid of any inflection.
Hearing their answer, the High Priest felt a long breath of relief wash through him. He had delivered yet another batch of devout followers to his Lord, allowing the true nature of death to be manifested. And according to the *Ritual of Soul Offering* his Lord had granted him, each such ceremony drew him closer to his Lord and further detached him from the frail body and soul of a mortal, transforming him into a true emissary of death.
When that transformation was complete, he would achieve a dual ascension of life and soul—becoming an existence of power that could rival Legendary Magi and Epic Knights.
At the thought, the pale flame of death burning within his heart seemed to intensify, growing more fierce and more otherworldly, faintly searing into his mind and the space around him the ghostly outline of a death-filled world—an extreme realm of tranquility inhabited solely by undead.
"This is indeed a sign of growing closer to my Lord. I can already faintly sense that great and sacred paradise of death. The moment that sensing becomes crystal clear—that will be my chance at true transcendence!"
At that moment, the humans who had been unconscious around the altar began to wake. Some were dressed in fine clothes, others in leather armor—no different in appearance from the merchants who plied the Northern Lands' trade routes.
"Wh-what are you trying to do?" one of them stammered in panicked disbelief.
"Damn you, bandits—you'll pay for attacking us!" another shouted, still consumed by rage.
"Please, just let us go. Take all the goods and money—they're yours. Killing us won't benefit you at all." A third had sensed something deeply wrong from the bizarre surroundings and was trembling from head to toe.
The High Priest raised his head. Deep within those dark, fathomless eyes, pale flames had begun to dance in earnest. The moment those humans glimpsed the twin flames, their bodies went numb and they could no longer produce a single sound.
"Go to the center of the altar. Offer your lives to the Lord." The High Priest's voice came out flat and toneless.
The merchants' and mercenaries' faces had gone deathly white, contorted with terror, yet they were utterly incapable of resisting the High Priest's command. As though possessed, they rose to their feet and drifted toward the center of the altar, their movements no longer their own.
The first man to reach the pale flame reached out with trembling hands and picked up the black sickle. His eyes were filled with fear, dread, despair, and a touch of madness—but his hand, impossibly steady, drew the massive blade—seemingly weightless—across his own throat.
A ghastly wound opened across his neck, yet not a single drop of blood sprayed forth. His entire body withered with startling speed, his skin crumpling and contracting until, in the span of a heartbeat, he had been reduced to a desiccated husk. Something translucent seemed to drift out of his remains, swirling upward and dissolving into the pale flame.
The pale flame surged slightly higher. A deep, near-black crimson stain appeared along the sickle's cutting edge.
The High Priest felt a pleasure welling from the very depths of his being—an experience that surpassed all earthly indulgence. Even without any increase in power or reward from his Lord, this pleasure alone was enough to make him crave the next ceremony.
The deathly world faintly visible in his mind and in the space around him had grown just a little clearer.