The storm was a white sea of despair. The gigantic frozen bridge stretched like a sleeping titan across the abyss, invisible beneath the snow blasts that whipped with ancestral fury.
Every step Jiro and his group took was a battle against the angry wind, against the biting cold that seemed to crave tearing the very life from their bodies.
The thick coats given to them by Lord Elliott, reinforced with layers of mana, were their only barrier between survival and freezing.
Kogorō, floating beside them like a snowy spirit, shimmered with the effect of stardust snow. His spiritual body had taken on a pale tone, white like the soul of the storm itself. He was immune to the ice, intangible before the fury of that desolate world.
There was no sign of life. Only silence broken by the roar of the blizzard, like the continuous lament of frozen souls. The landscape looked like the corpse of a forgotten world.
After hours of marching, Ardan approached Jiro, his gaze shining with curiosity and calculation. The memory of their conversation in Elliott's cabin returned to him.
—Hey, Jiro —he said, raising his voice to be heard over the wind—. When you were talking to Lord Elliott... you mentioned wanting to go to the Spirit Kingdom. Why? What are you hoping to find there?
Jiro, without any drama, answered as if simply stating the time:
—I want to defeat the Spirit Lord.
Silence fell immediately, heavier than the storm. Jiro's words felt so out of place, so absurd, that Ardan frowned, unsure if he should laugh or punch him.
—Wait… what? —he stammered—. You want to defeat the Spirit Lord? You?
Jiro nodded calmly, eyes closed with a gentle smile on his lips. Kogorō, circling around, let out a mocking laugh.
—Here's some advice, Ardan... don't pay attention to this kid.
Ardan held back his anger, but his voice trembled with tension.
—This has to be a joke. Do you even know what you're saying? Do you understand what the Spirit Lord is? Don't mess with me, brat. Are you just saying that for attention?
—Ardan, enough! —intervened Saria—. You don't have to yell at him either…
But Jiro wasn't intimidated. His voice, now charged with restrained fire, cut through the snowfall like a dagger:
—Our world will be shattered in three years… and it's all the Spirit Lord's fault. He's the one opening the rifts between universes. My father disappeared because of those damn cracks… and you think I'm joking.
Jiro reached inside his coat and pulled out his pendant: a crimson crescent moon glowing faintly under the storm.
—It's my duty… to save what I love most. When I find my father, who holds the other half of this pendant, I'll tell him about my journeys, my feats… I'll show him the hero his son has become. I promised. And nothing will stop me.
Silence returned, but this time it was reverent. Ardan looked into his eyes and saw a flame: pure determination, hope that wouldn't yield even to gods. For a second, Ardan felt a slight blush—not from shame, but from unease.
—Well… alright, Jiro. I just wanted to know —he said at last, turning away to hide his emotion.
The group kept walking across the bridge, which creaked beneath their feet. Small shards of ice fell into the abyss with each step, as if they were walking over an ancient tomb. The snowstorm didn't let up, but the sight of something ahead compelled them forward.
Saria, surrounded by ice and death, looked on in horror at the frozen bodies within the frost. People, animals, broken and tragic remnants of a white hell.
—It's a shame… —murmured Jiro.
—No time for pity —growled Ardan—. They're gone. Our priority is the Hail King.
After hours of walking, they finally reached the end of the bridge. A faint joy stirred in their hearts.
—Now… into the White Forest —said Jiro.
—I don't know… I've got a bad feeling —Saria muttered, panting—. Maybe… I should've stayed with Elliott.
—Believe me, girl… you're not the only one thinking that —replied Kogorō, floating around.
That's when Ardan spotted something in the snow: a gigantic body, half-buried.
—Hey… it's a giant.
They approached. It was a decaying corpse, frozen and stiff as stone. It had long, pointed ears… like an elf's.
—An elf? —Jiro asked.
—Or at least… a related race —said Ardan.
The field around them was full of weapons, broken arrows, shattered armor. An ancient battlefield.
—This… was a war —Jiro whispered.
—Get ready —warned Ardan—. We're entering the White Forest now.
The trees were tall, jagged, completely covered in snow. White as bones. Each step grew more unsettling.
—Hey… —said Kogorō, stopping—. Isn't it strange how there are still corpses everywhere?
—Yeah… —Jiro replied—. I smell… rotting flesh.
Saria knelt to inspect the ground. Then… the impossible happened.
A pale, rotten hand, covered in frost, burst from the snow and grabbed her ankle. Saria didn't scream. She didn't move. She just stared, horrified. From the snow rose a decaying face, with blue eyes glowing like spectral torches.
—Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!
The scream tore through the air. Ardan reacted instantly, conjuring a spirit energy saber and slicing off the undead's head. He caught Saria in his arms.
But the beheaded body stood back up… and reattached its head.
—What the…?! —shouted Ardan.
—They're rising! —Kogorō warned.
Jiro raised his spear. Around him, the ground creaked. Dozens… hundreds of hands burst from the snow. Undead, ancient warriors, skeletons with cracked armor and blue eyes of frozen magic.
—Get ready —said Jiro, firm—. We're surrounded!
And the White Forest… began to tremble.
The first shadows of night barely brushed the tops of the white trees when the clash of bones and guttural screams filled the forest.
The ground trembled under the violent charge of the undead horde. It was as if winter itself had taken shape and hurled itself at them, endless and soulless.
Jiro, with a determined gaze, gripped his crimson spear firmly. Its blade hummed faintly, as if sensing the chaos. The wood creaked beneath his boots as he took the first step.
—Here they come! —he shouted, leaping forward with fierceness.
The horde fell upon them like a storm of rotting flesh. Bony claws and gaping jaws sought to tear the living flesh from the group. But they did not let themselves be caught.
Kogorō was the first to respond. With a dark flash, his scythe appeared in his hands. He moved it like a swift shadow, ripping off heads and cleaving putrid bodies in half. His movements were cold and precise, like a dancer in a macabre performance.
—Hold the formation! —roared Ardan, his spiritual saber leaving a trail of emerald light that cut down enemies and formed barriers of energy that crushed the fallen.
Saria closed her eyes, focusing. From her palms emerged pink flames, vibrant and alive like her soul. With each movement of her hands, fireballs danced toward the undead, incinerating them in a spectacle of heat and color that countered the death's frozen breath.
—For Kuma, for life! —she cried, fury in her heart.
Jiro's spear moved swiftly through the dark bodies, leaving reddish trails with every strike.
His attacks began to generate waves of energy, scarlet projectiles that struck at a distance, taking down several enemies at once. But this was only the beginning.
Hours passed as if they were minutes. Fatigue accumulated in their bodies, sweat froze on their faces, and their clothes were stained with black blood and ashes. Gasping, with heavy arms, they stood their ground.
—This... doesn't end —Jiro gasped, both hands resting on his knees.
A creak on a high branch alerted them. An undead, barely recognizable from the rot, pointed a staff at Jiro. In an instant, Kogorō pushed him with his psychic power and Saria, without hesitation, formed a pink fire arrow and launched it.
FWOOM!
The undead fell, engulfed in flames. But more attacks came. A conjurer among the undead hurled shards of ice that flew like spears toward Saria. Ardan raised a spiritual barrier in time, blocking the shards, and with a counteraction, sent them back with force, destroying the enemy... but it regenerated seconds later.
—This never ends! —Jiro shouted, frustrated
—We defeat them and they rise again! HAAAA!
Then, silence fell. An abrupt pause, as if the world held its breath. The undead stopped... and began to retreat. Their deformed bodies aligned on both sides of the path, as if... they were clearing the way.
Saria, with a trembling voice, gasped:
—What are they doing...?
—They're preparing us... —Ardan said tensely—. They're opening the way for something.
Jiro sniffed the air. A familiar, sharp, cruel stench made his skin crawl.
—That smell... frozen flesh... stronger than before...
The trembling of the ground increased. BOOM... BOOM... each step was a hammer blow to the heart of the forest. Branches creaked, trees broke. A gigantic figure emerged from the mist and snowflakes.
—Tell me it isn't real... —Kogorō whispered with a dark expression.
—No, Kogorō... this is very real —Ardan stared at the horizon—. If these undead rose... then he...
—He's the one guiding them —added Saria—. It makes sense... but that puts us in serious danger.
—We're going to have to defeat him if we want to get out alive —said Jiro, his spear already vibrating with energy. The cold was intensifying.
From among the trees, a colossal figure tore through the forest. Its body was grotesque, a mixture of frozen flesh, black ice, and exposed bones.
It carried an axe with frost runes that glowed faintly like dead stars. Its blue eyes, empty and broken, stared with a hatred that froze the soul.
Its ears were long, pointed. A braided lock of white hair hung like a lost relic. It breathed with difficulty, exhaling cold vapor that spread like toxic fog.
Jiro trembled, goosebumps under his coat.
—This... this doesn't look good...
Ardan looked around. All the undead were bowed, reverent.
—Are they offering us...? As a sacrifice?
—His presence... —Jiro whispered—. I feel... blood... his presence radiates death...
The giant raised his axe and roared. An inhuman, soul-tearing roar.
—GRUAAAAAAHG!
The pressure of his icy power surged into the sky, breaking the clouds, unleashing a snowfall even more intense.
Elsewhere...
Far from the battlefield, in a forgotten temple buried under the eternity of winter, a cross of ice rose in the center of the sanctuary. Everything was covered in frost. Dead. Cold. Silent.
And before a gigantic statue of an ice dragon, a kneeling figure prayed. His armor was covered in frost thorns, his helmet dripping pure frost. He was the Hail King.
His voice was hollow, extinguished.
—HANIMESH —he whispered—. I command you... let me remain standing... let me punish the sinners with my eternal frost... let all perish in the frozen death...
The silence in the temple was absolute. Not even the wind dared to touch the frozen ruins, as if the entire world awaited in stillness... the judgment of a soul burning with ancient hatred.
The Hail King took a step forward, his boots crunching on the ancestral ice. His eyes, filled with pain and resentment, stared at the statue of the unmoving dragon that had watched him for centuries.
With a deep voice, heavy with bitterness and storm, he declared:
—I'll make them pay eternally... for everything they've taken from me.
The echo of his vow traveled through the temple walls. Each word felt like a knife carved from frost.
—Me... the White Death... I will make them pay. Not even you will be able to stop me, Hanimesh!
As that name was spoken, a subtle tremor swept across the room. The figure of the stone dragon, imposing and dormant, seemed to respond.
Its eyes, cold and carved from ancient onyx, pulsed with a faint resonance. It wasn't light. It wasn't movement. It was something else... a sign that something, deep within that forgotten statue, still lived.
And then it happened.
Stabbed into the center of the altar, the primordial ice sword, forged in an age that no longer exists, began to emit a faint blue glow.
The runes on its blade, covered in frost and silence, awakened one by one. First, a dim shimmer. Then, a surge of brightness that enveloped the entire blade as if the sword were breathing, as if it were answering a call impossible to ignore.
The light grew.
An ancient blue, cold and pure, wrapped the weapon like an aurora trapped in metal. The snow around it began to spiral, dancing around the sword as if the wind itself remembered a long-lost ritual.
The Hail King stood still. For a moment, in his eyes appeared something more than hatred: a shadow of doubt, of fear... or perhaps of reverence.
Because he knew what that radiance meant.
Hanimesh.
It was not just a statue.
It was not just a guardian.
It was the heart of the infinite, eternal Universe.
And it was... awakening.
The ice beneath his feet cracked violently. The temple columns groaned, and the frozen sword, slowly, began to rise from the ground, lifting as if claimed once again by an invisible hand.
The King closed his eyes for a second. The wind howled.
—Then come... show me if you are still worthy to stop me —he whispered, his voice low, like a challenge to eternity.
And the snow, in response, began to fall fiercely from above. White. Silent. Infinite.
As if winter... had remembered its true name.
—HANIMESH...
To be continued...