CHAPTER 271: CHAPTER 206: SNOW OATH RITUAL

Winter Frost Canyon.

This cliff gorge, located in the extreme cold of the Northern Territory, is shrouded in perpetual darkness with winds as sharp as knives.

The ice layer is so thick it seems to have frozen the entire land into a silent graveyard.

And at the deepest part of the canyon lies the refuge of this heretical remnant army—the "Cold Abyss Camp."

What they call a camp is actually just a series of narrow cave chambers chiseled into the ice and stone, with living conditions so rudimentary: cold, slippery, and fireless all year round.

Behind the coarse fabric curtains is a torn blanket and an iron pot filled with snow water.

There’s no warmth here, nor is warmth needed.

They live for "revenge."

And at this moment, in the center of Cold Abyss Camp, stands a massive ritual altar amidst the snow mist.

Like a column of bones protruding from the glacier, it is covered in patterns of black ice and wind-blown snow, with the center inset engraved with ancient glyphs, twisted and entwined, spreading out like veins.

On the altar, several human figures hang upside down.

Clad in tattered Imperial Army uniforms, their chest emblems torn off, mouths stuffed with ragged cloth, their wide eyes filled with terror and agony.

Blood drips from their fingertips, slowly gathering along the grooves of the altar.

Those lines are not mere decoration, but the path of sacrificial texts.

Blood flows along the carved totem lines, seeping into the ground, as if some awakened will is whispering.

And beneath the ice, those glyphs emit a faint, eerie blue light, as if breathing from another world.

All around, Snow Swearer warriors kneel in neat rows.

Wearing ice-white robes, draped in fragmented armor, their masks stern as if carved.

Yet in each pair of eyes burns a fervent fire—fanaticism and obsession.

A dark shadow steps forward, the Cold Abyss Priest.

Clad in a robe sewn from black snow vulture feathers, the feathers quivering in the wind, holding an ice blue staff, a cracked ancient ice crystal embedded at its tip, with some sort of writhing light within.

He opens his mouth slowly, and chants in the Ancient Snow Language, like an ancient glacier awakening:

"We, the exiled and abandoned people, perished by the torch... the Empire’s iron hoof took the grave of our God, burned the lamp of our snow shrine. Today’s blood repays that debt; ice and blood shall reopen the path home for our clan."

The chanting grows more fervent, as if the wind and snow themselves are stirred.

Ice mist begins to rise.

At first, only a few wisps of white vapor seep from the altar’s crevices.

But in the blink of an eye, it spreads like a tide throughout, the frigid mist roiling and surging, as if to engulf the entire Winter Frost Canyon.

The air grows thick and sluggish, as if even breathing is being frozen.

A deep thudding sound echoes from the depths below.

It’s not wind, nor an earthquake, but a more eerie sound, as if some creature’s flesh and bone are scraping against the rock walls as it crawls.

"...It’s moving," a Snow Swearer murmurs, the gaze beneath his mask burning even hotter.

And at that moment, those suspended Imperial nobility and knights begin to convulse violently.

Their exhausted, emaciated limbs suddenly tense, blood rushing forth, spurting from splitting veins, yet defying gravity to surge upwards, as if pulled by an unseen hand, seeping into the altar’s core.

"Ugh—aaah—!"

The gagged captives let out stifled wails, black blood seeping from their orifices, pupils dilated.

Their bodies begin to collapse, flesh and blood withering like desiccated water skins, shriveling and cracking, leaving only a thin, darkened skin and hollow bones, swaying gently in the cold wind, like dried sacrifices.

At the altar’s center, the blood eye suddenly ignites.

"Crack—crack crack crack—!"

Blue ghostly flames ignite from the top of the totem pole, burning soundlessly, yet releasing a bone-grinding, piercing low rumble.

On the ice surface, the Ancient God’s glyphs light up in succession, radiating like a complex neural network, connecting the entire Snow Swearer camp.

"It responded..."

"It responded!!"

In an instant, silence is torn apart.

Snow Swearer warriors burst into fervent cheers, their eyes beneath the masks seemingly wanting to engulf the fire.

They kneel heavily, pounding the ground with their palms, chanting in unison:

"The Ancient God responds! The Snow Country shall awaken! Blood debt repaid in blood! Snow Country immortal!!"

Standing high on the altar, the Cold Abyss Priest suddenly raises the staff high, his feathered robe swirling madly in the freezing wind, his raspy yet rousing voice declaring:

"Hear this! The Ancient God of Cold Abyss has opened its eyes! Blood awakens the Icefield’s wrath, the flames of vengeance shall rise from the extreme cold! The Empire’s day has reached dusk, the Snow Realm will return to the stars!"

As if answering his cry, the ice rock beneath the altar begins to crack, within the bottomless chasms, some great "thing" slowly stirs, twisting and writhing, releasing a deep, oppressive rumble.

It’s not wind, it’s not fire, it’s the breath of a God.

Some followers press their foreheads to the ice, tears mingling with laughter, endlessly repeating:

"The Ancient God is awake... the Ancient God is awake... the Ancient God is awake!"

The fire of heresy has ignited, the silence of the Icefield is being torn apart.

The heat of the prayers hasn’t dissipated when a shadowy figure gradually emerges from the shadows on the other side of the altar.

He stands quietly, his cloak hanging like the night, ice and snow melting silently within three feet of him, not daring to approach.

It is a "mysterious figure" clad in a black robe, wearing a half mask.

The mask is in a half-tear shape, yet it cannot hide the trace of mockery in his eyes.

He looks at the group of Snow Swearers trembling with excitement at the "sacrifice," curling his lips into a faint smile, softly chuckling: "To play the part so well, not easy."

The voice is both soft and cold, like nails scratching across ice, airy yet making one’s scalp tingle.

It was the "Desperate Witch."

He tilted his head slightly, looking at the few hanging "Imperial Nobility."

They twitched, struggled, bled from all orifices, eventually withering and rupturing, looking exceedingly "realistic"...

Yet in his eyes, they were nothing more than insignificant illusion puppets.

"The real bodies were thrown under the altar to feed the nest long ago, these stand-ins hardly have any bones."

"But to these poor fools frozen into dullness, it’s only when ’nobility’ bleeds that they believe the God awakens."

He shook his head, his gaze full of amusement and indifference, like an adult watching children dancing around a puppet.

To him, this whole sacrifice was merely a multi-threaded experiment.

On one hand, it did indeed "feed" the nest beneath the altar.

A parasitic seed source he had modified for cultivation in cold environments.

On the other hand, this "miracle" was also enough to spark a new wave of religious fanaticism among the Snow Swearers.

Making them more willing to trade their flesh and faith for so-called "Divine Grace."

But at this moment, the Desperate Witch’s mood was unpleasant, the final residual signals sent back from the brain core of a "lost nest" not long ago — weak, chaotic, fragmented.

No explanation needed.

The second nest had been destroyed.

His fingertips trembled slightly, as if caressing a net he had spent years weaving by hand.

And that net, now being sliced apart by some invisible blade.

"The first time, I could say was a coincidence, but this time..." he murmured lowly, his voice carrying a rare hint of vigilance.

"Could it be that the Empire... someone has already mastered the method of ’tracing the nest’?"

He had laid out his plans in the Northern Territory for years, deciding to use the nest and the Snow Swearers as seeds to spread chaos for that purpose.

Now, it might have been detected earlier than expected...

So, he decided to initiate his plan ahead of time, though not by much.

Although starting in deep winter would be more effective, starting a few months early to avoid mishaps was also worthwhile.

......

In the main tent, the oil lamp flickered, the light flame anxiously dancing like a troubled heart.

Hiro sat quietly in the center of the tent, facing a damaged Snow Country Army Flag, long scorched by flames, stained with blotches of blood.

His gaze was deep like a well, his mouth occasionally twitching, as if engaged in low conversations with some unseen presence.

The air suddenly tightened.

A strange cold wind silently swept through, the tent door curtain rising without a sound.

"He" had arrived.

Stepping into the lamplight was a figure cloaked in dark fabric, long silver-white hair flowing like snow, skin so pale it almost gleamed with a cold light.

A partially covering mask veiled his left half face, the only exposed right eye was a cold silver, the other half was nearly a perfect female face, its contours exquisitely carved.

The corner of the eye lifted slightly with a lazy yet dangerous smile, capable of piercing through bones, peering deep into souls.

"Still waiting for the dream to end... how pitiful." He chuckled softly, his voice slowly filling the tent.

It was a deep, soft male voice, yet so entwined it almost resembled a woman’s whisper, sending chills down one’s spine.

Hiro instinctively drew his sword, yet the next moment shivered and put it down.

He recognized this voice, recognized this figure.

It was that "Messenger of God" guiding him on the path of sacrifice.

The Desperate Witch slowly approached him, like a phantom gliding through the night.

"The Ancient God awakens faster than I expected. Your desired revenge... can also start early."

While speaking, he gently lifted a corner of Hiro’s cloak, his fingertips cold, with a chilling excitement.

Hiro was stunned.

Initially, a second of bewilderment — he widened his eyes, as if not yet comprehending the "revenge begins early" remark.

Then, his cheeks began to twitch, brows furrowing, lips slightly parted.

The whole person seemed like fire erupting from permafrost — scorching and twisted.

"...Revenge... early...?"

He murmured, voice hoarse and trembling, as if a shattered soul had spoken anew.

Suddenly, he knelt heavily, his knees slamming against the cold ground, fists pounding the earth, tears and saliva flying, expression twisted like a beast’s.

"Finally!!! Finally ahhhhh——!!

Those bastards of the Empire... will finally pay the price!!!"

He roared, madly tearing at his own cloak, gritting teeth, pounding his chest as if trying to dig out the hatred etched deep down, offering it to someone.

And in front of him, the Desperate Witch stood silently all along.

He did not speak, showed no emotion.

Silver eyes radiating indescribable indifference and pity, like seeing an old, long-fed dog now destined for slaughter.

He lifted a hand lightly, the black cloak swirling like darkness, faintly uttering a phrase: "Summon the Snow Swearer warriors... your Ancient God will awaken."

With those words, his figure dissipated like mist in the wind, leaving only the frenzied Hiro behind.