"The mutations didn't happen long ago. Judging by the traces left behind, it's been at most two months."

  Outside, snow had begun to fall again, but the fire inside the great wooden hall burned fiercely.

  Though the North was barren, one thing it never lacked was towering ancient trees—trees that would be prized as fine furniture in the South were nothing more than cheap firewood here.

  This was the village's only tavern, and also its meeting hall.

  Night had fallen, and the giants gathered around the fire, discussing the eerie encounters of the day.

  Hailen's experience was no exception. The other search parties had run into similar troubles. But given the frost giants' physical prowess, these corpse-like creatures had posed little threat to their search.

  At first, everyone had felt like they'd hit the jackpot—yet not a single one of them had found the elves' missing cargo.

  In the end, it seemed they'd all been chasing shadows.

  "Damn necromancers, daring to defile our ancestors' graves..."

  Undead weren't unheard of in this world. Necromancers, obsessed with dark forces, created ghouls, skeletons, and zombies, using them as servants.

  Seeing those grotesque creatures—especially the "old acquaintances" among them—the frost giants naturally assumed they were undead.

  A giant's unnaturally strong body made for excellent "undead material," but given their combat prowess, few necromancers dared to target giant tribes.

  Now, the giants in the meeting hall were heatedly discussing whether any outsiders in nearby villages might be hiding a rogue necromancer, whether dark eyes lurked in the shadows.

  "...No. These aren't man-made undead. This is no work of mortal hands."

  The one refuting this theory was the tribe's old shaman, Torbatu.

  With a beard and eyebrows so long they tangled together, the frail elder—who needed help just to stand—was also the former chieftain's grandfather and the current chief's great-grandfather.

  Moreover, he was the tribe's sole spiritual leader, presiding over all funerals, weddings, and coming-of-age ceremonies.

  As the tribe's only spellcaster, even in his weakened state, he'd been carried out to offer his insight.

  "Not undead? Then some mage's twisted creations..."

  Sitting at the edge of the crowd, feeling the giants' anger and unease, Hailen simply stared into the fire, lost in thought.

  In this era, dwarves, elves, dragons, and giants were considered the world's four dominant races.

  Dwarves and giants were seen as inheritors of unique "natural paths" and "smithing traditions," while elves and dragons accounted for over ninety percent of teachable magical knowledge.

  Even the hated necromancy, it was said, had originated as an esoteric art among a branch of elves.

  Dragons, notoriously insular, relied on their innate draconic magic to remain at the world's pinnacle—not to mention their unmatched physical might and flight. They had every reason to look down on other races and no need to evolve.

  No one openly contradicted the old shaman, but their expressions made their disagreement clear.

  Especially when, after declaring these creatures "not undead," he launched into his usual ramblings—about "the earth's lament," "the world's weeping," and "the approaching end times."

  A dire prophecy was terrifying the first time, but after thirty years of hearing the same warnings, the younger generation had long since dismissed him as senile.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They'd invited the old shaman more out of respect for his status as the tribe's sole spellcaster.

  Now, they leaned toward blaming another rogue mage and eagerly debated where to hunt down the necromancer desecrating their dead.

  Hailen, sitting at the back, might have been the only one in the tribe who agreed with Torbatu.

  To most frost giant hunters, these creatures—driven by fragmented instincts—were easy prey, mere puppets of dark magic, unnatural abominations.

  At the apex of the North's food chain, they feared no living foe—why fear the dead? What enraged them was seeing their ancestors' remains among the monsters.

  But through Hailen's spiritual sight, these creatures seemed more like soulless husks, vessels hijacked by foreign spirits. He couldn't help but connect them to the soul-loss plague...

  "...This scale and scope feel less like a mage's doing and more like a widespread calamity."

  "Every spellcaster's mana is limited. Mobilizing so many corpses without refining them would be a waste."

  Hailen focused on the impracticality of such an endeavor for a mana-bound mage.

  "A disease like soul-loss... but Old Weir died of natural causes. Just a warrior's death, though a shame for such a veteran..."

  Hailen had been there when the battle-scarred elder fell. The final examination showed he'd succumbed to age and old wounds—nothing to do with soul-loss.

  Around the fire sat the strongest of the younger generation, the pillars of each household.

  Hailen sat on the outskirts—not just because, by giant standards, he was still a child, but to avoid being accidentally trampled. Normally, this wouldn't happen, but tonight was different.

  Seeing them reach for the ale barrels mid-discussion, Hailen knew the meeting had been pointless... Sitting still for over half an hour had already set a new record.

  "Hailen?"

  Milte's sudden approach interrupted his thoughts.

  "What?"

  Milte was grinning ear to ear, clearly with good news.

  "Grandfather says we need to inform the elves. He wants you and me to head to their territory tomorrow—and bring back some cargo if we can."

  Hailen glanced over and saw Chief Angulon watching him, eyes full of hope and unease.

  With a nod, Hailen accepted.

  Before he'd joined the tribe, frost giants dealing with the Northern elves had been swindled more than once.

  With him along, at least they wouldn't be cheated out of precious pelts for cheap booze.

  And his efforts weren't unpaid—he could stock up on supplies from the elves, padding his savings.

  His flame-enchanted steel sword needed repairs and materials, and his consumable oils needed replenishing. Years of independent living had made him a habitual hoarder.

  Scanning the room, Hailen saw some giants still talking while others quietly fetched ale and jerky—signaling the meeting's end.

  As expected, even after hours of debate, the impromptu gathering had reached no conclusion.

  Conversation naturally turned to drinking, becoming yet another giant ale fest.

  For personal reasons, this was Hailen's least favorite routine.

  So he quickly agreed on a departure time with the eager Milte—early tomorrow, to the elves' territory—then made his exit.

  The giants' enthusiasm for their kin sometimes overwhelmed him... If caught in a drinking bout, he might not wake until sunset the next day.

  After all, their "cups" were repurposed dwarf ale barrels, filled with the elves' cheap, low-proof liquor.

  A single scoop was half a barrel—no issue for giants, but dicey for a half-elf.

  As Hailen left, he didn't notice the pair of eyes watching him from the window.

  Hailen's small hut stood at the village's southern edge, dwarfed by the surrounding "fortresses."

  Returning home, he began preparing for tomorrow's journey.

  Unlike past hunts or gathering trips, today had been a true life-or-death battle. The memory of those familiar-yet-altered faces left him uneasy.

  "Perhaps this is only the beginning."

  Unease demanded action. With an early start tomorrow, preparations came first.

  Hailen unpacked his gear, inspecting each piece—the odds and ends he'd collected over the years, his lifelines in dire straits.

  Four small totems, two now lifeless. The wolf spirit, severely damaged, bore visible cracks.

  A forged steel longsword and a dragon-scale-engraved dagger. The former, bought at great cost from the elves, was his primary hunting weapon.

  Now, thanks to his crude "flame enchantment," its blade was marred with stains and scorch marks, needing serious maintenance.

  Eyeing the cracks, Hailen wondered if replacing it outright might be cheaper.

  The latter, his skinning knife as a tanner, was made of mithril—a magical metal. As an enchantment medium, its value rivaled his entire net worth.

  Naturally enchanted metals like mithril and adamantine were light, durable, and easy to work with. Weapons forged from them were in a league beyond ordinary steel or iron.

  The desolate Northern wastes weren't poor—veins of precious ore lay beneath the snow-shrouded mountains. But unlike the Southern hills, the North lacked dwarf settlements. The master diggers and smiths seemed to dislike the cold.

  Thus, deposits of mithril and other rare metals fell under elven control, their advanced magical industry making such treasures unaffordable for others.

  Hailen's dragon-headed mithril dagger was a childhood keepsake, a testament to his other bloodline.

  That lineage granted him faint magical aptitude, enabling his crude enchantments.

  One by one, he checked and adjusted his gear. Today's brush with death made additional safeguards feel necessary.

  As time passed and he set down the last item, a sudden knock at the door startled him.

  This long day wasn't over yet.