"There's no saving him. Just bury him."

  The rain and snow fell in a soft patter, occasionally interrupted by a thunderclap that tore through the sky, breaking the night's quiet and illuminating pale faces in the darkness.

  Amid the clamor of raindrops hitting the ground, the sound of earth being dug was eerily unsettling, while the pale eyes of the crows hiding in the forest made young Haylen feel even more uneasy.

  Haylen L. Estarks, 17 years old, but today marked the third funeral he had attended this month, and the twenty-first one of the year.

  Sadness? Grief? None of that, not in the slightest.

  After all, how could one grieve for a stranger with no connection, no communication, and no name? It was hard to even know where to begin.

  "Boom!"

  Another sudden thunderclap flashed across the pale world, illuminating the face of the deceased.

  It was the face of someone far too young, with chubby cheeks and underdeveloped bones that hadn't yet matured, making it clear he shouldn't have suffered this fate so soon.

  But what made it worse were the vacant white eyes, where pupils should have been, only hollow white orbs with no focus, no aim, giving off a strange, unsettling aura.

  Lying in the grave, the deceased had died from muscle failure and malnutrition, but the true cause of death had been sealed the moment he was born.

  "Another soul-less child... another dead infant..."

  This child, from birth to death, had lived only fourteen days, less than half a month.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated the infant's face, the vacant white eyes marking the terrifying disease of this era—the Soul-less Syndrome.

  No soul, no self-awareness, born without reason and leaving without cause.

  Among the mourners, a tall woman stood with a blank expression, her face etched with grief. She wasn't without sorrow, nor without tears.

  Her inherent motherly love had poured everything into that brief half-month. All her tears had been spent in that time.

  From the moment the child was born, the entire tribe knew—no matter what was done, this child would depart swiftly.

  Was it sadness? Grief? Perhaps, a sense of relief too.

  "...Cover him up. Let my Gamir sleep peacefully. May the ancestors watch over his soul, guide him back home. May his next life be brighter, and may he avoid the cruel death that took him before he even had a chance to live..."

  The rain mixed with snow grew heavier, the sounds of digging, the rain, and the crows' calls overwhelming the mother's quiet sobs.

  As the grave was slowly filled in, the simple burial ceremony of the giants came to an end.

  Among the towering figures leaving the cemetery, the two-meter-tall "shorty" Haylen walked at the back.

  He let out a sigh of relief. This suffocating atmosphere had already worn him down.

  And the worst part? Tomorrow there was another funeral, and next week, possibly two more.

  Last year, most of the newborns in the tribe were healthy, but this year, more than a third had already passed, and those born with the Soul-less Syndrome—doomed from birth—were becoming the majority.

  "This land is dying. This can't continue..."

  Mirstle, the land of maple and plenty in the giant tongue, was once the jewel of the northern lands, but now, it was a desolate highland.

  Located at the northernmost part of the continent, this region saw winter dominate half of the year, with spring offering little warmth. The first half of the year saw rain mixed with snow, while the second half was just snow upon snow. When the snowstorms came, the snow could accumulate over a meter high in just one morning, making it impossible for normal people to go outside.

  But those who lived here were no ordinary people.

  The tall wooden shelters were simple yet sturdy, with the heads and pelts of magical beasts hanging as cheap but effective cold-weather gear.

  Beast heads adorned columns and door beams, including those of giant beasts that once fought dragons.

  The wolf-proof fences also had two wind-dried winter wolves hanging, beasts capable of spitting frost, now serving as a warning to others, their stiff meat a reminder of the nightmare that was the northern lands.

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  The answer? The massive homes at least four or five meters high, and the two-meter-long single-handed battle axes hung at the doors.

  Even the farming tools were three to four meters long, and the massive white dragon head hanging from the totem pole in the center of the tribe once had a nickname—The God of Death in the Extreme Cold.

  This was the land of the Frost Giants, the largest subrace among giants, known for their fiery tempers and prowess in battle.

  In fact, according to southern legends, the Frost Giants were a battle-hardened people who lived off blizzards and dragon blood, natural enemies of dragons, and couldn't rest until they had hunted a few dragons.

  But for Haylen, who had grown up here, they were just big-hearted folks with straightforward personalities. The legends were as far removed from reality as the difference between himself and a true dragon.

  If not, how could he, a dragon descendant, have lived in the giant village for twenty years in peace?

  "I've had enough. I can't live like this anymore."

  The young man's complaint echoed through the empty bar.

  The bad weather and the snow piling up higher than his chest were nothing to the tribe's three-and-a-half-meter-tall giants. For them, it just meant putting in a little more effort when stepping outside.

  But for Haylen, standing just over two meters tall, it was like stepping into a snowpit hell, where he could hardly see the way forward and could easily walk into a pit.

  Winter had fully arrived. The rain mixed with snow was turning into thick, continuous snowflakes. Being unable to leave the house was a minor inconvenience; the real issue was that the long winter meant no income.

  "How's business lately?"

  Behind the bar was Milt, an old friend of Haylen, and in many ways, his peer.

  With a sigh, he handed over a large bottle of milk liquor.

  In this cursed weather, a drink that warmed the body was no longer a luxury but a necessity.

  Haylen, having just come in from the cold, shook off the snow from his shoulders, took the bottle, and gulped down a mouthful, burping and slamming the table before letting out a relieved sigh.

  "'Bad' doesn't even cover it. There's no business at all. None!"

  Compared to the mighty Frost Giants who towered above, Haylen was one of the few "useless" ones in the tribe... well, an outsider.

  But he had found a way to survive.

  As a dragon descendant, he inherited the bloodline's memories and knowledge, including, but not limited to, battle techniques and magical secrets. But for Haylen, who was "born handicapped," the most useful inheritance was the leatherworking skills passed down by some unknown ancestor.

  Before Haylen opened his leather shop, the tribe's handling of valuable magical beast pelts was quite simple—just tan the hides and sew them into clothes.

  But Haylen didn't just stop there. He could preserve them against rot and insects and even, thanks to his bloodline knowledge, imbue them with simple enchantments.

  Enhancing strength, reducing stamina loss, and providing protection against elemental damage—things that were in high demand in the South but were rare here due to the lack of quality magical beasts.

  Here... the disgrace of the Five-Color Dragon and the low-intelligence beasts like the young white dragons weren't worth much.

  But what had puzzled Haylen at first was how his highly practical battlefield enchantments didn't get much recognition. The uncles and aunts only offered vague compliments, obviously trying to spare his feelings.

  It wasn't until he joined the big hunting expeditions that he realized his mistake.

  "These giants, who can tear dragons apart with their bare hands, take dragon breaths to the face, and punch dragon skulls—why would they care about battle-strengthening enchantments? As long as it looks good, that's what matters. Even chainmail with hollow links is fine."

  So, Haylen shifted his business direction.

  Despite their rough and savage appearance, the giants still cared about looking good, especially the young male giants who were of marrying age.

  Haylen began crafting heroic armor and splendid murals from his bloodline memories—epic gear for men and women, each styled in the Frost Giants' image.

  After many attempts, he found the Frost Giants' real need—"warmth."

  Even though they were known as ice monsters, they were still warm-blooded, intelligent beings, and they didn't like the cold despite their resistance to it. Clothes that could keep them warm were always in demand.

  The only issue was that materials for fire-based enchantments were hard to come by in the North. Thankfully, there was another tribe further to the North, the same people from whom Haylen's bloodline originated, and they had the materials he needed.

  As Haylen thought about it, he shook his head. He preferred the simple-hearted giants here to his distant, arrogant relatives.

  If the trading caravans came more frequently, from once a year to three or four times a year, he wouldn't have to deal with his proud relatives, who traded precious dragon-scale materials for cheap fire magic blood.

  "This winter's even colder, but my fire-enchanted leather business is doing worse. It's like no one cares about it anymore. Damn it, don't they want new clothes?"

  Milt shook his head. It wasn't just Haylen's business that was struggling. His bar was empty too.

  "You know, lately... who

  even has the energy to buy new clothes? Aunt Marsha hasn't left her house for three days. I saw her eyes swollen from crying when I brought her food."

  Haylen put down his drink, sighed in resignation.

  The Soul-less Syndrome had first appeared ten years ago. Initially, it only affected some elderly animals that inexplicably dropped dead, their empty, pupil-less eyes being the telltale sign.

  The tribe's shaman had said it was a sign of the soul leaving the body, but at first, no one paid much attention.

  The second victim was the plants in the North, vast stretches of forest withered, and the silent snow forests turned into desolate lands.

  At first, only large areas of barren land appeared, but it soon became clear that plants also had souls.

  Then, the Soul-less Syndrome began to spread.

  The already scarce fruit trees were wiped out, and entire beast packs died off, disrupting the food chain, forcing the giants to travel farther to find strong prey.

  It seemed like a disease that targeted the weak, but the entire ecosystem was connected, and when the lower layers of the food chain collapsed, even the giants and dragons at the top were nearing the edge of extinction.

  The worst part was that no one knew where this disaster had come from. Everyone wanted to stop it, but no one knew where to begin.

  Taking a few sips of his drink to warm up, Haylen stood up. If business was bad, he'd go out and make some sales.

  Aunt Marsha, with her recent misfortune, could probably use a warm enchanted leather blanket.

  But as he stepped outside, his gaze fell on a familiar figure lingering at the door.

  It was a giant's soul, one whose spirit had never been in place from the moment of birth.

  Missing an arm and a leg, the half-dismembered body was unsettling, and even the head was only half intact—perhaps the reason it hadn't fully been born.

  Newborn souls couldn't speak and could only curl into a ball, but its one remaining left eye instinctively looked at Haylen, full of sorrow.

  "Gamir? Is there something you want me to tell your mother?"