A cold wind howled across the sky, and the mirror-like lake had frozen solid. A starving polar bear, desperate for fish, became prey itself.

  By the frozen lake, beside the gutted carcass of the bear, Hailen found his quarry.

  It was a group—an eerie, peculiar team. Among them were giants, dwarves, elves, and even reptilian humanoids.

  This defied all common sense in a world where races typically kept to their own territories.

  Elves? Dwarves? Giants? Hailen still couldn't be sure, even if their silhouettes vaguely resembled those races.

  Hiding instinctively behind a rocky outcrop, Hailen couldn't determine their species—or even whether they were alive or dead.

  And the reason for his uncertainty...

  "Since when do elves have four arms? And what's with that tumor-like second head?"

  Every one of them, whether elf or giant, bore grotesque and terrifying mutations.

  Some had extra limbs; others had swollen or emaciated body parts.

  But more unsettling than their appearance was their behavior.

  They stood in the snow—some as still as corpses, others swaying their malformed twin heads, occasionally hissing at each other. Some crouched like beasts, gnawing at scraps of meat on the ground.

  Though they bore the semblance of intelligent beings—some even clad in tattered, threadbare clothing—they acted like wild animals.

  Then, Hailen retracted his "beast" assessment.

  Even bloodthirsty, mindless creatures wouldn't be mad enough to tear open their own wounds, chew their own flesh, and then squint in pleasure at the taste!

  Twisted limbs, vaguely humanoid yet incomprehensible movements—they were like walking nightmares straight out of a horror tale.

  But for Hailen, watching from the shadows, the true horror wasn't their appearance.

  Ordinary folk might only perceive their physical deformities, but to a shaman's spiritual sight, these beings could hardly be called living creatures at all.

  "How... how is their soul spilling out of their bodies?"

  Their mutated limbs harbored grotesque spirits—spirits that didn't belong to them. A second head on an elf's body bore the soul of a troll.

  Other body parts, where a soul should reside, stood empty—only flesh remained.

  The beastly head chewing its own wound was a wolf's, yet it was attached to an elf's body, gnawing at a deer-like leg grafted onto its right arm.

  "What blasphemy... against the natural order..."

  "All things have spirits; flesh and soul are one"—this was the foundational creed of shamanism, the way of the druids.

  These abominations defied not just common sense but the very laws of nature and the cycle of life and death.

  "It's like... like a bunch of ownerless corpses stuffed with random souls, forced to move."

  Then, Hailen froze.

  A memory surfaced—those pale, pupil-less eyes.

  The lifeless gaze of a newborn at a funeral.

  And the old shaman's lament echoed in his mind:

  "Life and death are two sides of nature's coin. The ancient spirits say the River of Souls maintains balance—its flow constant, its reflections equal. If the living are born dead... can the dead truly rest?"

  Back then, everyone had dismissed the old man's words as paranoia. How could a strange illness threaten the entire world?

  Now, a chill ran down Hailen's spine.

  He thought of the bizarre pits he'd seen in the snow these past months, the rising number of "soul-loss" victims across the North.

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  Emotions surged—he stepped forward without thinking, brushing against a pine tree.

  "Damn it—"

  The fragile balance shattered. Snow cascaded from the branches.

  ??Crunch.??

  The sound echoed far in the silent wilderness.

  Hailen's face paled, but time didn't stop. When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes back.

  The twisted creatures turned—in eerie unison.

  The ones gnawing on the bear carcass lifted their heads. The twin-headed monstrosities ceased their hissing. Even the motionless "corpses" swiveled their necks.

  All eyes fixed on one point.

  Their pale, pupil-less eyes seemed unfocused, their irises shrinking unnaturally. It was hard to tell if they could even see.

  Yet their collective gaze pierced through the pine and rocks—as if Hailen's cover meant nothing.

  Hailen snapped into action. He turned and ran.

  "Milte! Help me!"

  ??BOOM!??

  A red flare shot into the sky, but its glow was feeble in daylight. Whether anyone would notice was anyone's guess.

  The chase was on. Twisted souls in mismatched bodies gave pursuit, turning the snowy expanse into a waking nightmare.

  "Flame, heed my call!"

  Hailen spun, thrust out his gloved hand, and summoned a fist-sized fireball.

  "Firebolt!"

  The shoddy imitation of a mage's spell streaked through the air and struck the nearest elf-like monstrosity.

  ??WHOOSH!??

  The sudden blaze, the writhing humanoid torch—even Hailen was stunned.

  He knew his "firebolt" was a joke—barely more than a spark conjured through enchanted gloves. Against a winter wolf or a young white dragon, it'd barely singe their fur. Even ice trolls, weak to fire, would shrug it off after a flinch.

  "These things... aren't as tough as they look?"

  Milte was nowhere in sight—whether the absent-minded frost giant had seen the flare was pure luck. Gritting his teeth, Hailen stopped running.

  He pulled a vial of yellow oil from his pouch, doused his sword, and scraped the still-glowing glove along the blade.

  "Flame, cling to my steel!"

  Fire erupted. The forged steel became a blazing brand.

  Sword raised, Hailen turned and charged.

  The deformed creatures weren't fast.

  Their mismatched limbs and uneven mutations made their movements erratic.

  Hailen's retreat had stretched their pursuit into a staggered line.

  The closest one was already charcoal. With a leap, Hailen's flaming sword cleaved through a reptilian abomination.

  Against most northern creatures, fire was a potent weapon.

  This time, the humanoid monster became a bonfire.

  "Why are they so weak? How did these things give the elves trouble—enough to seek our help?"

  But more were closing in.

  Heartened, Hailen pressed his advantage, swinging his still-burning blade.

  His combat skills, learned from tribal hunters, were meant for survival—not war.

  Yet now, fighting for his life, he felt like a battle god.

  Each flaming strike carved through unresisting flesh, dealing physical and elemental damage. He didn't need his half-baked (pseudo-giant) techniques to fell them.

  ??CRASH!??

  Then, a massive impact sent him flying into a tree.

  "Ugh—"

  Reality reminded Hailen that he was still an untested warrior.

  But what stunned him more was his attacker.

  "...A frost giant?"

  The thing that had hurled a boulder at him was a mutated giant—slower than the rest, lagging behind.

  Perhaps some hunting instinct remained. From a distance, it had lobbed a rock that nearly crushed Hailen.

  A scar ran down its right eye. Its waist-length white beard—a badge of honor for northern elders, proof of survival in this harsh land—was now tangled with grotesque flesh.

  Its face, once hearty, was a mass of tumors. The mutated right arm that had sent Hailen flying was twice the size of the left.

  "You... you died over a year ago!"

  A wooden axe hung at the giant's waist—carved from winter oak, a burial gift from its son, Shael.

  Metal weapons were heirlooms in the resource-starved North. Hailen had watched Shael place that oak axe in the grave.

  Now, the dead man stood before him.

  The milky left eye held no reason. Its gaping mouth mumbled something.

  ??Growl!??

  Then, the wolf-spirit figurine at Hailen's hip activated on its own. A translucent specter pounced on the giant.

  Hailen expected the spirit to pass through—after all, the dead couldn't interact with the living.

  But the "giant" that might've been Old Weir was knocked flat by the phantom wolf.

  Seizing the moment, Hailen grabbed his eagle-spirit totem.

  "Quila! The eyes!"

  The spectral eagle answered, wings spread, talons aimed at the giant's remaining eye.

  As the spirits harried the fallen giant, Hailen snatched up his nearly spent sword and lunged.

  This time, the dying flames did little.

  Against a true frost giant, even a deep slash was a scratch.

  ??THUD!??

  The wolf-spirit, Enda, was swatted away, dissipating into the snow.

  Staring at the familiar-yet-alien face, Hailen pulled out a vial of thick, amber liquid.

  ??Shatter.??

  The alchemical oil—traded from the elves—splashed across the giant's chest.

  A spark from his glove followed.

  ??BOOM!??

  Flames roared three meters high.

  The blinded giant flailed blindly. Ten seconds later, the fire died, leaving only charred remains.

  Victorious, Hailen sat in the snow, dazed. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy.

  Only then did Milte arrive, panting. Seeing the carnage, his surprise gave way to pride.

  Since when had his young friend become such a skilled hunter?

  Ten winters ago, Hailen had been a child playing in the village. Now, while his peers still roughhoused, he fought like a seasoned warrior.

  "Well done! You might earn your hunter's mark soon—but you'll never guess what delayed me. I saw your flare, but someone stopped me."

  Hailen turned, meeting the giant's grim expression. He didn't need to guess.

  What could stop a full-grown frost giant hunter? That dragon-wrestling strength, that battle-axe taller than a man—were they just for show?

  "One of our elders? Long dead?"

  Milte fell silent, finally noticing the smoldering giant corpse.

  "...Good work. Let's go. The chieftain needs to hear this."

  As they left, the nightmare wasn't over.

  Old Weir's body was charred beyond recognition.

  Yet, on its blackened face, the lips curled into a faint smile.

  The snow fell on the stinking remains. The giant's upraised arm seemed to mock the sky itself.

  And if one looked down from above, across the mountains, they'd see more empty graves.

  More souls with nowhere to return.