Pursuit Amidst the Snow

In the depths of winter, the northwestern icefield was at its most merciless, with savage winds, blizzards, and sudden outbreaks of ice storms rendering the land a forbidden zone for all life. Even for veterans well-seasoned by years on the ice, carrying out missions in such conditions was an ordeal; for Peidia, a new recruit stationed on the icefield for the first time, each day was a relentless assault of cold that seemed to freeze the soul itself. Despite thick thermal gear and copious supplies of anti-freeze agents, his body temperature hovered below normal, maintained only by a constant channeling of battle energy to keep his limbs nimble.

Mounted atop a third-tier snow wolf, Peidia patrolled with his squad, his gaze lost in the endless white that blurred all sense of direction. Suddenly, a sharp order from the captain snapped him to attention. Instinctively, he seized the throwing spear by his wolf’s flank and assumed a battle stance. Mere seconds after he’d readied himself, the captain’s command rang out. Without hesitation, Peidia hurled his spear as ordered, his action mirrored by the other nine squadmates. In an instant, ten spears spun through the air, converging upon a single target—

A rapid burst of thuds struck the snow, and a flash of black streaked past their eyes, veering away and vanishing into the distance. Were it not for the stark contrast between black and white, no one could have glimpsed that swift shadow.

Though the black figure had fled, the patrol squad remained tense, gripping their weapons and surveying every direction, senses straining for any sign of danger.

After about a minute, a humanoid shape appeared ahead. As everyone held their highest alert, the captain abruptly sheathed his sword across his chest and, with utmost respect, bellowed, "Salute!"

Instinctively, the squad saluted; Peidia brought his sword to his chest but remained poised to strike at a moment’s notice. As the figures ahead came into focus, his vigilance eased slightly—

There were two approaching. On foot, the elder was someone Peidia recognized: Baman, the Wolf Knight of the Snowfields, a legendary warrior of the northwest. The younger was a stranger, dressed in azure robes with a gentle smile that seemed unfazed by the raging storm, as if he were strolling down a sunlit avenue rather than trudging through a blizzard.

Baman’s every step was steady and powerful, employing some unknown technique that covered three or four times the ground of a normal stride with each measured footfall. In contrast, the robed man walked as though light as a feather, swaying with the wind, so ethereal that one might fear the next gust would carry him away.

The two quickly reached the patrol. Baman regarded the squad captain for several seconds before remarking, "A fine reaction."

The captain flushed with pride at the praise, and the entire squad straightened, sharing in the honor.

Baman’s gaze swept over them, and when it landed on Peidia, he gave a subtle nod—a sign of approval.

Because of this slight gesture, the man in azure turned his gaze to Peidia, sizing him up. Though the stranger’s smile was warm, Peidia felt as if his very being was laid bare, a chill creeping through him despite the cold.

When Baman had finished inspecting the patrol, he turned to the man in azure and said, "This is the last patrol line. Beyond here is outside my jurisdiction."

The robed man chuckled, "Very well. I’ll go on alone. Ah, working by myself—how dreadfully dull…"

Before the words had faded, the man in azure blurred and vanished into the storm—heading deeper into the icefield, toward the region universally deemed a death zone.

As the squad lingered in astonished silence, Peidia heard a voice at his ear—Baman’s voice!

He jerked his head up and looked around, but Baman too had disappeared. The rest of the squad remained lost in shock, so Peidia lowered his gaze and quieted his thoughts...

...

Amid the blinding white, a black dot stood out starkly—a figure, neither fully human nor beast, its form twisted and strange. The storm raged, snow swirling so thick it blotted out the sky, yet the black figure pressed on, stumbling yet swift. Now and then, black liquid dripped from its body, hissing as it struck the snow and eating deep holes into the ground, though soon the relentless snowfall would bury all traces.

The black figure scrambled on all fours in desperate flight, his speed astonishing, but still not enough to outrun his pursuer.

A bolt of radiant white light slashed down from above. Amid the wind and snow, the whip of light was glaringly bright, its oppressive force so intense that even the howling storm seemed to falter as it drew near.

The whip lashed at the black figure, who twisted violently, trying to evade. Whether from exhaustion or a miscalculation, he failed to fully escape, and the white-hot strike slammed into his right side. Instantly, black smoke erupted, staining the snow for five or six meters around with a sooty darkness.

With a guttural roar, the figure lifted what passed for a head and howled at the sky. Its face, already warped between man and beast, now twisted further in agony, resembling a monster more than a man.

Driven wild by pain, the black figure abandoned his flight and whirled to attack, black saliva dripping from his maw. As his long claws lashed out, a pale green form was flung back through the swirling snow. The green figure floated two meters through the air before blurring and vanishing into the storm. The black figure, fixated on his target, leapt after him—only to be met by a new flash of white light, forcing him to flee again.

Not far off, the green-clad figure landed lightly on the snow, smiled and called out, "Hey, I told you it was pointless to run. All this effort for nothing—aren’t you just asking for more misery?"

The black figure’s upper half was buried in the snow, emitting a low, guttural growl. His bulging, blood-red eyes were wholly inhuman, and as he howled, black smoke burst forth, sending snow flying and intertwining flakes and drifts into an impenetrable veil. Under cover of this chaos, the black figure lunged forward.

"Tsk, tsk. Incorrigible," the gentle voice echoed through the storm, each word seeming to come from a different direction, impossible to pinpoint. As the last syllable faded, two whips of brilliant white light crossed suddenly and struck the black figure’s back, slamming him deep into the snow.

The green-robed man flickered into view beside the crater and, with swift, fluid motions, unleashed a barrage of shimmering blades from his hands, each strike unrelenting. Black smoke billowed, and only then did the man float up, cross-legged in the air, watching as the black seeped outward, corroding a full ten-meter circle of snow clean away.

The black smoke spread fast and receded faster. In moments, nothing remained but a massive crater, seven or eight meters deep and over ten meters wide.

Hovering above the scene, the man in green robes clicked his tongue and murmured, "That’s the third ‘Night Demon’… Tsk, I’ve suffered quite a loss this time. No wonder they say you never come out ahead against Mu… Next time, I’m putting him on the blacklist..."

***

After his shift, Peidia gulped down hot broth until warmth seeped back into his body. Only then did he leave the kitchen tent and make his way to Baman’s quarters, pondering the reason for the summons. Since arriving at Stormwind City, aside from the initial formal greeting, he’d barely had any private contact with Baman. Even after being assigned to Baman’s icefield perimeter patrol, there’d been no opportunity for a one-on-one conversation.

Baman’s tent was nearly half the size of a regular soldier’s, and upon entering, Peidia was struck by the biting cold—it lacked even the basic stove present in every other barrack tent. The furnishings were scarce: a single large desk, a camp bed, and nothing more.

“Peidia, come here,” Baman called without looking up from his desk. Peidia gathered himself and strode over, glancing at Baman’s object of attention—

A map of the northwestern icefield’s mineral veins.

The peculiar geography of the region held many rare minerals, but the harsh environment made large-scale mining impossible. Nevertheless, many adventurers obsessed with prospecting continued to explore, and over time, a comprehensive mineral map had been compiled.

Yet the one in Baman’s hands was far more detailed and complete than any common version—clearly a classified military document.

Peidia’s surprise lasted only a moment before his attention was drawn to several black dots marked on the map.

"What do these dots represent?" he asked.

"Zones of recent ‘Rage Syndrome’ outbreaks," Baman replied.

Peidia narrowed his eyes, swiftly analyzing. "Five out of seven are near mineral veins. Two are by water sources. Is this deliberate? What’s their aim?"

"If we knew their aim, who’d bother with these damned reports?" Baman snorted. "Your father’s the shrewdest man in intelligence. Since you’re his son, even if you’re not as skilled, you should manage half as well. From today, these files are your responsibility—sort through them, and only bring me what’s useful."

Peidia followed Baman’s pointing finger to a small stack of dossiers in the desk’s corner, each stamped with a bright red "Classified" seal...

(To be continued)