Chapter 24

Their eyes met. The moment Gart’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, a fierce pressure surged forward. It was a murderous aura so intense that even hardened warriors instinctively stepped back. Mariax trembled, unable to breathe properly. As he stared coldly at her, he suddenly turned on his heel. Without looking back once, he walked through the castle gate and disappeared.

Just as Mariax was about to collapse from her legs giving out, Oze swiftly appeared and supported her from behind.

“Goodness, are you alright?” Oze offered a comforting word with some effort. “Anir is always a little more sensitive than usual right after a battle…”

A short gasp escaped from Mariax’s lips. She had truly thought she would die this time. She felt a fear even deeper than that night when she had stabbed a man with a dagger. All it took was eye contact—and Gart had shown more hostility than he had when his own heart had been pierced.

A ragged breath escaped Mariax, melting into the cold air. She curled in on herself, trembling, then slowly raised her head as a chill wind cooled the sweat that had formed on her forehead. The glowing dust from earlier had vanished completely, and only the pitch-black night remained reflected in her eyes.

***

The underground prison for criminals was far colder than the outside. The eldest of the Faldoa sisters, Ryaia, shivered. As a hero, a being who had surpassed human limits, she normally wasn’t affected by her surroundings. Even with only a light tunic and robe, she had never once caught a cold. So why did it feel so cold now? As Ryaia puzzled over this, realization struck.

Ah, that’s it. 

This wasn’t a physical cold—it was the atmosphere. A dim, cramped space lit only by a few candles. Strange tools hanging on the walls for unknown purposes. A chilling air, saturated with the repulsive stench of blood. Everything about it was perfect. A flawless embodiment of an underground torture chamber.

And then there was Gart, sitting in a chair with one leg crossed, making the room feel even colder. Even if you placed him in a blooming flower field, he’d still look menacing. Putting him in this kind of place only heightened the destructive effect of the man and his surroundings.

The prisoner, bound with special shackles and cuffs, chattered his teeth uncontrollably. No one had told him what this place was or what was about to happen—but he clearly understood on his own. Even a human empowered by divine energy couldn’t resist the chill now creeping into his bones.

Just looking into those eyes…

The prisoner was facing Gart head-on. Being dropped in the heart of Heimdrix might have been more merciful.

Ryaia imagined staring into Gart’s eyes for too long and shuddered. Better not to commit any crimes—at least not in Olkiedpan. No one would want to sit silently for thirty minutes, locked in a staring contest with the master of this land.

And today, Gart’s mood seemed especially foul. His face looked the same as usual, but the energy radiating from him was different.

Beneath his emotions, there were always sharp and dangerous things. Because he was a hero, people often brushed off Gart’s unusual temperament as something befitting someone “special.” But those who knew him well had long since dropped that illusion. In truth, Anir’s personality was, frankly, kind of beastly.

Ryaia had seen Gart in a slightly better mood only three times. It happened maybe once a decade, and only for very special reasons. So while today’s dangerous vibe wasn’t anything new, it did feel different. In all the years she’d known him, she had never seen his mood so heavy, his aura so sharp. Who knows what had happened during that solo subjugation mission?

Gart pulled a pipe from his coat and brought it to his lips. A spark lit its tip, glowing red. A familiar, bitter scent began to fill the air—his usual drug, a strong herb that dulled the mind.

He licked the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The deep-seated smoke sparked his nerves. The moment the acrid bitterness hit the tip of his tongue, the sharp pain began to dull—almost by reflex. He’d been chained to it for years. His body remembered the faint peace that followed that filthy, bitter taste.

Gart inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill every inch of him. The gray haze crept into his mind, which felt as though it was full of sharp thorns. Soon, the drug’s effects followed: it melted his nerves, dulled his thoughts, forced his body into a relaxed state.

By measure, it reduced his pain by about thirty percent—but always brought a lingering sense of discomfort. Still, this was no time to complain about side effects. He was a wreck after being apart from Mariax for days.

As he thought of Mariax, he smiled coldly. Ryaia and Three Thousandth quietly stepped back a few paces from him. They’d never had good experiences being near him when he wore that kind of expression. The only reason they weren’t bolting out of the room was that, luckily, a perfect target for his fury was already here.

“P-please… I’ll tell you everything. Just spare me…”

The unfortunate man had spoken at just the wrong time, poking Gart’s nerves. Staying quiet would’ve done him better. If you’re going to be stupid, at least have some awareness, thought Three Thousandth, sighing inwardly.

Gart exhaled a thick plume of smoke and slowly stood. He had been massive even while seated—now he looked like a mountain. The kneeling traitor trembled violently.

“Well then… shall we start with a little greeting?”

Gart reached through the iron bars. His large hand easily wrapped around the prisoner’s face.

“Hello.”

Crimson flames slithered between his fingers. The scent of burning flesh filled the room.

“Aaaaaargh!”

Screams echoed through the underground chamber.

The man didn’t last long. As she frowned at the smell of charred meat, Ryaia spoke irritably. “Pathetic.”

“Well, he lasted longer than I expected,” Three Thousandth replied flatly. “He even regenerated once.” The unsaid “for what it’s worth” lingered in the air.

“At least eating a god paid off.”

“Which only meant more time to suffer. I guess that’s a reward these days.”

At Ryaia’s uneasy comment, Gart let out a dry laugh. “What, wasn’t that the whole point? To get a little stronger, live a little longer, suffer a little more.”

To crawl willingly into the fire—how laughable.

The word “reverser” referred to all those who sought to reverse time. They coveted fragments of divine power—said to have once been a single being. To reclaim those scattered shards, they consumed the powers of others. They hoped to return to the powerful entities they once were. But their goal of becoming a “perfect being”—a god—wasn’t born from conviction. 

They wanted power, eternal life, fame across the continent. To be a hero, like Gart. To make a name, earn wealth, own land, fall in love with the most beautiful woman on the continent. Call it petty or grand—it all came down to that.

“What shall we do with him?”

“Let’s give him the eternal life he wanted.”

Olkiedpan wasn’t just the Foxhole Fortress—it referred to all frozen lands near the divine realm. This vast, harsh region held many things: dozens of villages, hundreds of fortresses, thousands of people, and tens of thousands of corpses.

This cold land had once belonged to the gods. Long ago, humans and other races lived here—until a god descended from Heimdrix and blanketed the area now known as Olkiedpan in eternal winter. That was the “Great Catastrophe,” 135 years ago.

After the event, all living things—plants, animals, humans—were frozen in the unrelenting cold. The only beings to inherit the now-silent white land were monsters and gods that could withstand the chill. Like Heimdrix across the river, Olkiedpan became a place no human dared set foot in—at least, until Gart conquered it.

Over ten years had passed since. People sent by the Allied Forces, along with others driven by hope or desire, had begun to rebuild broken kingdoms and towns into new fortresses. But they couldn’t erase the marks left by the Great Catastrophe. The countless frozen corpses still discovered proved that.

The body just created would be one of them. As Gart had said—they’d “gift him eternal life.” His corpse would be tossed into that wasteland of the damned. If lucky, it would be devoured by monsters. If not, it would stay there—frozen for a hundred years, a thousand.

Gart flicked the ashes of his pipe onto the corpse and stood.

“To Thul’mor.”

With that, the one who had given the prisoner his final warmth walked away.

***

The tavern “Prosperous Moss,” known for having the best food in the fortress, was packed as usual. It was so crowded that people were stacking oak barrels and crates from the storage room to use as makeshift chairs. The reason was the influx of warriors under the famous hero Gart, a prominent figure at Foxhole Fortress. Freelance mercenaries and criminals who had taken seats earlier had no choice but to give up their spots, unable to withstand the overwhelming presence.