The Far North, at the end of the world.
Here, the wind reigned as the sole king of this frozen wasteland.
As far as the eye could see stretched an endless suffocating pallor—white ice plains met the leaden sky at the horizon, merging into a single desolate line.
This was the grave of the elements. Apart from wandering frost-spirits, no life stirred here.
And yet, within this deathly stillness, a tribe of Demonkin endured, surviving thanks to an ancient dungeon buried beneath the ice.
Now, across the icy expanse, two figures trudged forward, carrying between them the immense bulk of a snow-white worm several meters long.
Both were clad in tough armor made from monster hide, their frames compact and muscular beneath.
Between the seams of their armor plates flickered dim blue light, glowing and fading with each heavy breath—the sign of frost-resisting demon marks etched into their flesh, ceaselessly active.
“Shou!” The one in back, Qiong, spoke with suppressed excitement. “How long has it been since the tribe caught a Fimbul Fatbeast this big? We’ve struck gold!”
Even Shou’s stern face cracked into a rare smile. “Judging from its size, its frost resistance must be at least level eight. Once the elders channel it into the Cradle, we’ll finally be able to welcome new kin.”“Damn it!”
“What?!” Shou tensed instantly, hand snapping to the bone spear strapped to his back.
“My horn… it poked in! Ugh, the fluids are leaking out! So sticky, disgusting!” Qiong swore.
Shou exhaled and eased his grip. In the distance, through the blowing snow, he could already glimpse the looming silhouette of their tribe’s wall of ice-boulders.
“Bear with it. We’re almost home.”
…
“That fatbeast’s enormous!” The gate guard, clambering down from his post, shoved open the heavy ice door while staring wide-eyed at the prize. “Shou, Qiong—you didn’t go down to the lower layer, did you?”
“How could we?” Shou hefted down the carcass. “We’re not strong enough to cross the mid-layer. Just dumb luck—we stumbled on it in the upper layer.”
The guard clicked his tongue, frost crusting his eyebrows. “Tch, some luck…”
“Less talking, more helping!” came Qiong’s furious shout. “Get over here! My horn’s stuck!”
The guard leaned to look. Qiong was struggling desperately, his horns buried deep in the worm’s fatty flesh.
Snickering, the guard grabbed the slippery carcass and yanked, finally freeing him. “Who told you to grow horns sharper than a mountain ram’s, and then go headbutt this thing?”
“Shut it!” Qiong spat, shaking sticky fluid from his arms with disgust.
Others soon arrived to drag off the kill. Qiong bolted for the thawing pool to scrub himself clean.
Shou, brushing frost from his face, walked alone to the entrance of the Cradle.
The Cradle was the tribe’s most sacred chamber, the only structure built of black stone.
Its heavy doors shut out the deathly cold. Within, the elder had laid a great array to sustain a pocket of warmth and dense mana—the womb of their people.
A silent guard stood before the door. Seeing Shou, he only inclined his head and stepped aside.
Inside, the air was warm and dry.
At the chamber’s heart, a complex magic circle of strange metals and glowing minerals pulsed with soft, rhythmic blue light.
At its core lay a waist-high basin, heaped with crystalline powder and fragments.
Without pause, Shou approached, unstrapped his chest armor, and revealed skin inscribed with intricate demon marks.
In the center of his chest, a deep blue crystal the size of a pendant was embedded in flesh, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Every mark connected back to it.
He took up a file and, with steady hand, scraped the thinnest layer of glittering dust from its surface, adding the precious motes to the basin.
For Demonkin were not born naturally. They had been created by the last Demon King, neither wholly flesh nor spirit, and had no gender.
Their way of propagation was this: from the essence shed by their cores—or from shards of a fallen kin’s core—they layered the fragments within a mana-rich sanctuary.
There, in silence, a new core would slowly condense and grow, until at last a new kin was born.
“Can’t I come see just once?” Qiong’s whining voice carried in from outside.
But entry into the Cradle was strictly forbidden. The guard barred him wordlessly.
“Qiong, enough.” Shou pushed open the heavy stone door and stepped back out, warmth trailing from his skin.
“I envy you—already allowed to make Offering Dust!” Qiong blurted, then lowered his voice in a rush. “And I wasn’t making trouble! The Elder sent for you. The messenger searched the whole tribe, couldn’t find you. I guessed you’d be here.”
“The Elder?” Shou’s brow furrowed.
“Yeah! Not just you, all upper-rank warriors have been summoned to the main tent. The mood’s off—no one knows why.” Qiong leaned closer, whispering.
Shou’s expression hardened. Without another word, he strode toward the chief’s tent, Qiong trotting at his heels.
Catching Shou’s glance, Qiong grinned slyly. “Don’t worry, I know the rules! I won’t go in—I’ll just wait outside.”
Plainly planning to eavesdrop, but Shou ignored him and quickened his pace.
…
“The snakefolk to the south have bent knee to the Empire! Their land’s empty—we should seize it now!” A harsh voice cracked through the tent, urgent and commanding.
“Seize it? Down south the wind flays your bones all the same! And can their resources compare to that dungeon beside us?” rasped another, pounding the stone table.
A third man surged to his feet, his shadow long in the flickering firelight. “Don’t you see what’s happening in Stonekeep Dungeon? Mana grows thinner by the day, monsters scarcer—up top you can hardly catch a slime! And the thing trapped in the mid-layer grows weaker! When this broken dungeon collapses and those things crawl out, we’ll all be feed!”
“He’s right!” a fur-clad figure chimed in. “Southward, at least the wind doesn’t flay so hard! Then prey for new kin wouldn’t need such high frost resistance!”
From the corner, Huoyan suddenly let out a sharp laugh, his eyes like knives as he swept the advocates of migration. “Say what you will, I hear the truth—you just smell the Empire’s warmth. You want to wag your tails, grovel for scraps, live as dogs!”
“Huoyan! Say that again if you dare?!”
When Shou pushed aside the heavy hide curtain, he stepped straight into this storm of shouting.
The tent was small, crowded with the tribe’s core. Firelight twisted over faces taut with anger.
Among their tribe of only a few hundred, there were but seven upper-rank warriors—himself included.
“Shou.”
The elder’s voice, deep and ancient, cut through the uproar.
Wrapped in worn furs, his eyes shone like embers in the dark. “They say you brought down a full-grown Fimbul Fatbeast. Good… the Cradle shall glow again.”
“Elder.” Shou bowed his head slightly, steady-voiced.
As he scanned the tent, his gaze snagged on an empty seat—right beside Huoyan.
“Where’s Yao?”
Yao, like him, was of the younger generation, not yet a century old, a rising upper-rank warrior and pillar of their future. His absence stood out starkly.
“Yeah—where is Yao?” another voice echoed, puzzled.
“He’s dead,” Huoyan said flatly.
“What?!” The tent erupted in shock. “An upper-rank warrior, dead? And you didn’t say it sooner?!”
Unmoved, Huoyan continued. “That’s what I came to say. His death bought us something greater.”
He swept his eyes around the circle, then spoke each word with weight:
“His partner brought back the message—at last, we’ve found it. The place where Chiss’s Brain lurks, within Stonekeep Dungeon’s mid-layer!”