The Frost Devil
Silver wolves led by the frost devil glided into the midst of the Baitur tribe like flowing water. There was no tension between the Baitur tribesmen and the hell wolves, no natural predator-prey dynamic one might expect in an ecosystem. No food chain, no preparations for survival. On the contrary, a few tribesmen affectionately stroked the cheeks of the hell wolves.
Humans and magic beasts. A relationship that should never mix. Yet there was no resistance between them.
"Ha."
Isaac let out a hollow laugh. He couldn't pretend not to know. This was the moment his suspicions were confirmed. The final missing piece of Binvelt's unrecorded history fell into place.
There was nothing more to verify here.
"……."
The old prophet read Isaac's eyes. Why the uncalled wolves had swarmed this place. What Isaac's smirk meant. What the cunning little Goethe was plotting.
And that was a truth that must never leak to the Goetes.
"Kill that brat!"
The prophet shouted, and the hell wolves charged in response. The tribesmen instantly formed a encirclement to prevent Isaac from escaping.
Everything happened in an instant.
Time slowed. But only within Isaac's perception.
His mana circuits ignited like oil-soaked flames. The five circulation paths activated near-simultaneously, and the mana flow accelerated dramatically. His heart tingled, his mind blurring in flashes.
Isaac closed his eyes.
This method is one I'd rather not use.
The reason Isaac and Zeke von Goethe's constitutions were so unique and rare wasn't just the overwhelming mana quantity or speed. History had seen plenty born with overflowing mana, but most couldn't withstand it—their vessels shattered, leaving them unable to use mana ever again.
A shattered vessel could never be restored. That was magic's unbreakable law, akin to reason itself.
Yet Isaac and Zeke von Goethe defied it. Their vessels reformed even after breaking. That's why Isaac had suffered so much.
If a single mana rampage had shattered his vessel irreparably, leaving him mana-less... No sacrifices around him, no need to isolate himself from unpredictable explosions.
But Isaac's vessel reformed, no matter how many times it broke. Tragedy or blessing? Like the thorny path pilgrims must tread—an endless cycle.
Balance, balance, balance.
Isaac chanted the word inwardly, clinging to it even as his consciousness frayed.
When the vessel shattered, the stabilized mana circuits and paths vanished. He'd have to start from scratch. With so much ahead, he couldn't afford that inefficiency.
So he pushed himself right to the brink. The vessel would crack, mana leaking from fractures—but never fully collapse.
It demanded a precarious balance, like walking a blade's edge. One slip, and his foot—or head—could fly.
But Isaac's curiosity, his intellectual hunger, his will to protect Binvelt and Goethe had long surpassed survival instinct.
I saw it.
Witnessing Goethe's final landscape strewn with corpses, Isaac had realized. Flies lay eggs in the dead flesh, maggots hatch and devour it. Crows and vultures consume the rotting bodies, maggots and all. Crows lay eggs anew; vultures bear young.
Nature weighs no lives heavier. Death feeds another's life. No fear, no disgust. Just endless cycles.
Isaac was but one link in that chain.
So, rather than fear my world's end, I must shape where it leads.
Isaac opened his eyes. A black wolf loomed, jaws agape.
But his gaze held no tremor.
Perfectly balanced, without a fraction's error. A vessel that breaks yet doesn't.
Mana, swirling violently within, now spilled outward.
I will protect my world. The worlds I cherish.
A blue mist spread around Isaac like fog. The hell wolves instinctively faltered at the threat—but too late.
Crack!
In an instant, every drop of moisture froze. If frost hell existed, this was it.
"G-gahhh—!"
Those fully frozen never registered their deaths. But half-frozen ones couldn't believe it. Lower bodies encased, left sides immobilized, half-heads shattered. They thrashed with unfrozen limbs.
Crack!
But the blooming frost mana inexorably devoured their will to live, their terror. Warm-blooded humans and wolves turned to ice.
"Hahk... hahk... hahk……."
Isaac collapsed, unable to stand. The ground chilled him to the bone, but he lacked the strength to move.
"Young master! Young master!"
A familiar voice pierced from the forest's edge. Hans's.
Maybe just wishful hallucination.
Whoosh—whoosh—whoosh!Crack!
A flying axe shattered the ice. Shards revealed red innards—frozen solid, no blood flowed.
The prophet scowled at the axe's origin, muttering curses in tribal tongue.
"What the hell is this!?"
Bessimer charged the prophet and grabbed his collar.
"Guess the common tongue's more familiar than tribal now, eh, coward Bessimer."
The prophet gripped a honed spear, poised to impale the unconscious Isaac's throat.
"You know what you're about to do? Planning to kill us all?"
"Can't you see this hell? Your kin, comrades, brothers—slaughtered brutally."
"……."
Bessimer's eyes scanned around. The prophet spoke true. Tribesmen twisted in agony, frozen solid.
"Whew, so they didn't strike first, huh?"
Carlson, arriving late, whistled—not in surprise, but admiration.
He'd known Isaac's mana was exceptional since ousting the old faith. But this? Unprecedented.
Carlson, who'd wandered as a mercenary before Winterband service, had never seen a boy this age wield such magic.
Good thing Isaac wasn't an enemy. Carlson counted himself lucky.
His reaction was the mildest.
"……."
Hans and Gunther stood speechless amid the central forest's ice. Mouths agape, eyes wide, overwhelmed.
Spring, yet winter's bite: skin-nipping cold, thorns of ice and frost sprouting everywhere. Awe-struck.
Hans recovered first—spotting the fallen Isaac.
"Young master! Young master!"
He shoved past stumbling Gunther, rushing to Isaac.
"What have you savages done! Ack."
"He's alive, so ease up."
Carlson smacked the back of Hans's head as he glared murderously at the old man.
Meanwhile, the prophet told Bessimer:
"Don't you get it, Bessimer? He's a devil. Must die for Baitur. No more delays—he knows too much."
"……."
Bessimer picked up his fallen axe. Swung hard.
Crack! A frozen hell wolf shattered.
"What're you doing!?"
"Just doin' what needs doin'. Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
"……."
Bessimer sliced a chunk of the shattered corpse's innards and ate it. Chewing frozen flesh, his face unchanged.
Crack!
"Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
Crack!
"Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
Bessimer showed no distinction between wolf and man.
"What... what the hell is he doing?"
Hans asked, baffled by Bessimer's ritual.
"'May they find peace in Ballaka.' Somethin' like that. Unbelievable. This disaster... from that little body……."
Gunther started to answer but trailed off, staring at Isaac and the scene. Couldn't get used to it.
If he'd been caught in it... A chill like falling into winter rapids prickled everywhere. He shuddered.
"Saw Baitur soldiers at Winterband. They believe warriors must die in battle to enter Ballaka afterlife."
Carlson added.
"Then why eat the guts?"
"To harvest their souls. So when Bessimer dies as a warrior, they all go to Ballaka together. Baitur don't separate soul and body like old or new faith. They're one."
"But why do it to hell wolves too? They're not tribesmen—they're magic beasts."
"……."
"……."
Neither Gunther nor Carlson answered Hans's follow-up. They knew, but didn't want to voice the ugly truth.
"Hey, old timer. Where'd the rest go? This ain't all of 'em."
"No answers for outlanders."
Carlson asked, but the prophet snapped coldly.
"Fine, whatever. But drop that spear first, yeah?"
Carlson grabbed the prophet's spear.
"Unless you wanna die."
The prophet glared but tossed it away. He watched the collapsing ice in Bessimer's hands—rage and grief mingled.
With no chieftain, the prophet led as father and guide. Yet one devilish brat's sorcery stole over a dozen "children." Teeth grinding, he yearned to drop dead.
Goethe, Goethe. That cursed name. Devil's name.
Nothing he could do. Not thirteen years ago. Not now.
Revenge slipped away, again.
"Let me go, Bessimer."
"……Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
"If you're Baitur."
"……Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
"As Baitur's last great warrior."
"……Ra tu Ballaka Sanctum."
"Bessimer!"
Finishing half the corpses, Bessimer turned to the old man.
"Birfier."
He called the prophet's name.
"Where'd the wolf king go?"
"……."
"Fled again?"
"The wolf king can't die until a new one rises. Or all wolves fall to savagery."
"Meaning your tame pets vanish."
"If you hadn't fled your fate in fear, Baitur would've reclaimed the land long ago!"
Bloodshot eyes on the prophet.
"Nah, if you hadn't blinded by ambition and egged on your father, half the kin guts I ate would've been spared."
"That title don't suit you—you're the traitor. Because of you... grk—!"
Bessimer seized the prophet's throat, hoisting him up.
"See? Birfier. One hundred thirty-seven souls on my shoulders. I never forget. Never miscounted once. You kept 'em from Ballaka."
"You're already... one of them. In league with that devil... You're no Baitur."
The prophet's face purpled. Veins bulged as he clawed Bessimer's hand, legs kicking.
"You still live in the past. I just wanna live the present with my kin and comrades."
Bessimer slammed him down.
"Kehk, hahk, hahk—"
The prophet spat saliva, gasping.
"Get lost. This is my last mercy as kin. That alright?"
Bessimer eyed Carlson.
"If I kill this old man, you gonna fight me?"
"Least till today, he's kin. I'd fight to the death for kin."
Carlson, arms crossed, glanced between them. Isaac still out.
"Not fightin' for no gain."
Carlson nodded.
"Thanks. Go on."
Bessimer stared at the prophet.
"Next time, you're the enemy. No great warrior title or nothin'."
The prophet glared murderously, then whirled and vanished deeper into the black forest.
Bessimer gazed after him blankly, then smashed nearby ice with his axe. Still many rites left.