"There."

One of the Grand Duke of the North's guides in Winterhold, a hunter named Ceylon, dropped the handful of snow he had lifted from the ground and pointed ahead. In the howling blizzard, only he could still track their route by scent alone.

This seasoned hunter's attunement to life—and especially blood—was almost carved into his bones. Even after this long, he could still sense the traces of blood that had once seeped into this snowfield. His potential allowed the blood to resonate with his senses.

"..."

The other guide said nothing. His towering, broad-shouldered frame shielded the rest of the team from the biting wind. He trudged through the heavy drifts with the tenacity of a beast.

"Mr. Ceylon, how much farther do we have to go?" one of the soldiers called out, brushing ice from his beard and brows. "The blizzard's only been growing worse. At this rate, we'll freeze where we stand!"

The other guide, Johnson, was taciturn.The only one the soldiers could communicate with was Ceylon, who would at least respond to their questions.

"Not far," Sylan replied calmly, without turning. "Within ten kilometers. Don't worry. If the storm grows stronger, I'll have us move beneath the snow. The winds won't reah four meters down."

The pair of guides were not ordinary men; they were the adventurers who had first discovered the ruin here. Without their skill, they would never have been chosen to lead this expedition.

"Hard to say if the storm will stop growing."

Even formal knighthood didn't confer the ability to materialize fighting spirit. The soldiers could feel howling winds and flecks of ice battering at their bodies.

"If it does," Ceylon said evenly, "I suggest you turn back. No sense in dying for nothing. Just a suggestion, mind you. Johnson and I will proceed onward."

Ceylon's words were cold and matter-of-fact.

The giant named Jojnson grunted in acknowledgment. His bald head turned briefly to glance back at the soldiers before he pressed on into the storm. His meaning was clear enough: Ceylon spoke for them both.

"Understood," the soldier replied. "Either way, we'll go as far as we can. We need to know what could cause a blizzard of this scale."

After offering a curt apology for his tone, he fell silent, then trudged on behind the guides.

The blizzard continued to worsen. The temperature had dropped well past negative ten degrees and was still falling.The wind transformed the snow into a living wall, blotting out the light. There was no longer a white haze—only a dim gray gloom. The sunlight was almost entirely swallowed by the storm from above.

At this point, only Ceylon could lead them. Johnson forged ahead to shield the others from the wind; the rest of the soldiers struggled just to keep pace.

Johnson faltered. A low growl rumbled from his throat as the gale struck him full-on. Even with a body far beyond the strength of an ordinary knight, the storm was pushing him to his limits.

"Can you still go on?" Ceylon asked, clapping him on the shoulder. He knew Johnson hadn't yet reached his breaking point, but he trusted the man's beastlike intuition more than his own reason.

"Let's keep going..."

Johnson's voice was muffled and deep. Fighting spirit flared within him as his potential surged. His skin flushed from pale to crimson as his heartbeat thundered like a drum, the effect of his potential, Rampage.

Johnson's gift was as simple as it was terrifying. It was pure, unbridled rage, identical in effect to the berserk fury of orcs and barbarians. It amplified every aspect of his body while exacting a brutal toll in return: heightened strain, dulled thought, and the risk of potential collapse.

But as a potential, Rampage could be refined. It could be divided into three stages: shallow, regular, and deep. Each brought an explosive leap in power at an equally steep cost. More than ten seconds in deep rampage would mean certain death.

Johnson had entered only the first state, mild enough that his formidable body could bear it without harm.

The dulling of thought that came with it hardly mattered; Ceylon often said the man was "half-beast" to begin with.

Steam hissed from his skin, only to freeze into frost from the icy wind. His physique carried him forward as he forced a path through the snow. The only issue now was time—and how long his surging fighting spirit could last.

With Johnson rampaging at the front, their pace quickened. The few kilometers remaining passed swiftly beneath their boots.

Before Johnson's strength waned, the storm briefly thinned. There, ahead, loomed the shadow of the St. Anna Peaks. A vast pit yawned upon its summit. Within it, the ancient city entombed in ice came into view.

"Well done," the soldier in the lead said, halting the group. "From here on, these magitech devices will help us resist the storm. The mana crystals should last long enough for us to observe and collect data."

The soldiers thanked the guides, unshouldered their gear and assembled the instruments.

Runes flared to life, forming a dome of shimmering blue light. Anchored deep into the frozen ground, the devices created a stable perimeter against the blizzard's fury.

The soldiers began their investigation. "The concentration of ice mana is off the charts. The farther in we go, the weaker the blizzard becomes—but the density of the ice mana ahead makes it impossible to proceed. Hand me a heatstone."

Staring at the parameters flashing across the monitoring device, the soldier evaluated the data while gesturing for his companion to assist him.

A warm, glowing stone was placed into his hand. This mineral, native to the northern lands, had long been saturated with ice mana. Proper refinement gave it exceptional capacity to absorb fire mana, often used in garments for insulation and warmth. A single piece embedded into an article of clothing could enhance its cold resistance by an entire tier.

Gripping the stone tightly, the soldier hurled it with all his strength toward the direction of the St. Anna Peaks, beyond the magic barrier.

The glowing heatstone shot through the air like a spark—but after less than a hundred meters, its light faded rapidly. A sheen of frost spread across its surface. Within seconds it vanished, swallowed by the white storm.

"So that's how it is. The temperature over there's so low even a heatstone can't last two seconds. For us, going in would be suicide."

He spread his hands helplessly. No amount of stubbornness could change the fact that whoever went past that point would freeze into a sculpture and die on the spot.

"Well, it's not a total loss. At least we can confirm that this ruin is the epicenter of the problem. The eye of the blizzard lies right here. That's why the winds are calmer, but the concentration of ice mana is at its extreme. Put differently, this is the source of the storm's ice mana."

Though they couldn't advance, the soldiers had gathered valuable data. Even retreating now would not mean failure.

"We'll head back once we collect a few more readings for the magicians. Let the commander decide whether to bring in the heavy weapons and blast this place apart. If we destroy the eye, maybe the blizzard will finally stop."

The soldier lifted his observation device again, carefully recording the elemental mana distribution around the St. Anna Peaks before preparing for the return to Winterhold.

"..."

Ceylon said nothing in response. The plan was sound. Their mission was simply reconnaissance. In face, their approach almost seemed conservative.

Yet as he gazed at the dim outline of St. Anna Peaks, half-hidden by storm and shadow, unease churned quietly in his chest. He couldn't explain why.

He recalled the nature of the ruin and the battles he had witnessed near it. Soul fragments constantly drifted out from the place and corrupted the newborns of Selwyn, whose souls were still fragile and unformed.

Those fragments sometimes fused with infants in the rare "twinned souls" condition, with one rational self and another that was irrational, bloodthirsty, and bestial. Some even manifested physical mutations akin to lycanthropy, though of an entirely different cause.

"Argh!"

A sudden roar from the front snapped his focus back to the present. Every nerve in his body sharpened at once. His peripheral vision swept across the snowfield, gathering sensory data in an instant.

Johnson's muscles bulged and his veins pulsed like cords beneath his reddening skin. He was growing, his body literally swelling, his height increasing by several inches.

That was mid-tier rage, the second stage of his berserker state. Something had triggered it. There was imminent, real danger! 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

But what kind?

An instant later, a wave of pressure smashed into Ceylon's mind. His expression twisted. A spiritual attack!

His very spirit shuddered under the assault, but the pain subsided quickly. He was a follower of the Lady of the Night, a member of the Church of Nightfall. His faith had long tempered his will, granting him resistance far beyond ordinary men.

But what of the others, those soldiers who did not share his faith? The ruin's properties resurfaced in his thoughts. The very next moment, Ceylon drew the serrated blade from his back without any hesitation.

If his instincts were right...

The bestial bellows behind him confirmed it. One of the soldiers who'd been observing the St. Anna Peaks was now charging at him on all fours, eyes burning red, veins pulsing black beneath his skin. His gaze was empty, betraying no thought or reason, only hunger and violence.

"Damn it!"

Ceylon, folded the long-handled serrated blade into a form suitable for melee combat. Fighting spirit surged through his muscles. He swung hard, the blade biting deep into the soldier's chest, cutting through ribs and cleaving into his organs.

But the other man didn't even flinch. He crashed into Ceylon, knocking him to the ground and snapping at his throat with dull, toothless jaws.

Ceylon's gloved right hand shot forward, plunging into the wound he'd just opened.

Activating his potential, he sent an invisible force rampaging through the soldier's body, organs and blood writhing all at once.

The sound was like a detonation. A crimson bloom burst outward. Half the man's blood and viscera ripped free, exploding into a violent spray of scarlet mist.