Chapter 54: Frozen Edicts and the Timeless Enigma
Bennett's teeth chattered louder than the sled runners. Every coin in his purse now funded this frigid nightmare—the fur-lined boots, the wolf-pelt coat, even the bone dagger at his waist. My own gold buys my imprisonment.
The old mage, draped in his infuriatingly pristine robes, radiated warmth like a hearthstone. Bennett huddled closer, cursing under his breath.
The Frostbitten Gate
The sled halted before a ramshackle checkpoint. Soldiers in frost-caked uniforms eyed them, thumbs hooked on axes. A barrel-chested captain strode forward, beard crusted with ice crystals. Bennett braced for fireworks—a spell to freeze the men solid, perhaps, or a whirlwind scattering them like chaff.
Instead, the mage produced a crumbling scroll.
"By authority of the Mage Guild and Crown," he declared, unfurling parchment so ancient the wax seals glimmered with residual magic.
The captain's eyes bulged. Twin sigils materialized mid-air: the phoenix crest of long-dead Emperor Augustus V and the obsidian tower of Guildmaster Zulidya, deceased four decades prior.
"This… expires today?" The captain's voice cracked.
"A century's validity seems sufficient." The mage's smile held glaciers.
Soldiers scrambled to clear the path. As the sled glided through, Bennett glimpsed their salutes—not duty-bound, but awestruck.
Whispers in the White
Northward they raced, wind scouring Bennett's cheeks raw. Ice crusted his lashes; each breath stabbed his lungs.
"Why bother with permits?" Bennett shouted over the gale. "You could've turned them to icicles!"
The mage adjusted his hood, unfazed. "Rules bind weaker men. For me? Merely… suggestions."
Bennett's retort froze as the landscape shifted. Endless pines gave way to jagged spires of blue ice—the true Icefang Wilds. Here, the cold had teeth.
The Relic of Ages
At campfire's edge, Bennett finally snapped. "That scroll's older than my grandfather! How ancient are you?"
The flames danced in the mage's milky eyes. "Child, I watched cities rise from swamps your history books call 'myth.'" His finger traced a rune in the snow—a serpent swallowing its tail. "Time is a river. I merely… wade where others drown."
Bennett's breath fogged the air. "And Chris? Does your 'river' include demons?"
The mage stilled. For a heartbeat, Bennett saw something raw beneath the ice—regret? Fear?
"Sleep," the mage murmured. "Tomorrow, we breach the Veil."
Chapter 55: Dragon's Ward and the Howling Peril
The sled glided deeper into the skeletal embrace of the Icefang Wilds. Moonlight carved jagged shadows through thinning pines, their branches groaning under snow-laden burdens. Bennett marveled despite himself—the old mage's command over the sled dogs bordered on eerie symbiosis. No whips. No shouts. A flicked wrist sent the pack veering left; a hummed note halted them mid-stride.
"You've enslaved them like me, haven't you?" Bennett grumbled, huddled under three layers of frost-stiffened furs.
The mage's chuckle fogged the air. "These hounds obey by choice. Unlike certain insolent pups."
As trees tightened their ranks, the sled juddered to a halt. The mage nudged Bennett with a boot. "Up. Stagnant blood freezes faster than flowing."
"We're camping here?" Bennett gestured at the desolate clearing. "Could've stayed in town if you weren't hellbent on—"
"—on savoring solitude?" The mage's smile sharpened. "Tent. Now. Or shall we revisit the slapping exercise?"
Bennett's cheek twitched at the memory.
Circle of Bones
While Bennett wrestled frostbitten fingers through tent ropes, the mage worked. From his threadbare robes emerged a vial of viridian powder. With ritualistic care, he traced a perimeter around their camp. Where grains fell, snow hissed into steam, emitting an eerie jade glow.
The sled dogs whimpered, fur bristling. Bennett froze. "What is that?"
"Precaution." The mage crouched to soothe the trembling hounds. "This forest teems with creatures hungrier than your bellyaching."
"You? Afraid of wolves?" Bennett scoffed.
"Not wolves." The mage's gaze pierced the gathering dark. "But when carrion draws vultures, even eagles tire of swatting flies."
As flames crackled to life, Bennett performed the torturous stretches—joints popping, muscles screaming—until warmth prickled his limbs. The mage observed approvingly before unfurling a wind-barrier scroll.
"Sleep," he ordered. "And cease gawking at the wards."
Bennett glared at the luminous ring. "Those green specks. They're… dragon dung, aren't they?"
The mage's smirk confirmed it.
Midnight Vigil
Cold clawed Bennett awake hours later. The heating crystal hung lifeless overhead; frost crept up the tent walls. Cursing, he stumbled outside to repeat the calisthenics—now fluid through sheer repetition.
"Had you learned this as a child," the mage's voice drifted from the tent, "you might've inherited more than your family's cowardice."
Bennett ignored the jab. Moonlight bathed the clearing in spectral silver, distant howls threading the wind. Relieving himself against a pine, he marveled at the absurdity: pissing within a dragon's territorial mockery.
The first arrow shattered the illusion.
Thwip.
A man's scream rent the night, followed by bestial roars. Bennett crouched as crimson flames bloomed northeast. Footfalls pounded closer—four figures staggered into view, armor rent, faces bloodied.
"Help!" A bowman stumbled, arrow nocked but trembling. "It's coming! Gods save us, it—"
The sled dogs erupted in frenzy, fangs bared at the intruders. Behind them, something colossal snapped trees like twigs.
Bennett's hand found his dagger. The mage emerged, eyes alight with predatory glee.
"Well," he purred, "seems our wards attracted more than flies."
Chapter 56 (Part I): Scourge of Stitched Flesh
The first fugitive barreled into Bennett, reeking of sweat and terror. Behind him, two others stumbled into the dragon-dung circle—only to recoil as the sled dogs lunged, fangs bared.
"Call them off!" screamed the archer, his leg dragging a trail of blood across the snow.
Bennett snapped a command. The hounds froze mid-snarl, though their hackles remained raised.
"Run… while you can," gasped the archer, slumped against a pine. Moonlight revealed his shredded armor, the flesh beneath puckered with blackened veins. "That thing… it stitches what it kills into itself—"
A guttural roar split the night.
The Amalgam
It emerged like a nightmare given form. Three mismatched legs—stag, wolf, something equine—propelled a torso fused from human and bear carcasses. The human half wore a tattered yellow tunic, its skull sheared diagonally above the jaw. Brain matter glistened in the moonlight, one eyeball dangling by a nerve. The bear-head snarled, jaws clacking in dissonant rhythm with its human counterpart's death rattle.
Bennett retched. The stench hit him first—putrid rot laced with burnt sugar, the telltale reek of necrotic magic.
"Our captain," the archer spat, nocking an arrow. "Bastard grafted him like a puppet."
Three shots rang out. The arrows struck true: one through the bear's eye, two severing tendons in its wolf-leg. The creature staggered, then laughed—a wet, gurgling sound from its human throat.
Carrion Alchemy
Black blood oozed where arrows protruded, smoking as it hit snow. The archer cursed. "Poisoned. Even its blood corrupts."
The swordsman charged next, stubby blade glowing silver. His wind-slash carved into the beast's flank, exposing ribs that gleamed unnaturally blue. But as he leapt for the killshot, the monster's spine erupted—a barbed tendril spearing his shoulder.
"Gods, no!" The archer's cry choked as the swordsman dangled, hooked like butchered game.
Bennett's dagger trembled in his grip. Across camp, the old mage watched impassively, green wards pulsing at his feet.
Threads of Desperation
"Why won't it cross the line?" Bennett hissed.
"Dragon stench confuses its instincts." The mage flicked a speck of dung from his sleeve. "But hunger overrides fear. Observe."
Indeed, the abomination circled closer, human nostrils flaring. Its bear-maw drooled viscous saliva that sizzled against frozen earth.
The archer emptied his quiver. The swordsman's screams grew shrill. The third man—unarmed, desperate—swung a birch branch in futile arcs.
Bennett's gut churned. These weren't mercenaries chasing coin. These were prey.
Chapter 56 (Part II): Alchemy of Mercy
The monster's barbed tail thrashed, skewering the swordsman mid-air like a grotesque trophy. Bennett's mind raced. That acid blood—it'll melt him alive if I don't—
His fingers closed around the vial in his coat. Dragonfire powder. Volatile. Unstable. Perfect.
"Catch this, you abomination!" Bennett hurled the glass. It shattered against the creature's mangled torso, yellow granules clinging to its seeping wounds.
Chain Reaction
Windblades sliced not flesh but the barb itself. The severed tip clattered to earth, freeing the swordsman. "Roll!" Bennett roared. Fireballs erupted from his palms before the man's scream fully left his throat.
The explosion lit the forest crimson.
Flesh sizzled. The stitched horror reeled, its bear-head howling in dissonant agony. Bennett didn't pause—accelerate, circle, bombard—blue stun-spells peppering its flanks like wasp stings. Seven. Eight. Nine.
Crash.
The monstrosity collapsed, ichor pooling black beneath it. Bennett's final two vials arced through smoke.
Boom.
When the smoke cleared, only twitching limbs remained.
Vanishing Act
"Old bastard," Bennett wheezed, scanning the campsite. The mage's tent flapped empty. A weight dropped into his palm—a medical satchel materialized from thin air, accompanied by a whisper: "Clean your mess. I detest loose ends."
The swordsman's whimpers pulled Bennett back.
Knives and Gratitude
"Bite this." Frank, the swordsman, carved rotting flesh from his shoulder without flinching. The stench of necrotic tissue choked the air. "Temple or tomb," he gritted through the branch in his teeth. "No in-between now."
Dadaniel, the archer-knight, watched Bennett administer salves with military precision. "A mage skilled in battlefield triage? Rare as dragon's tears."
"Studied under a stingy tutor," Bennett deflected, wrapping Frank's mutilated arm. "Your knightly oath won't let you die easily."
The third man, Blackstone, spat blood into the snow. "Tell that to the three we buried yesterday."
Names and Necessities
"Harriott Pottar," Bennett lied smoothly when pressed for his name. The pseudonym tasted absurd, but anonymity outweighed pride.
Dadaniel's bow dipped in solemn salute. "House Liestreich owes you a blood-debt, Master Pottar. Should our paths cross again—"
"Focus on surviving first." Bennett jerked his chin northward. "Your golden-eyed serpent—how far?"
The knight hesitated. "Half a day's trek. We've... lost the compass."
Calculated Risk
Bennett weighed the unspoken plea. A noble's gratitude could open doors. But meddling in court affairs?
Frank's rasp interrupted. "The anti-petrification charm—it's in Captain's pack. Which is currently…" He gestured to the monster's half-digested human torso.
"Ah." Bennett swallowed bile. "Let's retrieve it before the acid eats through."
Wardens of Decay
As they combed the gore, Dadaniel murmured, "You've not asked why a mage of your caliber wanders these woods alone."
"Same reason you're here," Bennett countered, prying a melted locket from the captain's remains. "Secrets are the currency of survival."
The locket's portrait—a woman with Liestreich's sharp cheekbones—stared back, her eyes twin voids.
Chapter 57: The Widow's Curse and the Alchemist's Gambit
Bennett's mind raced as he absorbed the tale. The Liestreich Scandal. The Emperor's covetous gaze. A widow exiled by her own beauty. He schooled his features into neutrality, though his pulse quickened. This was no mere noble's folly—it reeked of high-stakes intrigue.
"Lady Liestreich's ailment," he ventured, feigning casual curiosity. "What precisely does this… petrification entail?"
Dadaniel's jaw tightened. "Like watching moonlight turn to marble. First her fingertips hardened during supper—a wineglass shattered in her grip. By dawn, veins of stone crept up her arms." His voice dropped to a whisper. "She hides it beneath gloves now. But if it reaches her heart…"
Threads of Power
The archer's account unfolded like a tragic ballad: the emerald-clad stranger with his serpentine flute, the botched confrontation with Sir Gofrit, the venomous parting curse. Bennett's nails bit into his palms. Fools. They dismissed a sorcerer's pride.
"Green robes," Bennett mused aloud. "Not the Guild's colors. Yet any hedge-wizard knows curses demand sacrifice. To petrify living flesh…" He trailed off, mind conjuring forbidden texts from the old mage's trove. Soul anchors. Blood sigils. The price would hollow a village.
Dadaniel misinterpreted his silence. "You think us mad to hunt mythic beasts? But the apothecary swore—"
"—that serpent eyes hold transformative properties," Bennett finished. "A gamble, yet not without alchemical precedent." His gaze drifted to the smoldering Rotting Corpse Monster carcass. Rot and renewal. Death as catalyst. "Lead on. But know this—" he met their hopeful stares coldly, "—if we find your golden-eyed serpent, I claim one fang. For study."
Shadows and Subterfuge
As the injured retreated, Bennett knelt beside the腐尸怪's remains. Blistered fingers maneuvered a pipette with surgical precision, drawing viscous poison into glass.
"Collecting souvenirs?" Dadaniel eyed the festering sludge.
"All alchemy begins with rot." Bennett stoppered the vial. "Your knightly ballads omit this truth: salvation often wears a foul stench."
The archer's nose wrinkled. "You speak like the old mystics."
Because I've scrubbed their cauldrons for scraps of knowledge, Bennett nearly retorted. Instead, he shouldered his pack. "Dawn breaks in three hours. Your serpent hunts at twilight, yes?"