Chương 33: Dorkin

In the far reaches of the northern continent, the snow lay thick enough to swallow sound itself. The land was reduced to a single, unbroken sheet of white beneath a horizon of jagged, distant peaks that pierced the overcast sky. The trees thinned with every mile north, until only the hardiest, most stubborn pines still dared to grow at all. Inside the small inn at the village's heart, the warmth felt almost aggressive by comparison.

Fewer than ten people occupied the low-ceilinged common room and the innkeeper and his wife behind the counter, a bard perched near the hearth with a battered lute across his knee, and a scattering of hunters and travelers hunched over their drinks, waiting out the early dark of a northern winter evening.

"Should we go after frost trolls next?" one man asked his companion, nursing a mug of dark beer.

"Or salamanders, maybe. It's getting harder to push any deeper, now that winter's properly set in."

"Doesn't matter to me either way," replied the man beside him, a massive broadaxe leaning against the wall within easy reach.

"I can handle both." Near the counter, the bard drew a slow breath, his rich baritone filling the quiet hall as his fingers found a mournful chord across the strings.

"Oh, weep for the maiden of morning's light, Who stood all alone in the velvet night, When the Great Darkness rose to consume the land, She met the shadow with open hand—" In the far corner, a small cloaked figure sat alone, watching the mountain range through a window. On her table sat a mug filled with hot chocolate. Her archive contained an entry noting that such a thing was sweet and delicious, and as it happened that this inn served it.

The innkeeper had offered a mug when she rented her room and a sheer of curiosity was the only reason she had agreed. It's not as though I wanted to taste it, she reasoned. I simply needed to verify the accuracy of my records. The entry turned out to be correct. She had parted with a few coins for the drink, but she felt no regret. It was a necessary expense for the sake of an answer... nothing more.

Though, she noted that she might have to order another cup eventually—purely to ensure her understanding was complete. Five days had passed since Stelle left the catacombs behind. She had crossed the snowy wilderness entirely on foot, maintaining an almost non-stop pace until she finally reached the small frontier village of Dorkin. Corin's map suggested standard travel caravans required weeks just to reach this village, but Stelle's continuous sprint had cut that timeline down drastically.

Still, a few kilometers separated her from where she actually needed to go—a place the map simply labeled the Mourning Ridge. Reaching the ridge was only the beginning while the climb itself would be the true trial. The Lost Sage had never named the mountain outright. Lore simply stated that the sage climbed to a high peak where he found the resting maiden named Lily or as history later knew her, Saint Lilian.

Back in Oakhaven, Stelle had reviewed the historical texts far more carefully than she let on, specifically the entries detailing the Sage's first steps into the North. He belonged to the Fourth Era, a traveler of unknown origin known only as the Sage. Alongside the hero Serion and a chosen few, he walked the scarred continents of Terra, wielding the arts of Catalyst and Insight to stem the tide of the Great Darkness or the abyssal corruption of the Dark Star.

Their path eventually cut through the bitter wastes of the North, where they first met Lily. She was no warrior, nor a weaver of arcana; she was simply a woman who refused to watch her people perish. The Sage would forever remember their initial encounter. A desperate soul kneeling in the snow, weeping, begging the heroes for salvation. To Serion's company, hardened by endless war, it was a familiar sight that barely slowed their stride. They offered quiet, hollow words of comfort and prepared to march on.

But the girl possessed a resolve thicker than frost. Stripping away the last remnants of her pride, she pleaded, her desperate conviction burning hotter than the northern winds. Serion, weary and pragmatic, offered a grim alternative. He unclasped a forbidden tome bound to the God of Snow.

"We cannot be the shield for every soul," the Hero told her.

"If you wish to save your people, you must claim the power to do so yourself." The Sage intervened, his Insight revealing the true cost.

"It will grant you the power to bend fate," he warned, "but it will consume you. It feeds upon the soul, drinking life until nothing remains." Hearing the price, Lily did not flinch. Without a second's hesitation, she seized the forbidden book. Knowing he could not break her resolve, the Sage chose to guide her and teach her how to channel the bitter magic. For months that bled into a year, Lily marched alongside the company.

A quiet bond took root among them; she was no longer a beggar in the snow, but a sister in arms. Yet, the Darkness in the North was an unyielding tide. Realizing the campaign was futile, Serion made the bitter choice to abandon the front and retreat to the central continent. Lily tried to turn their hearts, but the decision was absolute. She did not rage. She did not weep. She simply chose to stay behind and finish what they had started.

The Sage pleaded with her, begging her not to throw her lingering life into the abyss. In response, she offered him no arguments but a serene smile, and a quiet word of thanks. The heroes departed, escorting the fleeing royal and nobles as the northern sky darkened with impending doom. Years bled away in the central continent. Serion's company fought tirelessly, holding the line to keep their own kingdoms from being swallowed by the shadow. Then, a quiet rumor spread from the northern winds.

The North had not fallen. Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. A sudden, eternal frost had swept across the land. Spikes of pale ice and impenetrable barriers had risen overnight, sealing the Darkness beneath a tomb of absolute zero. The North was saved, suspended in silent frozen grace. When the news reached the war room, the heroes marveled. But the Sage merely turned his gaze to the northern sky, his eyes heavy with a grief he had carried for years.

He had always known. Taking up his staff, he set out for the frozen wastes once more, accompanied by a single companion. He did not go seeking a survivor. He went only to say goodbye.... The inn door banged open, letting in a gust of biting cold and four travel-worn adventurers.

[Quantum Optic: Active] [Four Unknown Individuals] [Mana Outputs: 1x Tier 3 | 2x Tier 2 | 1x Tier 1] They didn't move like a disciplined squad returning from a hard-fought battle; they moved with the swaying, loud-mouthed arrogance of men who had survived a brush with death and intended to make everyone in the room hear about it.

"Gunnar! Bring out the strongest ale you've got!" the leader roared, slamming a heavy pouch of silver coins onto the wooden counter.

"Forget the rooms tonight! We're drinking until the sun comes up!"

"You're back already?" the innkeeper winced as the men dragged heavy wooden chairs across the floorboards.

"How did the hunt go? You were supposed to be out for a week—""We took down the beast!" one of them bellowed, pounding his fist against the table.

"A Tier 2 mountain bear! Except the damned thing was wrong—blood turned dark purple, skin bursting with purple crystals! It was corrupted!"

"Corrupted?" A few whispering patrons near the bar immediately went quiet.

"Thing didn't even stand a chance, though. Fought like a rabid dog,""Might be an abyssal rift opening up somewhere on the lower slopes. The guild's gonna have to pay us double just for bringing back the corpse," the leader spat, dropping heavily into a seat at the table right beside Stelle's. The group completely ignored the small figure sitting alone near the hearth. A minute later, the inn owner brought their food and drinks over to the table.

"Finally! We can drink all night, haha!" The group settled in, clinking their mugs together in a cheer before diving into their meal.

"Speaking of the Ridge," another man leaned in, his voice dropping slightly.

"I heard a strange rumor from the scouts coming down from the pass this morning. They're saying the Guardian hasn't been seen in over a week in the ruins."

"The Guardian?" a third man scoffed, taking a long swig from a foaming tankard.

"The ancient beast guarding Saint Lilian's resting place? Missing?"

"Completely gone," the first man insisted.

"Now that the thing is no longer roaming the ruins at the base of the peak, the adventurers want to climb up to the saint mountain. Everyone thinks the damned thing is dead."

"That's impossible," the leader scoffed.

"That monster is terrifyingly strong and can't die. Who'd be dumb enough to think someone killed it? It's probably just roaming around the crags searching for food." Before they could delve deeper, the heavy front door swung open once more. A tall, weather-beaten man wrapped in a travel-stained leather cloak stepped inside, shaking the frost off his heavy boots.

"You all bastards are back from the hunt eh," the man muttered, stopping beside their table.

"Still making noise wherever you go."

"The bastard returns!" the leader barked, grinning broadly.

"I thought you were gonna stay in the south and never show your face again!" The new arrival smirked, pulling up a chair to join them.

"Took long enough. The southern roads are total hell right now. I only got back two days ago, but the guild told me you'd all gone hunting and decided to stay here in the inn."

"Forget that, man! How was the escort duty?"

"Going south was fine, but coming back? A mess," he muttered, lowering his voice as he grabbed an empty mug from the table.

"Encountered a few monsters, beast, and even the Blood Tribe."

"The Blood Tribe?" Beside them, the girl's ear twitched slightly. The phrase resonated instantly within Stelle's internal archives, flagging a low-priority tag created months ago in the Ember-Watch—a single mention overheard, left unexamined until now.

"Yes. They're descending from the Ridge. They attacked a merchant convoy two miles back, then went for ours. Our employer said it's unheard of for them to push this far down the mountain." Stelle registered every word without turning her head. A corrupted beast... an abyssal rift... the missing Guardian... and the Blood Tribe. She already understood the nature of corruption but an abyssal rift, however was a different variable entirely. Nothing in her archive carried a clear definition of the term.

Based on their conversation, the rift was directly linked to the corruption altering the local wildlife. A tear in the space emitting the Dark Star's abyssal energy. Her archives contained records of standard spatial rifts, but none bearing this specific volatile energy signature. Furthermore, the existence of a high-tier beast acting as a "Guardian" near the Saint's resting place presented a significant variable.

The locals considered it absurd that such an entity could die, but its sudden absence left too many unknowns. There were too many unmapped factors to rush in blindly. Still, for a single evening's observation, she had gathered sufficient ground-level intelligence. The tavern was growing louder, the air thick with the stench of cheap alcohol and stale sweat. Finishing the last sip of her hot chocolate, Stelle quietly set the empty wooden cup on the table.

She stood up, adjusting her cloak around her shoulders, intending to melt into the shadows and retreat to her room for the night. As she stepped past their table, one of the men's bloodshot eyes flicked downward.

"Huh? A kid?" His speech slurred as he leaned over his armrest.

"What the hell are you doing walking around here all alone at this hour?!" Stelle didn't pause. She kept her gaze fixed on the staircase, taking another silent step forward.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" The man's face flushed with drunken irritation at being dismissed. In one sudden, aggressive motion, he reached out and snatched the hood of her heavy cloak, yanking it backward. The hood slid off, exposing her silver hair, pale features, and cold unblinking eyes to the dim lantern light.

"Oh? Look what we have here," the man sneered, his companions erupting into crude laughter.

"Are you a lost little child? What, your mother didn't teach you to answer when adults speak?" Before Stelle could step out of reach, the man leaned forward, his heavy dirt-stained fingers reaching up to rudely grab her jaw. Stelle's expression remained completely flat, but under the folds of her cloak, her right hand closed around the hilt of Cael's black blade.

Her internal combat subroutines spun up in a fraction of a millisecond, calculating the precise arc required to sever his wrist before his fingers could make contact with her skin.

"Well, let me teach you how to properly respect—" He didn't get to finish the sentence.

"Touch the girl, and I'll sever your arm before you can scream." A deep, commanding voice echoed through the tavern, dropping the room's temperature instantly. The drunk adventurer froze in place, his hand hovering mere inches from Stelle's face. Standing near the hearth was a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in dark, scarred iron armor. A heavy, broad-headed claymore was strapped to his back, and the sheer, suffocating weight of a Tier 3 Awakened core radiated off him in physical waves.

His face was weathered, marked by a deep scar running along his jawline, and his cold grey eyes were fixed entirely on the drunkard. The leader of the adventuring group immediately lost every trace of his drunken swagger. His face went pale, and he violently slapped his companion's hand down, away from Stelle.

"D-Doran..." the leader stuttered, quickly rising from his chair and bowing his head in sudden deference.

"Apologies! He's had too much to drink—he didn't mean anything by it!" Doran didn't look at the leader. He slowly stepped forward, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. His gaze shifted down to Stelle, taking in her calm and unbothered posture. His eyes landed in the half empty sleeve pinned to her side, and the subtle dangerous posture of her hidden right hand.

"We have a rule here," Doran said flatly.

"Hahaha, of course! My man just couldn't control himself due to the drink and did something dumb," the leader stammered, sweating despite the chill.

"I'll make sure to scold him, Doran! Truly! haha..." Doran paid no mind to the leader's excuses. He simply turned his head toward Stelle, making a quiet, subtle motion with his chin—signaling her to proceed up the stairs. Stelle released her grip on her blade beneath her cloak. Without a word, she turned and continued her quiet trek toward the staircase, leaving the sudden commotion to settle behind her.

From the end of the table, the traveler from the south was looking in her direction, his eyes tracking the small, cloaked figure until she vanished into the shadow of the upper hall.