In the western reaches of the Snowfell Islands, where the land was nothing more than a desolate expanse of endless white, a young man staggered forward. His boots crunched weakly over the snow, leaving behind uneven trails of crimson.
Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, painting a thin scarlet line against his pale face. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sending out a mist of frost that lingered briefly in the icy air before vanishing.
The vitality within him was ebbing away like a dying flame. Every step grew heavier, every heartbeat weaker.
"I won't die here… absolutely not…" he muttered through gritted teeth.
His pace quickened, though his legs trembled as if chains were bound to them.
But the world was not so merciful.
A buzzing sound filled the air behind him—low at first, then swelling into a storm. A massive swarm of black, writhing insects blotted out the pale sky. Their wings thrummed like war drums, drowning out even the sound of the wind.
