Somewhere in an open clearing, blanketed by snow and bathed in cold moonlight, a sloppy-looking middle-aged man staggered across the icy terrain. His cloak was loose and unkempt, fluttering clumsily behind him, and in one hand he swung a half-empty bottle of wine like a sacred relic.
He sang in a loud, unrestrained voice, unbothered by the biting wind or the weight of whatever burdens once troubled him:
"Drunk under moonlight, I dance with the breeze~
My sorrows are frozen, my heart seeks no peace~
Let the stars be my witness, I drink till they cease~"
His voice echoed faintly across the mountain, like a madman challenging the heavens.
He sang like a man who had left the world behind—no cold could touch him, no regret could reach him.
But just as he lifted his head to belt out the final verse, a sudden flash of light streaked across the sky above him.
