Chapter 18. The White Storm
…
Her presence was both comforting and strangely familiar to the two of them.
Ran's eyelids fluttered open, her blurred vision barely making out the silhouette of their savior. Gill, on the other hand, remained frozen in shock, his mind scrambling to comprehend what had just happened.
And more importantly—who had just saved them…
It was Aunt Celine.
Gill and Ran were aware that she possessed magical abilities and the skill to brew magical potions, which significantly strengthened their whole base's power. Even now, Sir Giles controlled almost half of the underground forces in Mirthwater City, all thanks to her.
Due to the vital role her potions played in alleviating the impact of the poisoned water at the underside, she successfully garnered a significant number of loyal followers to their side.
But the way she had appeared—flashing into place in an instant-was incomprehensible to him. It was as if she had simply teleported to their side.
Aunt Celine was in her thirties, though her youthful appearance defied her real age.
No one in Mirthwater could deny her beauty.
She wore a black dress, a single eyeglass perched on one side of her face, its chain reminiscent of a butler's accessory. Whispers spoke of her past—that she had once served as a maid to a noble family in the Central Region.
And as for her constant presence beside Sir Giles—that was a mystery all its own.
Then, there was one glaringly unavoidable fact: her overwhelming embrace.
Gill, red-faced, and Ran, barely conscious, were suffocating in the hold of her ample chest—a truth she remained blissfully unaware of.
Smiling warmly, she gazed down at them.
"Don't worry. Your aunt is here. You're safe now."
Everyone under twenty was required to call her "Aunt"—a title she insisted upon.
Many of the younger ones secretly wished to experience one of her infamous ear pinches, either out of curiosity or misplaced admiration.
They all regretted it.
Her magic turned gentle pinches into unbearable torment—pain so excruciating, it was said to teeter on the edge of the afterlife.
"Aunt Celine…" Ran muttered weakly. She recognized the voice, even though she shouldn't have been able to hear any at all in her current condition.
"Sleep, Ran. Everything will be fine. I promise." Aunt Celine patted her head.
"Okay… Thank you, Aunt."
Ran closed her eyes, surrendering to the pull of dreams.
Aunt Celine shifted her gaze to the space ahead, and the warmth in her expression evaporated—replaced by grim solemnity.
Behind her, Sill's grin faltered.
The wind surged over them—icy, abnormal. It whispered through the alleys, carrying a deep stillness that was not of this world.
The very ground was turning to ice.
Sill sensed something inside the barrier in front of him. Not as threatening as Sir Giles, perhaps—but dangerous enough to make him instinctively want to stay as far away.
Yet, the real danger lurking in this moment was something else entirely.
Something far worse.
Something far more urgent to flee from. It was a threat that made him, a being not even human, tremble in fear.
His breath turned shaky. His blood ran cold. Yes, he was shivering from the very fright he used to enjoy from his victim.
"How? How is that possible? I'm only supposed to fear my mother. So why―??!"
Sill staggered backward, his corrupted heart pounding. He stepped back again—slowly, cautiously—his eyes nervously darting left and right for any possible opportunity to run.
Because the gaze was on him.
Watching. Fixating.
It was targeted. And frankly, seemed a bit too personal.
Aunt Celine remained oblivious to Sill's growing distress, her eyes locked on something far more pressing. She hadn't spared him a glance—not out of arrogance, but simply because he wasn't worth her attention.
Yet, deep down, she was intrigued. What was he, really? He wore the face of a child from the underside, but there was something wrong about him. Something off-kilter.
Had she the time, she would have captured him, examined him—perhaps even tested if he could be turned into an ingredient.
But for now, her focus was elsewhere.
What stood before her, though obscured by the blizzard, was something she could feel even on her skin.
A dreadful presence.
It was something deadly. And one wrong move might practically kill them all.
The wind howled, growing into a swirling storm of snow, erasing nearly every detail from view.
Aunt Celine herself, even with her magic, had to squint, her eyes straining against the whites, to make sense of the vague, indistinct silhouette standing motionless in the distance.
Whatever it was, it didn't move an inch.
Suddenly―
Sill turned on his heel and bolted without a word.
He leaped into the air, bounding from one building to the next with inhuman agility.
But the cold gale followed after him.
It roared louder. The snow engulfed the narrow alleyway, blanketing everything in its path, swallowing the barrier shielding Aunt Celine and the children.
It was moving fast.
Out of nowhere—
A thin, hexagonal prism of crystal appeared before Sill's face.
And vanished.
In its place stood a figure cloaked in frost.
Its presence was suffocating. Unnatural. Utterly lethal.
Before Sill could react—
The first punch landed.
A single, devastating blow to his face sent him hurtling backward. His features contorting beyond recognition.
*Boom.*
His body slammed into the building he had just leapt from.
The figure hovered in midair, standing impossibly on a platform of snow materialized beneath its feet.
Sill groaned, dazed and disoriented, but he had no time to recover.
The frost-covered figure was already upon him again.
Blow after blow subsequently rained down on Sill, each strike faster, harsher, and more merciless than the last.
The relentless assault left him no chance to defend himself.
The strikes grew so powerful that, with a sickening finality, his head was obliterated―crushed into a grotesque mess of blood, bone, and brain matter.
The gore remains splattered outward, but none managed to touch the figure.
Every drop of blood, every shard of bone, every fragment of flesh froze midair, crystallized into ice before fell harmlessly to the ground.
The figure stood in the white storm, its breath visible in the frigid air.
It muttered something.
Again. And again. And again.
Words too faint for even the already destroyed Sill to hear.
"… must… protect… … … eliminate… the… threat… … kill… them… all…"
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