Louis led the group into the magic-marrow factory, and immediately, a pungent alchemical stench assaulted their nostrils. He raised a hand in greeting. "Good morning."
In a corner, Silco—dark circles under his eyes—looked up listlessly and glared at his detestable slave owner. "Good morning, my lord," he replied, with a hint of complaint, handing over a crude ceramic pot the size of a fist.
Louis took the heavy pot. Its surface looked plain and unadorned, with a piece of linen cloth inserted into its opening—so rough it seemed carelessly molded. He frowned. "Is that all?"
Silco explained lazily, "Don't let its ordinary appearance fool you. It's filled with dangerous materials: magic marrow, Ice Armor Bear crystal residue, and tinder grass. Its power is considerable. Given more time, I could make it more refined—an even mightier weapon."
"Since that's the case, let's test one," Louis said, raising an eyebrow as he looked toward the prepared testing ground.
Several magical beasts were tied at various points in the arena, struggling and emitting uneasy roars. The knights donned special protective masks, lit the fuses, and threw the magic-flame bombs. The ceramic pot spun through the air, arcing elegantly, then landed precisely at the center.
Boom!!
Phase One: Cold Blast!
When the bomb exploded, blue light flashed, and the Ice Armor Bear crystal shattered, releasing an extremely cold airflow. The air instantly contracted, as if the space was violently pulled tight. The beasts' furs frosted over, their limbs twitching and recoiling. They were sucked toward the explosion's core by that powerful vortex, emitting shrill wails, their hooves and claws pawing at the ground—but to no avail.
Phase Two: Incineration!
Just as the beasts were about to break free, the next wave struck. The magic marrow ignited, unleashing violent flames. The tinder grass fibers, catalyzed by some invisible force, fiercely consumed oxygen. The flames clung to the beasts' bodies like living snakes, burrowing into skin, tearing flesh apart.
"Awooo—!!" One beast's eyes were immediately scorched open. Its bodily fluids evaporated into white smoke; the hot air it expelled turned instantly to dry dust. The air filled with the stench of burning flesh, nauseating everyone present.
Phase Three: Toxic Corrosion!
Black smoke slowly rose—not ash, but highly toxic gas from the magic marrow's burn. The first beasts convulsed violently, limbs twitching, throats emitting choked wails. Flesh and blood began to rot rapidly, as though torn by an unseen hand, revealing stark white bones. They thrashed until finally—silence. Ash drifted down, and the air was thick with sulfur and char. The ground was scorched dark brown, faintly glowing, as if the land itself had been stained by death.
Louis stood still, observing the devastation in silence. Sif paled and clenched her fists. She had witnessed countless battles and bloodshed, but never such complete annihilation—silent, invisible, yet stripping every living thing away. Silco's expression was strange—a mixture of triumph and sorrow. He blinked his bloodshot eyes, rubbed his strained neck, and sighed.
"The power is impressive," he admitted. "But, my lord, one of these costs a full four hundred gold coins." He stared at the scorched earth as though at a pile of burning coins, his heart heavy as though his own wealth was being burned.
Louis finally stirred. He turned to Silco and asked, "How many are left?"
"Seven," Silco sighed. "We don't have enough materials for more. The Ice Armor Bear crystals you brought—this is all we had."
"What's its name?" Louis asked.
"I haven't thought of one yet," Silco admitted.
Louis surveyed the desolate ground, his gaze sweeping over the faintly glowing embers. A slight smile appeared on his lips. "Let's call it 'Ice and Fire Double Heaven'."
Silco nodded. The name suited it.
Louis reached out and lightly patted the crude ceramic pot—their ultimate trump card.
Count Firth sat in his ornate mansion chair, nervously rubbing his chin. "Damn trash! I've been assigned to suppress these bandits and I don't know anything about this!"
He had inherited the title less than two years ago and was now expected to eradicate the Snowsworn? He scoffed. He'd heard of the Snowsworn's brutality, and his father—Snowpeak County's former count—had been a battle-hardened general. But what had he done? He was just a fat man who could barely stay on a horse, let alone lead troops.
"My lord Count," his strategist whispered, "this could be an opportunity." The man's calculating look bored into him. "Eradicating the Snowsworn is Duke Edmund's order. All northern nobles must respond—especially those southern nobles."
Count Firth frowned. "What are you suggesting?"
The strategist leaned in. "Send them to their deaths. Southern nobles lack strength and foundation. This mission is dangerous. A proper arrangement could ensure they take the brunt. Once they suffer heavy losses, you—Count Firth—can annex their lands and resources. Why wouldn't you?"
Firth's eyes widened. So that was an option. The strategist pressed on. "Northern nobles dislike southerners. If the southerners are wiped out, the North returns to true Northerners. Those who despise you—who think you inherited your title through your father—will be forced to admit they were wrong and acknowledge you as the true ruler of Snowpeak County!"
Firth fell silent. After several seconds, a sinister smile spread across his face. "Makes sense."
He raised his wine glass, swirling the liquid. He imagined the southern nobles swallowed by ice and snow, himself revered by all. "Very well. We'll do as you say."
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