The frigid cold blanketed Siberia. The howling blizzards twisted and blurred every shape and shadow in the landscape. Beyond the wailing of the westerly wind sweeping across the earth, there was no other sound to be heard.
This was Siberia—the far western end of Ursus, the very gates of hell.
And in the midst of this boundless snowstorm, a lone figure moved across the tundra like a phantom, faster than even a sled, ghostlike and swift.
(Damn it. I didn't expect the blizzard to hit a whole hour earlier than forecast. I need to hurry.)
According to the intel from the old man, the girl named Misha had been discovered during her escape. The two Crisis Contract operatives covering her were killed on the spot, and during the ensuing pursuit, three more died in action. The final operative managed to evade the pursuers and reach the safehouse but ultimately succumbed to his wounds shortly after.
Fortunately, just before his death, the operative transmitted the coordinates of the safehouse. Revy's current objective was to locate it based on those coordinates.
(This blizzard is screwing with the magnetic field… visibility is practically zero, and any landmarks out here are completely useless.)
The harsh climate of Ursus's Siberia had once buried an army of 100,000 from Victoria, including the famed Durin commander Lunpona. Ever since, this frozen exile-land was known as the Gate of Hell.
Trying to get out of here safely with a burden in tow was no small feat.
"The coordinates… Ah, signal's back. Looks like the safehouse is nearby."
Revy narrowed his eyes, forcing his gaze through the storm. Soon, he spotted a small snow mound that seemed unusually placed compared to the terrain.
"This should be it... Let's hope it's not too bad inside."
——————
"Don't move! Hands on your head!"
To Revy's surprise, stepping into the safehouse didn't earn him a terrified little girl's welcome—but the barrel of a gun aimed straight at his face.
The weapon was clearly modified by a mercenary's hand: the rifle had a fixed blade at the front, capable of being used like a gun-blade. The downside of this upgrade, however, was its sheer weight, evident from the way the barrel trembled in the girl's small hands.
"Drop it. With hands like that, you'd be dead five times over if I were your real enemy. Instead of threatening me, you should fix that shaky grip."
(A 'real enemy'…?)
Misha scrutinized the cloaked man before her, his face hidden behind a half-mask.
He was far too calm—completely unaffected by the weapon pointed at him. The pitch-black barrel, which haunted her and her brother's nightmares, seemed like nothing more than a toy in front of this man.
"Shut up! Give up your weapons, now! Or you'll end up like him!"
Revy glanced to the side. A white-furred Feline lay slumped over a table, his body cold, blood long dried into black stains. No doubt he was the last operative the old man had mentioned—the one who died shortly after reaching the safehouse.
(Dead at least a week. Thankfully, the polar cold kept decomposition from setting in...)
"But... this guy clearly died from multiple stab wounds, bled out all over. What, you killed him with a knife-firing gun?"
A flicker of panic crossed Misha's eyes.
"Shut up! Hands on your head—don't move! Or I'll really... really shoot!"
"…Sigh."
With a soft breath, Revy suddenly blurred before her eyes. In a heartbeat, the gun was gone from her hands, now casually spinning in his.
"MGL-140 grenade launcher, huh... For a covert op, this is pretty overkill," he muttered as he flipped open the drum magazine and checked the rounds. "Three shots left. Should be usable."
"Ah—!"
Shocked by the turn of events, Misha recoiled several steps, baring her teeth like a cornered pup as she glared furiously at the masked man.
"No need to panic. Like the guy lying there, I'm with Crisis Contract. I'm here to fulfill the contract—get you out."
Misha hesitated, eyes shifting to examine Revy again.
"Don't believe me?"
With a click, the grenade launcher was now pointed back at her—the same one she had wielded moments ago.
"If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't need to lie. Think you could've beaten me?"
Misha shuddered. But within two seconds of thought, she knew he was right. She reluctantly nodded.
Meanwhile, Revy glanced around the room.
"I'm surprised you made it this far… Most kids your age would've broken down spending eight days in a place like this with a corpse."
And Revy wasn't wrong.
Though it was called a "safehouse," it was little more than a hollow beneath the snow. The dark, damp air, near-freezing temperatures, psychological strain, and—of course—the dead body nearby…
Even most adults would've lost it.
"If you'd been in the coal mines, you'd know… having food and shelter? This place is paradise."
Something in Misha's tone darkened. Her gaze lowered as a faint tremble ran through her.
"…Whatever. Doesn't matter now. Point is—I have to get you out before the next cold front hits."
Revy hesitated a moment before speaking to her seriously:
"The outside conditions are brutal. I can't promise you'll come through unscathed. If I have to cut off your leg to keep you alive, I will. But I swear this—I'll get you out alive."
Misha flinched at the brutal honesty. But after thinking it through, she exhaled deeply in resignation.
"Fine... but at least tell me your name first."
"Regulus Harvey—just call me Revy."