The journey to the frontier was long and silent.
Snow began to fall shortly after they left the capital gates. At first it was only a light dusting across the road, but as the hours passed the sky grew darker and the wind sharper, until the world itself seemed buried beneath a sheet of cold white death.
The old man sat in the back of the military wagon, his wrists loosely bound with rope.
No one had bothered to tighten the knots.
There was no need.
He lacked the strength to run even if he wished to.
The wooden wheels creaked over frozen ground as armored knights rode alongside in grim formation. Their breath turned to mist with every exhale. None of them spoke.
The silence hurt more than the ropes.
"…Excuse me," the old man finally said, his voice barely carrying over the wind.
"Where are you taking me?"
No answer came.
He lowered his gaze to his trembling hands. They looked smaller now, thinner somehow — like they already belonged to a memory rather than a living body.
In his first world, he had been waiting in a hospital room for the end to arrive. Nurses had spoken gently to him. Doctors had explained things with quiet patience.
Here, he was treated like unwanted baggage.
After several more hours, the wagon stopped.
The landscape had changed.
There were no longer trees or distant farmhouses. Only an endless stretch of snow-covered wasteland broken by jagged black rocks that rose like the bones of a dead giant. The sky above was a dull gray, heavy with the promise of an incoming storm.
One of the knights dismounted.
"This is far enough," he said.
Another cut the rope around the old man's wrists and pulled him roughly to his feet. His legs buckled instantly, sending him crashing into the snow.
The cold seeped through his thin clothes like needles.
"Please…" he gasped.
"I don't understand what I've done wrong…"
The knights avoided his eyes.
Orders were orders.
"Our duty ends here," their captain replied. "May the gods show you mercy."
They turned without waiting for a response.
The wagon wheels began to move again, slowly at first, then faster as the soldiers urged their horses forward. Within minutes, the sound of their departure faded into the howling wind.
The old man was alone.
Snow continued to fall, covering his footprints before he could even attempt to stand. He struggled to his knees, his breath coming in short, painful bursts.
"So this is… exile," he whispered.
The word felt strange in his mouth.
He had never been important enough in his previous life to be exiled. Never powerful enough to be feared or hated. He had simply existed — quietly, invisibly — until illness had reduced his world to four hospital walls.
Now fate had brought him to a different ending.
He tried to walk.
Each step was agony.
The cold gnawed at his bones. The wind clawed at his skin. His vision blurred as exhaustion tightened around his chest like a vice.
Hours passed.
Or perhaps only minutes.
Time lost meaning beneath the endless white sky.
Eventually he collapsed beside a twisted, leafless tree. Its branches rattled like skeletal fingers whenever the wind surged stronger.
"…I suppose this is where I rest," he murmured.
For a moment, he felt an unexpected sense of peace.
There were no machines here. No slow decay of the body. Only the honest brutality of nature and the quiet acceptance that came with reaching the end of one's strength.
But the world was not finished with him yet.
A distant howl echoed across the wasteland.
Then another.
Yellow eyes began to appear in the darkness beyond the falling snow.
The old man closed his eyes.
"So this is how a hero dies," he said softly.
The monsters approached.