At dawn, the first rays of sunlight pierced the mist, and the blizzard that had raged all night finally came to an end.

The wind was exceptionally cold, howling through the city and lashing against the wooden doors. The hinges creaked ominously, and cracks had begun to appear in the door panels, threatening to collapse at any moment.

In the northern district of Golden Rock City, a cluster of haphazardly built houses stretches across the landscape.

These mud houses were low and crude, built from mud bricks and wood, arranged in a haphazard jumble. Winding paths snaked through the dwellings, with narrow alleys crammed on both sides—chaotic and disorderly, utterly devoid of any semblance of order.

Most of the dwellings were dilapidated, with low, crude doors and windows, dirty, mottled walls, and roofs riddled with cracks and holes.

On bitterly cold winter days, relentless gales sweep away the thatch from the roofs, exposing rotten rafters. The cold wind pours relentlessly into the rooms, making life inside feel like being trapped in an ice cellar.

All who lived here were slaves. Regardless of race, they were shackled and crammed in, eking out a miserable existence under the lash of whips and clubs.

This place was also known as the “slave pen,” a deeply humiliating name.

Housing structures designed to hold at most a few tens of thousands were forcibly crammed with over a hundred thousand people, resulting in abysmal living conditions and a severe deterioration in the slaves’ health.

After blizzards, multiple bodies would be carried out of the mud houses.

At its peak, the number exceeded three hundred.

Most had frozen to death or starved after their food was stolen. Others had fallen out with others, been secretly attacked, and met a violent end in their sleep.

With slaves hailing from different races, mutual animosity was not uncommon.

Peace and harmony were a luxury; brutal bullying and death were the norm here.

Today was no different.

As dawn broke, the dilapidated wooden doors were pushed open one after another, and slaves wrapped in burlap emerged from the house in succession.

They hunched over, their steps unsteady. They rose early not out of diligence, but because they had to drag the dead bodies out to prevent the stench from filling the house.

“Was it a mountain person who died this time?”

“A few Mixed-bloods.”

“Bigfoot person.”

“And a longhair person.”

“Is that a beastman? Also a mixed-blood, probably with three to five different lineages.”

“There’s a vampire clan member over there.”

“How unusual.”

“Watch your mouth!”

When it came to vampire clan slaves, everyone remained tight-lipped; most shut up and said no more.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, the slaves began to move about.

Day after day, they retraced the same path, with no change whatsoever, and no hope for the days ahead.

Fortunately, the mud houses weren’t even lower-class shacks; they received a small amount of food each day, so they wouldn’t end up like the unlucky souls who’d died, tossed onto a trailer and dumped outside the city.

The slaves’ expressions were numb, yet their movements were crisp and precise.

Carrying or dragging the dead bodies, they made their way toward the carts parked by the roadside.

Though called carts, they were nothing more than a few long planks cobbled together and bound with rope.

A large snowdrift rose up in front of the cart. As the slaves approached, the snowdrift trembled violently, and chunks of snow fell with a rustling sound, revealing a massive red-haired warthog.

This warthog was exceptionally fat and large, its size defying all reason.

It was over two meters long and stood over a meter tall at the shoulder. Its back was broad and thick, covered with a thick coat of red hair. Needle-like bone spines jutted from its head, and its snout and mouth protruded forward, with curved fangs protruding from either side of its nostrils—their sharp tips capable of easily slicing open a slave’s belly.

At the sight of it, the slaves’ legs trembled involuntarily.

This warthog had a vicious temperament and would often fly into a rage without warning. It took great pleasure in tearing apart living creatures that moved, and the slaves were its prime targets for torment.

“Be careful.”

Filled with trepidation, the slaves unconsciously slowed their pace, moving with extreme caution.

They were all well aware that their lives were insignificant; the vampire clan did not care how many people died in the mud houses.

There would always be replacements; there was no need to waste energy on a few slaves.

They didn’t want to die, so they could only warn themselves to be careful, drop the bodies, and flee as fast as they could to avoid being bitten and dragged away by the wart hog, only to end up as its breakfast.

The slaves’ footprints were scattered across the snow—varying in size and shape—stretching from the mud houses to the cart yard, appearing utterly chaotic.

Most had no shoes, so they could only wrap their feet in cloth as they trudged through the snow. Exposed to the bitter cold, their toes were prone to frostbite and falling off, yet they had grown accustomed to it.

The cart’s deck was covered in snow, pure and crystalline, like a blanket of marshmallows.

Beneath the whiteness lay splotches of blood, all from dead slaves—some who had died of natural causes, others bitten to death by warthogs, their lives ending in agony.

The slaves moved swiftly, piling the bodies onto the cart and retreating rapidly.

Unfortunately, they still weren’t fast enough.

A few men were left behind—though perhaps they shouldn’t be called men; they looked more like ungrown boys.

The warthog was ready to enjoy its breakfast.

Its terrifying mouth opened wide as it charged from behind. One boy had his arm slashed by the fangs; he rolled frantically on the ground, narrowly escaping with his life. His companion wasn’t so lucky.

The latter was pierced through the chest by the tusks, impaled directly on the boar’s teeth.

Bright red blood spurted out, and steam rose from the wound.

The blood formed a string, congealing before it hit the ground, falling as dark red beads that sank one after another into the lingering snow.

The warthog had secured its prey and was skillfully shaking its head from side to side.

The dead boy lay like a helpless kite, his body torn open at the wound as the warthog devoured him bite by bite. The scene was terrifying.

The same scenario played out every few days, and the slaves grew numb to the horror.

They lost all emotion, unable to feel any pity for their companions.

To survive, they had to run for their lives. As long as they made it back to the mud houses, they would be safe.

The warthog was not yet sated.

It shook off the trailer and followed the fleeing prey through the bloodstains.

Its four legs pounded through the snow, making a rumbling sound, like a mountain of flesh crushing down on the fleeing slaves.

The slaves did not cry out for help. They knew full well that no one would come to save them. As for the vampire clan soldiers on the city walls, they were only too happy to stand by and watch, treating the slaughter as a form of entertainment. 

One slave stepped on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow and slipped. A foul wind swept over him instantly; the terrifying maw was mere inches away. He didn’t need to turn around to know how close the warthog was. He didn’t want to die!

He was desperate to save himself. His will to survive worked a miracle: the chain gripping his neck cracked and snapped in two. He became a stake of ironwood driven into the ground. Its roots were twisted, its crown sparse, and its trunk not tall enough—yet the trunk barely managed to block the tusks, preventing them from piercing through as they would flesh. At the last possible moment, he saved his own life. 

Whoosh!

The sound of a bowstring being drawn echoed; three arrows sliced through the air; two embedded themselves in the warthog’s eyes, while the third pierced its back, tearing through its internal organs. The warthog was severely wounded, its body stiffening where it stood, yet it did not die immediately. It cast aside the battered ironwood tree and pinpointed the direction from which the arrows had come. Two groups of knights stood before them: one clad in gleaming ring mail, their bodies tightly encased, each gripping a short spear. 

The other wore chain mail, wielding a motley assortment of weapons—not uniform in style—and exuded a far more fierce demeanor. The knight who fired the arrows came from the latter group. She wore no helmet, raising a hardbow in her hands. The wind ruffled her curly hair, revealing a pair of sharp eyes that inexplicably sent a chill down one’s spine. Tiemu, covered in wounds, lay on the ground, gazing at the female knight from the shadows. He found her beautiful—and quite terrifying. 

Among the knights’ ranks were two carriages. One bore the coat of arms of Zax, making the owner’s identity self-evident. The knights in ring mail were all his guards. The other carriage was somewhat peculiar. The body was plain and unadorned, and the wheels were studded with rivets, reminiscent of craftsmanship from a century past. It was not drawn by a draft horse, but by two massive porcupines. 

The driver was a goblin, wrapped in a warm coat, complete with boots and a cloak. His large head was covered by a hat with specially sewn earflaps to protect his ears from frostbite in the biting wind. 

The enraged wart hog charged at the convoy, mustering its last ounce of strength to attack. Before it could get close, a thicket of thorns suddenly sprang up beneath its feet. Sharp thorns bound it from the ground up; the vines tightened relentlessly, their spikes piercing its skin, tearing through its fat, and growing wildly within its flesh. 

The red-haired warthog let out an agonized howl, unable to break free from the dreadful thorns, its flesh becoming nourishment for the brambles. 

Black thorns shot up from the ground, gathering together to form a structure as tall as a giant tree, hoisting the screaming wart hog high into the air. Rip—With a tearing sound, the wart hog was torn to pieces, just like the slaves it had slain. Blood and flesh rained down from the sky, scattering across the ground. 

The dazed slaves suddenly came to life; they threw caution to the wind and pounced on the falling chunks of meat, grabbing them and shoving them into their mouths. Some who failed to snatch any meat clutched clumps of congealed blood, gnawing on them and swallowing desperately despite the cold. 

All the mud houses burst open, and more surged out, joining the scramble for food. Just as the situation was about to spiral out of control, the Black Knights simultaneously drew their bows to the full. Sharp arrows whistled through the air, plunging into the ground at an angle; some flew past the slaves’ heads, narrowly missing their eyes. The chaos was forcibly quelled before it could fully erupt. 

The slaves were stunned, and their fevered minds finally cooled. Seeing the Black Knight across from them, they realized what they had just done; overcome with fear, they prostrated themselves on the ground, daring not to make a single move. 

The doors of both carriages swung open simultaneously, and Count Zax stepped down from the carriage, lifting his gaze to the Black Knight who had quelled the chaos, his eyes dark and inscrutable. He turned toward Cen Qing’s carriage, his hands clasped beneath his cloak as he twirled the ring on his thumb, the gloom in his heart growing even denser. 

The carriage door swung open, and Moli stepped out first and came to a stop beside it. Behind her was a slender figure. He was tall and fair-skinned, with hair and eyes as dark as the night, possessing an innate air of nobility and elegance. 

Merely standing there, he was a sight to behold, firmly capturing everyone’s attention. It was Cen Qing’s first visit to the North District; the slaves did not recognize him, nor did they know his true identity. 

Assuming he was a high-ranking noble, they instinctively stepped aside as he approached. Cen Qing pushed past the crowd and walked straight toward the injured Tiemu. Moli followed closely behind. 

The thorn maids strongly disapproved of Cen Qing personally selecting a slave. But since he insisted, she had no choice.

“Look up.” Cen Qing stopped before Tiemu, the gems on his boots reflecting a faint glow that stung the other’s eyes. Tiemu shed his treant form, his body covered in wounds. He cautiously raised his head to look up at Cen Qing, unsure if he intended to punish him; fear had turned his face deathly pale.

“Don’t be afraid.” Cen Qing crouched down to look him in the eye, lifting his chin with her finger as she spoke softly, “Tell me your name.”

As he moved, the hem of his cloak dragged along the ground, the fine fabric dusted with a layer of snowflakes.

Sunlight fell upon Cen Qing’s head, casting a golden halo over his black hair and softening the lines of his face.

Tiemu stared up at him blankly, his mind a blank slate.

He swore he had never seen anyone so beautiful. Not even in his dreams.

He thought he had encountered a black-haired deity.

“M-my name is Tiemu.”

“Your race?”

“Ironwood.” Realizing what he’d said, Tiemu hurriedly added, “I mean, I’m—I’m a treant.”

Cen Qing paused for a moment, then broke into a smile.

He tilted his head slightly and looked at Tiemu with a smile: “I need a retainer. Are you willing to follow me?”

“Follow you? As a retainer?” Tiemu’s head felt heavy and fuzzy; this felt less like reality and more like a beautiful dream he was having on the brink of death.

“I will remove your shackles and provide you with clothes, shoes, and food. All you need to do is follow me, remain loyal to me, and swear never to betray me.” As Cen Qing spoke, he watched the expressions on Tiemu’s face.

Anticipation, confusion, shock, and wild delight.

Tiemu’s expression was easy to read.

He didn’t know Cen Qing’s identity, but the one thing he was certain of was that the man before him held a high status—most likely a great noble.

Someone like that had no reason to deceive a slave.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he prostrated himself at Cen Qing’s feet and kissed the lingering snow on the tip of his boot.

“I swear to follow you and be loyal to you. You may command me as you please, just as one would train a hunting dog!”

Tiemu had set a fine example.

With him as a precedent, the slaves present couldn’t help but be moved. Their numb hearts began to race, and new hope emerged in their stagnant lives.

Cen Qing stood up and left the rest to Moli and the Black Knight.

“Two thousand slaves—you two sort them out. I want only the best,” he said.

“As you command.”

The thorn maids and the Black Knight accepted the order together, splitting up to quickly begin selecting among the mud houses.

Cen Qing walked toward the carriage, passing by the knights belonging to Zax; they automatically stepped aside to make way.

He came to stand opposite Zax, slowly pulling his cloak tighter around him, and spoke in a measured tone: “Count Zax, I hear you are a member of the diplomatic mission?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Zax nodded cautiously. “It is an honor; His Majesty has granted me the title of Chief Envoy.”

“Then, let me offer you a word of advice.” Cen Qing raised his index finger to his lips, his gaze deep and intense, his words dripping with a clear threat, “If you wish to complete your mission successfully, you’d best keep your mouth shut when reporting to His Majesty the King.”

When he lowered his hand, the ring on his ring finger caught Zax’s eye.

A giant owl was firmly perched on the ring’s face; the embedded gemstone reflected the sunlight, appearing magnificent, cold, and blinding.

“Are you threatening me?” Zax asked in a low voice.

Cen Qing paid no heed to Zax’s anger. His expression remained unchanged, and his tone did not waver: “It is merely advice.”

Zax stared at him, trying to project more authority.

Unfortunately, he failed.

“I shall do as you wish,” he said, averting his gaze, his voice low.

“A wise choice.” Cen Qing smiled and nodded, then turned to return to the carriage. The hem of his cloak fluttered in the wind, revealing its lining—a crimson hue that caught Zax’s eye.

That day, Cen Qing secured two thousand slaves—twice the number permitted by Gorod.

Zax took it upon himself to cover it up, without letting a single word slip.

Gorod, blinded by his favorite courtiers and lulled into complacency by fine wine and the embrace of beauties, remained completely unaware.

In matters of life and death, Zax forgot the oath he had sworn.

When his own head was at stake, his loyalty wavered easily, and honesty toward His Majesty the King ceased to matter.

Those who deceive others will themselves be deceived.

Gorod, who seized power through deceit, would eventually taste the bitter fruit of his own actions.

On the same day, in the distant Storm City, the Wraith King announced an important decision to his ministers.

“I shall journey to the border to personally welcome my bride. ”

Seated upon the Crystal Throne, the lord of the snow domain issued his decree. He leaned back against the chair’s backrest, his long hair flowing like a silver cascade, complementing the patterns on his robe.

“Your wishes are our command, Your Majesty.”

The wraiths raised no objections.

They obeyed the Wraith King’s decision and actively made preparations for his journey.

The wraiths were united in purpose, working as one to ensure the Wraith King could successfully end his bachelorhood.

Anyone who dared to raise objections at this time would inevitably be branded a heretic, hung directly from the flagpole atop the city walls, and left to enjoy a few nights of chilly wind.