It snowed again.

  In Almeria, the arrival of winter meant death.

  Every step you took through the pure white snow, you might stumble upon a frostbitten, naked corpse, or worse, a pile of rotting meat discarded by the nobles.

  Inside the city gate, Marquis Charlotte stomped his boots furiously and cursed:

  "Damn bastards! War's about to break out at the border, and that old ghost still demands a thousand Lumiéonis a year! Animals! Shameless swine!"

  He turned to his steward:

  "Old Boo, tomorrow send another 5,000 men to Mendoza. We can't let those sea barbarians take root there!"

  The steward hesitated.

  "Marquis, at this rate, Almeria will become a ghost town."

  The Marquis slammed his gloves on the table.

  "You think I don't know that? But we cannot lose Mendoza!"

  The steward spoke again, worried:

  "I'm just afraid the Church dogs from the mountain will bite us when we least expect it."

  "Let them try.

  I've raised enough death retainers to protect this estate.

  In a few days, Vice Grand Commander Vangins will arrive with three thousand royal guards to wipe out those mongrels."

  "Understood, my lord."

  In the back courtyard, inside a cold storage room,

  a frail boy was squatting over a bowl of leftover slop, eating greedily.

  He hadn't eaten in days.

  His feet were already frozen and festering; sores covered his hands.

  Today, because the Marquis returned from battle, there had been a grand banquet.

  Thus, for the first time in days, the boy could steal some scraps to survive.

  Amid the tangle of his messy hair, his pair of white pupils burned with stubborn light.

  "Hey, mongrel! Get away from here. You're crawling with fleas. Damn, you stink!"

  "Trash born from filth! Get lost, bastard!"

  The boy, Summer, clutched his cracked porcelain bowl and crawled out into the icy yard.

  The north wind howled, stripping the last warmth from his pitiful meal.

  The thin soup inside the bowl froze solid in moments.

  One of his eyes was half-blind, the other completely white.

  A defect so disgraceful that most wondered why he hadn't been strangled at birth.

  They whispered he must have been the spawn of beasts.

  At that moment, a noblewoman—the Marquis' daughter—was strolling through the snow with a blue-eyed maid.

  Passing by, she caught sight of Summer crouched in the snow, desperately scraping at his bowl.

  Some spark of pity stirred in her heart.

  She had the maid send him a bowl of hot meat broth and two pieces of bread.

  It was the first time Summer had ever tasted real meat.

  It was fragrant.

  So fragrant it made him want to cry.

  Ignoring the burning heat, he shoved it all into his mouth at once.

  Who knew when he would have another chance?

  The lady left satisfied.

  But no sooner had she gone than the other slaves pounced like wolves.

  They kicked Summer aside, robbed him of the broth, the bread, even his cracked bowl.

  Summer simply watched in silence.

  Then, dragging his battered body, he crawled back to the leaking, icy shed,

  where, thanks to the "mercy" of the others, he was at least allowed to sleep for one night.

  Above the frozen branches perched a bird—

  the white-faced owl, Almeria's unique creature.

  Gray feathers, pale face, dark pupils ringed by amber —

  and a cry so mournful it could shatter human hearts.

  Summer stared at the bird and murmured,

  "Born this way... must I live this way too?"

  He scratched at the blood crusting inside his nose—

  yet another morning of being frozen awake.

  Inside the warm halls, Marquis Charlotte spoke lazily from his velvet chair:

  "Old Boo, that blade... it's time, isn't it?"

  "Yes, my lord. The day after tomorrow."

  "Handle it quietly. See the boy properly laid to rest afterward. Don't cheat the dead."

  "Understood, Marquis."

  Outside, the winter deepened.

  The coltsfoot flowers —

  small orange blossoms that bloomed only in the harshest cold —

  swayed feebly under the howling wind.

  Inside the storeroom, Summer was called out.

  Old Boo, stroking his goat beard, spoke with a smile that didn't reach his eyes:

  "It's a great honor, you know.

  To become a sacrifice for the ancestral Blade of Blood. Truly... an unmatched glory."

  Summer stood frozen in the snow, staring blankly at the flowers,

  at the owl above, at the bitterly cold sky.

  A lifetime spent trembling.

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  A lifetime spent surviving.

  A lifetime of careful obedience.

  And now, what did it earn him?

  Nothing but death for a blade he had never heard of.

  "Why?"

  he choked out.

  Old Boo's blue eyes narrowed slightly, voice dripping with condescension:

  "Why? You still don't understand?"

  "I did nothing wrong."

  "War is coming, boy. Many will die.

  Your little sacrifice could save hundreds, even thousands.

  If you hesitate now, you're already making a mistake."

  Summer lowered his head.

  Said nothing.

  As if silently accepting his fate.

  Pleased, Old Boo chuckled and turned to leave.

  As he went, he patted two brown-eyed guards on the shoulder:

  "Take care of everything properly."

  They locked Summer inside a small but exquisitely decorated cabin.

  The guards stood outside, yawning, talking about the coming festival.

  Inside, Summer sat stiffly on a straw mattress, numb and lost.

  He thought—

  this must be what a lamb feels like before slaughter.

  Late at night, someone knocked on the door.

  It was Old Boo again, leading a plain-faced woman.

  "Heh.

  You probably never even touched a woman in your miserable life, huh?

  No family, no friends?

  Take her, then.

  Spend your last night... happy."

  He tossed the woman inside and shut the door behind him.

  Summer sat there, stunned.

  This, too, was part of the "kindness" they offered him before death.

  The woman stood there, arms folded, eyes full of resentment.

  "If it weren't for my father falling ill,

  do you think I'd ever disgrace myself with... a thing like you?"

  Yellow eyes glared at him with naked contempt.

  Summer, freshly bathed and dressed in fine clothes for his sacrifice,

  felt a sudden sharp, ugly pain deep in his chest.

  It was not desire that filled him —

  but shame.

  He didn't want her.

  He didn't want this.

  The old pain that he had buried deep inside him began to crack open.

  He hated it.

  He hated it all.

  The frozen smiles, the fake kindness, the rules that chained him down.

  For the first time, Summer truly, deeply hated.

  He moved toward her,

  blind with rage and sorrow.

  The woman shrank back but did not resist —

  either resigned to fate or paralyzed by fear.

  But just as Summer reached out,

  two guards kicked open the door, laughing obscenely.

  "Tsk.

  How could you let this white-eyed trash take your first time?

  A dying dog doesn't deserve kindness."

  One of them grabbed the woman, pawing her as she whimpered helplessly.

  "You choose —

  serve us two brothers properly,

  or get sullied by that piece of garbage."

  The woman's eyes flickered.

  Quickly, she wrapped herself around the guard, sobbing as she pressed her body against him.

  The guards laughed crudely.

  Summer stood there, frozen,

  watching his last bit of dignity trampled underfoot.

  In his heart, a monstrous voice howled:

  "Death. Death. Death.

  One day, even if I become a ghost,

  I will drag all of you into hell with me!"

  The owl outside shrieked.

  The coltsfoot flowers shriveled deeper into the snow.

  Summer's white eyes grew colder, darker, more ruthless.

  He pounced.

  In the thick snow, Summer lunged at one of the guards.

  The two tumbled into the snowdrift, fists swinging, bodies grappling.

  The bitter wind howled.

  The snow lashed against them, stinging their skin like knives.

  The guard panicked.

  He hadn't expected a starved, frostbitten boy to fight like a mad dog.

  He forgot to call for backup.

  He forgot he was supposed to be stronger.

  But malnourished bodies break quickly.

  Summer's strength soon gave out.

  The guard recovered and pinned him down,

  pulling a dagger from his belt.

  Slash.

  Slash.

  Slash.

  Three bloody wounds ripped open across Summer's body.

  But Summer clung to him like a rabid wolf, refusing to let go.

  Inside the cabin, the woman screamed.

  The other guard cursed and rushed out.

  Summer fought with everything he had—

  biting, scratching, clawing for his life.

  His head was shoved into the snow.

  Strong hands gripped his throat.

  He was choking.

  Drowning in the icy white.

  So cold...

  So dark...

  He was slipping away.

  Suddenly, the hands loosened.

  Summer gasped for air, coughing violently.

  When he opened his eyes,

  he saw the guard lying dead beside him,

  a dagger buried deep in his throat.

  Blood pooled blackly across the snow.

  Standing nearby was a man he didn't know—

  bronze-skinned, wielding a curved blade.

  "You... you killed him,"

  Summer croaked.

  The man's voice was cold and indifferent:

  "No. You killed him."

  Summer staggered to his feet.

  Pain roared from his wounds,

  but he knew—

  he couldn't stay here.

  He had to run.

  Now.

  But as he moved to flee,

  the stranger stepped in front of him, blade flashing.

  "You want to kill me too?"

  Summer spread his arms wide,

  ready to accept death.

  "Why didn't you fight back earlier?"

  the man asked.

  "Because... I didn't want to live anymore."

  "Then why did you fight just now?"

  Summer was silent for a long time.

  Then whispered:

  "Because... of the woman."

  The man's gaze sharpened.

  He pressed the blade against Summer's neck.

  "You have two sentences left.

  Use them wisely."

  Summer closed his eyes.

  And said hoarsely:

  "Because I saw hope.

  Because... I hate!"

  The storm raged.

  Snow swirled.

  The trees groaned under the weight of winter.

  The man lowered his blade.

  He nodded.

  "Good.

  If you have hatred, you can live."

  He threw a sword onto the ground.

  "Take it.

  Prove you have the guts to survive."

  Summer grabbed the weapon.

  Bursting into the cabin,

  he slashed without hesitation.

  One cut missed.

  The second struck true.

  The male guard slumped dead over the bed.

  The woman shrieked.

  Naked and trembling, she clung to the sheets.

  Summer glanced at her,

  but his heart was empty.

  He ignored her and walked out.

  Outside, the stranger said:

  "You have no way back now."

  Summer nodded.

  From the moment he fought back—

  he was already walking a road with no return.

  "Go northwest,"

  the man said.

  "Over the mountains lies the territory of the Church.

  Whether you survive... that's up to you."

  He paused.

  Then added:

  "Don't take the sword.

  It's too valuable.

  They'll hunt you harder for it."

  Summer hesitated.

  "I've already killed. They'll hunt me anyway."

  The man smiled grimly.

  "True.

  But leave the sword.

  Survive first."

  As Summer turned to leave,

  the man struck him hard in the chest—

  a heavy, freezing blow that knocked the breath from his lungs.

  "Remember this,"

  the man said.

  "Never, ever provoke a stronger enemy unless you're ready to die.

  This is your first lesson in freedom."

  Coughing and gasping,

  Summer stumbled into the blizzard.

  Behind him, the corpse-strewn cabin faded into the storm.

  Ahead, only endless white.

  Above the trees,

  the white-faced owl spread its wings and soared into the blizzard,

  fleeing the merciless winter.

  It could no longer endure the cold.

  Neither could Summer.

  Far away,

  buried deep beneath the snow,

  the coltsfoot flowers withered and slept.

  They would wait.

  Wait for the spring that must surely come.