Dark Tower

Ah Chan shuffled up the rocks, her neck tucked into her scarf, her eyes narrowed to slits. The biting wind of
the Yuktrashir Mountains swept across the snow-covered peaks, carrying tiny ice crystals that struck the steep cliffs
with a crisp sound.

This was Mimir Peak in the Yuktrashir Mountains. "Mimi" was
the name . On this snow-capped peak, the Lotharan people built temples to their gods—their faith.

The snow wolf's soft fur kept out the cold wind, but the aching in her muscles continued to assault her consciousness.
She struggled to climb onto a natural stone platform, looked up, and saw that it was already half dark. Through the wind and snow, she could vaguely make out
the outlines of distant buildings.

When was the last time she had been to the Great Temple? Five years? Or seven? She couldn't quite remember
. Back then, she was just a little girl of about ten, innocent and naive, and the path up the mountain
wasn't nearly as difficult as it was now.

A stone bell tower stood at the fortress entrance, its ropes tattered and worn, the old bell
covered in rust and thick ice.

"I am Cicada of the Frost Clan. Frostfang! I have come to hear the teachings of the Light King!" Her voice was loud, almost
a ripping scream. Cicada prayed silently that her voice wouldn't be drowned out by the wind… There was no turning
back.

The gondola slowly rose along the outer wall. She saw the frozen gate, its
metal rusted and clearly unopened for a long time.

Descending from the gondola, she was met by an old man dressed as a shepherd. The young warriors had all gone
west with the priests; this place was mostly inhabited by villagers from nearby villages.

She shook off the snowflakes, removed her scarf and leggings, and accepted the hand warmer the old man offered. The charcoal fire
warmed her frozen fingers.

"She's the daughter of the Frost Clan," the old man said, carrying the basket to a corner. When he returned, he was carrying a teapot. "Walking
this arduous road must have been difficult. Have some ginger tea to warm yourself up."

She noticed red tattoos on the old man's fingers; judging from the outline, they seemed to be the emblem of the Rock Clan, but she
couldn't the details, nor could she tell which tribe the old man belonged to.

"Thank you," A-Chan said, taking the teacup and sipping it slowly. The warmth seeped into her
body, driving away the chill brought by the wind and snow.

After a long while, the old man looked at the sky outside, tugged on the thin rope tied to the windowsill, and a tinkling
sound came from the eaves.

Soon after, someone pushed open the door and came in.

"Sen, you stay here and watch over her. I'll take this little girl to the temple." The old man gave a few instructions and then led
A-Chan inside.

Years ago, she was just a little girl, but now, returning here, she was awestruck by the grandeur of the temple.

She had only climbed a bunker on the outskirts of the temple; only when she reached the back of the fortress could she see
a corner of the main temple.

A colossal bridge constructed of Mimir's Frostrock connected the fortress to the main peak, its weathered rock bearing the marks of countless
ages. Perhaps only the gods could have created such a structure, Achan thought silently.

Many more such bridges stretched as far as the eye could see, their stones also part of the main peak.
The builders here had used the entire mountain as material to construct these miraculous structures.

On the icy cliffs surrounding the temple were carved colossal statues resembling mountains—the gods of Lotharan.

Achan suddenly stopped, looking up at one of the statues. A strong wind whipped
snow onto her head and face, but she felt no reaction, only her hands trembled slightly.

It was Mimir, the first Frost King, the ancestor of the Frost Clan; his blood flowed in the veins of every Frost Clan descendant.

Its image was incomplete; huge cracks stretched from its shoulder to its entire body, its right arm was
missing , one side of its head was gone, and broken stones littered its feet. The only remaining eye seemed to still gleam,
but it had long lost its former spirit.

She clasped her hands together, closed her eyes slightly, and bowed to the ancestral statue before turning back to continue walking.

"Warm your hands," the old man said, handing her a hand warmer. "It's been years since anyone has worshipped here."

"The priests to the west are busy fighting with the tribes for territory; our Frost Clan hasn't had a ceremony in a long time,
" Achan said softly, seemingly suppressing her resentment. She sniffed, her emotions fluctuating.

"They just bully us, exploiting us under the guise of the Holy Spirit, they can't even protect the statues of our ancestors!"

"There's nothing we can do about it," the old man said, looking at the statue. "The Christians have come, the land is less, the population is more.
They're human too, they need a place to live, they need food to eat. If you want to blame someone, blame the Christians."

Achan stopped talking. Since the war four years ago, the Lotharan people had lost
the vast plains east of Yggdrasil. The Christian army had pushed them to the other side of the mountains. This place used to be the core of Lotharan, but
now it had become the border. Steel monsters patrolled the skies there, emitting terrifying roars. The metallic
rumble and the scorching air constantly reminded the Lotharan people that the world had changed.

The temple itself hadn't changed much, except that
many of . The ones higher up were relatively well preserved, but below were just bare rocks, presumably
taken by those who left back then.

The walls of the main hall are adorned with large murals depicting the history of Lotharan. In the center, where a
statue of a deity should be, lies empty except for a beam of light—the creator of Lotharan, the Lord of Light, has
left .

Further back hangs a massive portrait, added later: the witch, Zhnevi.
Sivaril .

Unlike the other kings, she was not the ancestor of any tribe; no one even knows where she
came from or what blood flowed through her veins.

People's memories of her are limited to the war between the Church of the Mihe Plains and Lotharan many years ago, where purple
energy arcs shattered the earth, sweeping across the sky, reducing everything in their path, flesh and steel, to nothingness.

…

The old man knocked on the door of the side hall.

"Come in,"

Achan followed him inside. The priest's hair was now gray, and he exuded an unconcealable air of age; five
years ago, he was full of vigor, in the prime of his life.

"My lord, I've brought a Frost Clan girl with me." The old man took off his scarf, hung it on the rack by the door,
greeted her, and walked straight to the back.

"A daughter of the Frost Clan, it's quite rare to see her at the temple at this time." Hegel put down his book, leaned
back , and squinted at the girl before him.

"Long time no see, Muta (meaning "teacher" in Lotharan)." Achan bowed slightly, her heart
trembling—Hegel's eyesight had deteriorated further; compared to five years ago, the light in his eyes had dimmed considerably.
Back then , he would rather die than wear glasses.

"Ah, Achan is back." Hegel was somewhat surprised. "You've grown into a young lady." He stood
up and patted her head. "Please sit down, I'll go tidy up a room later."

Achan blushed. She was born here, and for almost half of her seventeen or eighteen years of life,
this man had led her, guiding pilgrims, running around in little witch's clothes.

"I'm not a child anymore," Achan wiped her eyes, a tear falling from them.

"Oh dear, oh dear, why are you crying? Cats pee too much..."

Achan wiped away her overflowing tears, her eyes red, and hugged Hegel's neck,
unable to speak .

Achan murmured in the priest's ear, her voice choked and indistinct, mixed with indistinct syllables. Only
words like "Frost Clan," "exiled priest," and "theocracy" could be vaguely discerned, roughly describing her experiences over the years. Hegel
simply held her, letting the overflowing tears soak the fur coat on his shoulders. Many years ago, he had done the same,
carrying the infant Achan from one place to another, but his body was no longer what it used to be,
and Achan had grown up.

Achan's voice grew softer and softer, and she eventually fell into a deep sleep—she was too tired, having
walked alone from the distant north to the Mimir Snow Peak on the border, not knowing how much hardship she had endured along the way.

Hegel learned much about the events unfolding in the west from travelers who had visited in recent years.

The priests, representing the orthodox order, had left the temple. The remaining forces of various clans who had fled from the east
had replaced the temple's royal guards. People who had lost their homes surrounded the order, and even though they
suffered heavy casualties under the Church's artillery fire, the combined
strength .

This new united clan possessed an unprecedentedly large army, and the nascent order wielded
the powerful weapon of "faith." Nearly half the continent's population poured into the western lands, making the vast plains suddenly crowded.
They occupied a large swathe of land from the far west of Liver Harbor to the northern Misty Forest, and
continued to expand—land that had originally belonged to the Frost Clan.

He wondered who had united such a force, leading them so far
to the far west of Lotharan, and how they had established themselves in unfamiliar lands, shedding countless unnecessary
blood.

He squinted, banishing the jumbled thoughts from his mind, stood up, and carried A-Chan to
the bedside. He reached out to unbutton her outer garments and shoes, covered her with a quilt, and suddenly his fingers touched something soft.

"She's grown up so much already, definitely not a child anymore." Hegel reached out and kneaded A-Chan's full
breasts , laughing self-deprecatingly.

...

"Priest, quick... quick, come and see!" The old man's urgent cry interrupted his thoughts.

Large white curtains hung in the back hall, dividing it into small rooms. Through some of the lifted curtains, one could
see low beds inside, and most of the people lying on them were emaciated, with few still having any color in their faces.
On the ground beside them, there were mostly dirty women with children.

These were mostly men from the tribe. The witch's miraculous magic had halted the advance of the Church's people
at the foot of Yggdrasil, but those who remained on the border, unwilling to migrate, still frequently
encountered the Church's guards. Thanks to the complexities of the mountainous terrain, the Lotharan people and the Church maintained a strange
balance here.

Those roaring, fire-breathing, lightning-spitting steel monsters were unable to exert their full
power in this place. The witch's magic had burned away the magical energy that filled this land, creating a magical vacuum that stretched across the continent of
Lotharan . The deeper those creatures ventured into this region, the weaker they became.

When the tribal warriors and the guards of the Church Kingdom met here, a fierce, life-or-death battle was inevitable.
For the Church Kingdom, the Lotharan warriors of the Yggdrasil Mountains were perhaps the last thing they wanted to encounter.
Once they met on a narrow path, unless they could retreat to their camp in time, the result would always be the annihilation of one side,
blood staining the ground. These people, clad in animal hides and wielding crude weapons, seemed to possess a fanatical
spirit , fearless of death. Even with severed limbs, they would bite the necks of the Church Kingdom's warriors. During the Mithril War
, some physicians had been bitten to death by prisoners; here, it was even more so.

The Church Kingdom suffered particularly heavy casualties in Yggdrasil, and similarly, the Lotharan also shed
considerable blood. For a long time, the temple served as a medical facility.

Before becoming a priest, Hegel was a physician, and as the number of wounded increased, he had to
prepare for use as a ward—presumably, the King of Light wouldn't mind his priest using his temple to heal his
people.

The boy stared blankly at the white sheet on the bedside table. His wrists and forehead were wrapped in thick gauze, but his most serious
injury was on his leg. Half of his foot was missing, and the half-unwrapped gauze was smeared with a ghastly red stain. Bone fragments
protruded through the rotting flesh, and the stench of decay filled the air.

Hegel frowned, sighed, and squatted down to carefully examine the gauze. It was said that this guy had single-handedly
killed three Theocracy soldiers, returning covered in blood, and by the time he arrived, he was already half-dead.
The old man was the boy's grandfather; his father had died on the battlefield of Mihe five years ago, which explained his
deep hatred for the Theocracy.

"No hope. Just wait to die." Hegel put down what he was holding, glanced at the boy on the bed, and took out
a bottle to prepare a potion. "He's not even fully grown yet, and he's already trying to fight the Theocracy like those lunatics
. He deserves to die."

"No, no, no..." The boy suddenly struggled, his eyes fixed on Hegel, as if...
What was there for Buddha to argue about?

"Oh, think you're some kind of hero?" Hegel poured the prepared liquid onto the wound, making a hissing
sound and sending up white smoke.

"Aaaaaaahhhhhh..." the boy wailed, his face contorted, clearly suffering immense pain.

"Let's see you be tougher then?" Hegel picked up his tools and began cleaning the wound. "This blood should have
flowed five years ago. What the hell is it to go looking for revenge now?"

He turned to the old man. "This is all I can do. Go back and prepare for the funeral."

"Priest, priest... please save him! He's only seventeen. I know you must have a way." The old man
crawled to Hegel and hugged his leg. "The Sen family's child was even more seriously injured last year?"

"I said there's no hope, and that's it." Hegel lowered his eyes and looked at the old man. "Kneeling won't help.
After this cleansing, the infection will continue. Last year is last year. I have no more medicine available... I am a doctor, not a wizard.
I can't cure diseases by chanting spells and dancing, nor can I conjure medicine out of thin air. As long as you can get me some medicine, whether
it's Radiant Silver, Frost Branch, or Yu Salt, it doesn't matter. As long as you can prepare a dose, I can cure him. But can you
?"

Without waiting for the old man's reply, he shook off his hand and walked outside. He raised his head and closed his eyes.
He could no longer hear the old man's voice. The white cloth in his eyes seemed to transform into banners for summoning souls, fluttering
slowly . The gazes staring at him from behind the banners almost drove him mad. He suddenly had an
impulse—to set a big fire and burn this place to the ground, leaving not even ashes.

He calmed himself slightly and returned to the small room in the front hall. Achan was fast asleep. He added
some firewood to the fireplace, pulled up a chair, and took a picture book from the shelf. He sat down in front of the fireplace and began to turn the pages.

...

Achan suddenly sat up. It was completely dark. The small room was unlit, with only
a faint ember glow from the fireplace. The priest sat by the fireplace, his shadow cast on the wall behind him. The room
was silent. She put on her coat and got up, suddenly remembering some unfinished business.

Although a carpet was laid out, Achan shivered from the cold as she walked barefoot. She pulled up a small stool,
threw some firewood into the fire, and then placed her feet on the edge of the fire pit.

Hegel tilted his head back, his eyes half-closed, and occasionally let out soft snores—the priest was asleep
.

He held a book in his hand, and in the dim light, Achan could vaguely make out the pictures: white
stones studded with tiny blue fragments. When she was a child, Hegel had taught her to recognize many medicines,
one of which was Yu Salt, a specialty of the Rock Clan, a kind of medicine that could be used to kill poison. The blue powder
, sprinkled on festering wounds, would ignite fiercely with just a few sparks. The pain from using it was probably no less than
the pain of having the wound opened, but the intense pain brought excellent results. It was the most effective antidote; only
a tiny amount of Yu Salt was needed to treat even the worst wounds.

Seemingly sensing Achan's movements, Hegel slowly opened his eyes. The priest's once tall body now
appeared somewhat hunched, his shadow swaying and flickering in the firelight.

"Ah, Muta, I…" Achan began, pausing before continuing, "I want to erase the family crest."

"No," Hegel glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and said indifferently.

"I…" Achan was about to say something when Hegel waved his hand, interrupting her.

"I know what you want to do. According to the oracle of the King of Light, the priests do not have
the right to refuse a Lotharan's wish to become a free man, but as your Muta, I must agree to do this before you come of age.
If you just don't want to stay in the west, you can stay here for a few months
and tell me your decision next June when you come of age." Hegel closed the book, casually tossed it onto the carpet beside him, leaned forward,
clasped his hands together, and rested his chin on them.

“Since the second half of this year, dozens of children your age have come here, wanting to leave Losaran
for the Theocracy. This is what I've always told them.” He stared at Achan. “Do you think this land has left you with nothing but this tattoo over
the years ?”

“I know I will never be a Theocracy person.” Achan suddenly raised her head and met Hegel’s
gaze. “But Muta, even so, I still want to travel to the land of the Theocracy. I want to know
what like. I want to know their origins, their beliefs, everything about them. Muta, please
… guide me.”

“Oh?” Hegel remained expressionless. “You think you’re the protagonist of a legendary story;
that can always turn misfortune into good fortune and always have benefactors to help you when you arrive?”

“Stories are indeed happening in this world, but you are not the protagonist of this story. You are just
a small, ordinary girl, just one of the so-called confused ‘people,’ doing things that are not
your own , and the only result will be dying on the road.” Achan

didn't understand these dreamlike words, her thoughts interrupted by a bloodcurdling scream coming from the back hall...
The sound was so piercing in the silent night, but Hegel seemed not to hear it, his eyes fixed on the flames,
lost in thought.

After a long time, the sound gradually faded away.

"That man, like you, had nothing but a burning passion. He went to the territory of the Christians to kill
and burn , had his hand cut off, and came here seeking medical help. Some things can be done with a burning passion, but no
one will bear the consequences for you. Do you want to ask him what he thinks?"

Hegel sighed. He knew that the wound was most likely aggravated when the dressing was changed. He remembered the voice
and the still-childish face. Most of those seeking medical help here were young people, and they were all young people,
shedding their blood in pointless places. They should have been learning skills, becoming priests, or acquiring knowledge.
Among them should have been noble priests, excellent hunters, learned scholars, and elegant poets... But all
of that was gone. They were about to die. The dead can't do anything. All he could do was to
lessen their suffering before they died.

"Muta, please give me guidance," Achan murmured, looking at the small door leading to the back hall.

"Go to sleep." Hegel got up, holding a candle, and walked towards the back hall. "You can't help them."

...

The howling snowstorm that had raged all winter suddenly stopped. Sunlight pierced through the clouds and shone on the snow-covered rooftops.
Pushing open the door, the intense light made it almost impossible for A-Chan to open her eyes.

The snow in the yard had been swept clean, and large sheets of white cloth hung on makeshift racks. A bonfire was lit in the
yard , with a huge iron basin on top. Hegel, sleeves rolled up and arms
bare, was pulling out boiled white cloths to dry them. Seeing A-Chan arrive, he beckoned her to help.

Although a girl, A-Chan possessed strength no less than a boy's. The rising steam condensed into tiny
droplets on her face, and the cold wind made her shiver. It took them quite a bit of effort to
hang everything up.

"Ah Chan," Hegel said, sitting on a rock by the fire, looking at the sun
. "After this busy period, I'll take you to see the Rock Clan's territory, okay?"

"Go to the Rock Clan? What for?" Ah Chan waved her hand. "I hate those rocks. You go if you want,
I'm not going." The Rock Clan, besides the Frost Clan, was one of the main tribes of Lotharan. In her mind,
the Rock Clan people seemed to be dull and unromantic simpletons.

"To find my Ah Chan a little husband, hahaha," Hegel laughed.

"I don't want to," Ah Chan turned her head away, pouting. Beside Hegel, she was like a
child ; only then did she unconsciously relax.

An old man wrapped in a fur coat emerged from a corner of the courtyard, carrying a bundle of white sheets. Ah Chan recognized
him as the old man who had led her to Hegel yesterday.

"Corian, go home," Hegel said, somewhat hesitant to look him in the eye. This man trusted him so much,
yet he could only watch helplessly as his child slowly died.

"What are you talking about?" The old man put down his things, revealing his travel attire. Achan noticed his shoes—
thick-soled military boots made of calfskin, with sturdy leggings; only someone about to embark on a long journey would wear
such gear.

"I'm not at the age to retire yet,"

Hegel also noticed his attire. "What are you doing…?"

"Going to find medicine. You know, I'm not one to sit and wait to die." Corian's fur coat reflected the
sunlight . He carried a satchel on his back and held a scabbarded sword in one hand. The exposed blade was covered in
small scratches, yet it still gleamed with a chilling light—it was still a weapon capable of killing, even though it had been
covered in dust for many years, just like its master.

Corian's azure pupils were now cloudy, but his gaze was sharp as a hawk's, not
at all like that of a frail old man.

“There’s no medicine around here anymore. I’ve searched everywhere,” Hegel tossed the white cloth into the basin and
added a few scoops of water.

“Even if you went to the Rock Clan now, it would be too late. Why waste your energy?”

“Who said there isn’t any…” Corian smiled, raised his hand, and pointed in a direction.

“There, they’re everywhere!”

“You… I think you’ve gone mad.” Corian pointed to the east, the territory of the Church. “Don’t underestimate the former
Mountain Spirits.” Corian smoothed his hair, the mountain wind blowing as he stood in the wind. “Even if I’ve lost all my teeth,
my knife is still sharp.”

The Mountain Spirits was an organization operating in the Rock Clan and Yggdrasil regions. Ten years ago, they were
one of the most notorious assassin groups in Lotharan. But since the Church arrived, they suddenly became heroic
figures. However, after an incident two years ago, the organization disappeared without a trace. No one would have imagined that
a former Mountain Spirit assassin was hiding in this abandoned temple.

Korian slowly walked away. As Chan watched the old man's thin back, she suddenly turned back and asked Hegel, "Muta,
when are we going to the Rock Clan?"

"Soon, soon..."

The day after Korian left, a young man carrying a longbow struggled to
climb .

"My name is Sexuan, an envoy of the Rock Clan."

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