Whispers of the Past, Awakening in Ice

A cremation ceremony.

The scorching sun’s brilliance descended along the staff, igniting the corpses of both the bloodkin and their victims. Clad in red and white robes, a lector stood before the blazing flames, loudly praising the brilliance of Lady Vatitaya.

The sunset from six years ago, veiled by the mists of memory, fell upon Bertram. He stood beneath a red maple, gazing from afar at the cremation ceremony, as townsfolk bustled below the platform, gathered in a throng.

“How do you feel?” he asked, turning his head.

The twelve-year-old girl beside him was as serene as a platinum sculpture. Only her lightly blinking, sea-blue eyes held a faint spark of life. Merely by standing there, she exuded an unapproachable, chilling aura.

“Are you asking me, Godfather?” Gwynevere’s hands were clasped around her staff, her gaze remaining fixed on the burning flames, unwavering.

“Of course. You personally defeated those bloodkin, and many townsfolk were saved because of you.” Bertram smiled benignly. “You’ve grown so much in these six years, becoming completely different from your past self.”

“Nothing is different, Godfather,” Gwynevere said softly. “I couldn’t save everyone. Now they are also in the fire, alongside those bloodfiends.”

“The bloodkin’s disguises are flawless. No one could have foreseen this,” Bertram shook his head. “Anyone could have been a bloodkin; before they revealed their fangs, no one could distinguish them.”

“You might think I’m blaming myself, feeling guilty, but that’s not it. I’m merely stating facts.” The young Saintess’s voice was frighteningly calm, her indifferent gaze still fixed on the distant flames. “I know this is inevitable, just as when you saved me. Even you couldn’t save everyone.”

His Holiness, the Pope, remained silent for a long time. He looked up towards the edge of the clouds, where the scarlet twilight resembled burning flames.

“Are you tired?” he suddenly asked after a moment.

Gwynevere paused, surprised. She withdrew her gaze, then gently looked up at Bertram beside her. “Are you referring to…?”

“Your own mind is a blank slate, yet you constantly try to guess others’ thoughts. Isn’t that exhausting?” Bertram asked again.

The young Saintess lowered her head, her eyelids gently falling. “I don’t know.”

“I only know that it has given me many opportunities to observe others,” she added a moment later. “To witness how different people react to the same situation. That, at least, is interesting.”

“So, you’ve seen right through me?” Bertram raised an eyebrow.

“If everyone is a book, then what you show appears as uninteresting as a single page,” Gwynevere shook her head. “But I know that isn’t the real you.”

“They say you don’t understand human hearts. I see the opposite,” Bertram said indifferently. “You simply understand them too profoundly.”

Gwynevere watched His Holiness, the Pope, turn away with light steps. “Are you leaving, Godfather?”

“I found a young girl named Edith in the slums, a year younger than you. She might possess the talent to see through bloodkin disguises. We’re leaving here tomorrow, and before we go, I’ve decided to take her back to Salentz.” Bertram didn’t look back; he merely paused for a moment.

“What about the cremation ceremony?”

“You will be the Vice-Commander of the Templar Knights in the future. Start trying to command them now. This cremation ceremony is yours to oversee.”

The wind blew gently from afar. Red maple leaves, illuminated by the twilight, resembled flickering specks of flame. Gwynevere tucked a wisp of platinum hair, fluttering by her cheek, behind her ear. Her eyes reflected the retreating figure of the person she revered.

Just as it had been on that night of salvation, nothing had ever truly changed.

“Travel safely. May Lady Vatitaya’s radiance always shine upon you, my Godfather.” She lowered her eyelids, then whispered a prayer.

****

‘How strange. Why are all my dreams about her memories?’

However, Gwynevere hadn’t been wrong.

Neither His Holiness, Pope Bertram, nor any of her other avatars playing roles across the world, represented her true self. Daphne simply chose a stereotypical image that fit the character’s impression and tried her best to embody it.

In fact, becoming a girl wasn’t entirely unacceptable. Many of her avatars presented themselves as female, so naturally, she had to learn feminine mannerisms and speech patterns.

Now, with the ‘Bertram’ character, a max-level persona, sealed away, all her avatars vanished simultaneously. Daphne, along with the future legendary lords she had previously invested in and nurtured, temporarily lost contact.

The plan to save the world suffered a massive blow. She had even begun to consider abandoning it altogether.

But it was too early to dwell on such thoughts. First, she needed to open her eyes.

It was so dark.

For a moment, Daphne thought her eyelids hadn’t opened. Only after blinking several times did she confirm that her surroundings were simply devoid of light.

And incredibly cramped.

She was forced into a burial pose, her left hand pressed against her right shoulder, and her right hand against her left. The necklace clutched in her left palm felt hard, cold, and dug uncomfortably into her hand. Her entire body was restricted, making her extremely uncomfortable.

‘Where in the world did my MOD Father put me? Surely I’m not actually in a coffin?’

‘Locked in here to suffocate, a one-step process. It even saved the burial costs and the coffin money. How considerate.’

Daphne was certainly not content to wait for death. So, she began to kick and bump around.

“Eek!—”

After a few thumps and bangs, the half-bloodkin girl let out a piercing shriek.

Once the coffin lid, triggered by some unknown mechanism, automatically opened, the half-bloodkin girl lying inside had already rolled her eyes back and temporarily lost consciousness.

It took Daphne almost half a minute to regain her senses. She struggled to sit up from the stone coffin. A gust of icy wind made her shiver uncontrollably. “Hiss, it’s so cold!”

She seemed to be in a stone tomb or mausoleum. The walls and floor were covered in frost and ice crystals. Reaching out, she ran a finger along the coffin’s edge, collecting a shimmering dusting of snow.

The surface of the opened coffin lid bore a bas-relief: a crowned skeleton embraced a longsword, while winding branches and drooping ghost pipes encircled the carving at its center.

This small, secret chamber contained six stone coffins in total—three on this side, three on the other. A wide aisle ran down the middle, and each coffin lid bore the same skull bas-relief.

Daphne recognized this place.

There was no mistake.

This was indeed the interior of a mausoleum.

Sleeping here was a great and fearsome king. Yet, he was not a king of the living.

On the frozen lands belonging to night and winter, he was the true master of Klogtia, the Land of the Dead. He was the supreme being to whom Archlich Brumfield had sworn eternal fealty, and all liches and necromancers were willing to venerate him as the God of the Dead.

Even if Archlich Brumfield temporarily ruled Klogtia as regent, no one would question the absolute authority and prestige of the king in the tomb. When he once again rose from the frosty permafrost, the Archlich would undoubtedly return the crown of gold and diamonds exactly as it was.

Althuja would live forever. His soul was one with this land.

The King of the Dead would resurrect countless times from his icy tomb, countless times he would be crowned by legions of undead in Klogtia, and countless times he would traverse mountains veiled in drifting snow and frost.

When twilight arrived, night and winter would spread throughout the world under his sword.