Luke pushed forward through the snowfield, the wind slicing the air like invisible blades. Moments ago, he had helped Eleanor, and now he was charging across the white wasteland atop his stone horse. Around him, the statues ran, fast, too fast for something lifeless. They tore through the battlefield in a frenzy, crushing whatever scraps of undead still lingered. The storm howled around them, and for a moment it felt like the entire world was moving against him.

"James Bond? Seriously? Still going with that?" Artemis's voice echoed faintly as the stone horse galloped through the blizzard.

"What, you think I'm gonna tell everyone who I am?" Luke replied, eyes locked on the white horizon. "Hey there, I'm Luke, nice to meet you, I'm controlling an army of statues. Yeah, that's not the kind of news I want spreading when they make it back home."

"Relax, Bruce Wayne. You're not hiding in Gotham to protect your loved ones from the Riddler. You could've just introduced yourself like a normal person."

"For the people who needed to know, that was enough." He leaned forward and patted the creature's stone head twice. "Faster."

The horse reared back, then launched forward like a living arrow. The speed nearly tore him off the saddle. The cold stung his face, snowflakes pelting his skin like needles.

"Human… cold… too cold," muttered the snake coiled under his clothes.

"Keep warming up on me, little snake. I still have unfinished business in this frozen hell."

"I'm not warming up on you!" Franky hissed.

"No? Then why are you burrowing deeper into my clothes?"

The snake flicked its tongue but didn't answer.

The horse kept galloping, then suddenly stopped. Ahead, a massive silhouette loomed through the storm, a Warden General. Luke raised his hand.

"Kill," he commanded.

The nearest statues broke formation, charging across the snow. The General swung his halberd, smashing through dozens of them with thunderous blows, but more came. A line of stone archers lifted their bows, loosing volleys in perfect rhythm, each shot slicing through the air with a sharp hiss. The General tried to fight back, but his movements slowed. Even though the statues were level 45, he couldn't withstand that tide of living stone.

Luke watched from behind the mask. The statues didn't follow his voice; they followed his will. The bond between them wasn't spoken but forged, a thread of magic linking their minds together through the artifact's power. The order was absolute and simple: annihilate the undead and protect the living.

As he galloped onward, he passed a group of soldiers who froze at the sight of him. One panicked and fired a spell out of reflex. He didn't blame them. To anyone else, the statues could've just as easily been another army of monsters crawling out of the blizzard. Luke glanced over his shoulder. Hundreds followed in formation: mounted knights on stone steeds, archers with eyes aglow, warriors carved into both human and beastly forms, all marching beneath one unspoken command. The rhythm of their footsteps and hooves struck the earth like a distant drumbeat.

The mission was clear, hunt down the Warden Generals. Behind him, the survivors were with Allison now. He hadn't even had the chance to help or explain; the battlefield was collapsing, and every second mattered. Each statue had to destroy as many undead as possible before the magic faded, before the Warhorn's enchantment ran out and they returned to being nothing more than frozen stone scattered across the snow.

The mask pulsed with weight, a heartbeat that wasn't his. The link between his soul and those creatures was almost suffocating—every motion they made echoed inside him, every time one was shattered he felt a piece of himself fracture with it. Each crack in the living stone carried pain that wasn't entirely theirs.

But there was no time to hesitate. The wind howled across the plains, biting deeper with every gust. The sky hung low and heavy, a smothering dome of gray. Luke leaned forward in the saddle, lowering his center of gravity, and spurred the horse into a sprint. Charlie rested within his soul, recovering mana, stamina, and health faster that way—a flicker of warmth tucked inside the storm.

More statues ran alongside him, gliding over the snow like shadows made of stone. He reached a half-collapsed watchtower, overrun by undead clawing at the walls, trying to breach the defenses. Smoke, frost, and the metallic stench of blood filled the air. The sky above was nearly white, pressing down like the weight of the world.

Luke raised his hand.

The statues—wolves, bears, even a tiger with a cracked marble hide—sprang forward as if alive. Their claws ripped through the undead ranks, crushing, tearing, grinding bodies into the snow. The sound of battle roared around him, a storm of shattering bone and splintered ice.

Five Wardens charged from the ridge, their spears glowing with crimson runes. Each step sent snow spiraling upward in blinding gusts. Luke watched their approach and responded with precision. Spear-bearing statues slid into formation, their movements synchronized like an army that had trained for centuries. One struck from behind, another from the flank. A third twisted to parry a blow, opening a perfect gap for the others. In an instant, three lances pierced the Warden from different angles—chest, abdomen, throat. The creature convulsed, then fell limp, sinking into the snow. The rest followed, crushed under the coordinated fury of living stone.

"Head for the damn castle! Follow the wind!" Luke's voice came muffled through the mask. His steed obeyed, leaping forward, snow exploding in its wake.

Ahead, a great bonfire burned against the storm, a beacon in the chaos—until a towering undead general stomped through it, snuffing out the flames beneath its armored weight. The light died, swallowed by darkness. Panic spread again. Soldiers and statues alike surged into the fight, leaping from the shadows, striking with silent wrath. Luke cut through the chaos without slowing.

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The camp came into view—rows of tattered tents, huddled figures crouching for cover. Stone cavalry thundered between them, their lances skewering anything that broke through the defensive line. The ground was a canvas of blood, snow, and shattered bone. Luke rode through it all like a phantom, never once looking back.

An archer statue galloped past, standing on its own steed, loosing arrows in rapid succession. The creature it targeted—a massive general—turned just in time to block the first shot. The statue's horse circled, drawing its attention, while others closed in from the sides. Within seconds, the monster was on its knees, then still.

Luke lifted his gaze toward the sky.

A faint interface flickered before his eyes, translucent against the storm.

[Estimated Time Until End: 02 hours : 02 minutes : 19 seconds]

The sound of wind and arrows blended with the pounding of his own heartbeat. "Come on, move!" he muttered to the horse, forcing it to change direction.

The statues around him were being hit. Enemy arrows sliced through the air, shattering limbs of stone, breaking helms and shields. Luke weaved through the chaos as best he could, guiding the horse toward the spot he was searching for. When he finally reached it, he saw a group of maids gathered around a field of corpses—the remains of the fallen generals and undead.

"It's me, Luke!" he shouted, raising both hands to show they were empty.

The archer maidens hesitated. Some lowered their bows, but others kept their arrows trained on him.

"Oh, so these are the ones you bother to identify yourself to," Artemis muttered.

"Of course. They actually shoot first," Luke replied, voice steady.

A volley of arrows struck the snow at the horse's hooves. "Take off the mask!" one of the women barked, suspicion sharp in her tone.

"I can't explain why," he said. "But I can't take it off. I just need to speak with your lady. It's urgent."

From the group, two figures stepped forward—Erza Grimhart, tall and unflinching even in the freezing wind, and Anne beside her.

"Assassin?" Erza asked, her voice firm despite the cold. Snow fell across her shoulders like a pale cloak.

"It's me," Luke said. "Didn't exactly make our one-hour deal. Though technically, I'm a few minutes early. Would you come with me? We need to head to that damned castle."

***

Oswald stood in the middle of the storm, and that night was, without question, the hardest of his life. The war that would decide his fate had begun—and he'd started in the worst possible place. He trudged forward through the snow, every step sinking to his ankles. The wind screamed with unnatural force, pushing him back, each gust carrying faint echoes of wailing voices. This night would be remembered as the White Inferno—and he was trapped dead center in it.

The war had opened in chaos. Jonathan had stolen his crossbow and enchanted quiver—the only system-bound gear that made him useful in combat. Sure, he still had two spare crossbows tucked away in his pocket dimension, but without bolts, they were as good as scrap. Bartholomew had always told him to keep extra ammunition. When Oswald had been captured, his dimensional bracelet was emptied, and at the time, he hadn't cared. He'd trusted the enchanted quiver. Then that, too, was taken.

Now, in the middle of a war, he couldn't even fire a shot.

They'd sent him to the rear lines, paired with a maid responsible for tending the wounded and protecting civilians under Lady Erza's command. The cold burned like fire, and panic spread among the huddled survivors as the storm descended in full. The undead surged forward like a dark tide, and the air itself seemed to collapse under the weight of despair.

Oswald hid inside an empty barrel, body trembling, heart pounding so loudly he was sure it would give him away. When he finally crawled out, he grabbed the first sword he could find, its blade half-buried in snow. His courage lasted right up until the moment a Midnight Warden stepped through the fog. The creature moved with heavy, deliberate steps—slow, but unstoppable. Each one brought it closer.

The allied army was already retreating toward the fortress. The bonfires had been snuffed out by the wind, plunging the battlefield into pitch darkness. The snow reflected what little light remained like a tarnished mirror. The screams blended with the storm's howls until Oswald couldn't tell which belonged to the living and which to the dead. He stumbled through the wreckage, tripping over crates and shredded tents. The cold crawled up his body like poison, numbing everything it touched. When his legs finally gave out, he fell face-first into the snow. Turning his head, he saw them—three Wardens advancing through the blizzard, massive silhouettes framed by the swirling white.

Terror rooted him to the ground.

For a moment, Oswald thought it was over. Then a sound shattered the wind—heavy, resonant, like stone colliding with steel. The impact echoed through the storm, followed by a sharp crack that rolled across the frozen field. He lifted his head and saw it. A stone horse charged across the battlefield, a black-clad rider astride its back. The creature slammed into the Wardens with brutal force, smashing them apart like hollow shells. Ice and rotten flesh exploded outward, vanishing into the storm.

Oswald could only stare. The rider said nothing at first, only turned his head toward him. When he finally spoke, his voice cut through the wind—low, steady, and filled with power.

"Run."

Oswald ran without thinking. His body moved on instinct alone, driven by fear and the howling wind. His legs burned, his chest felt like it was on fire. Around him, the battlefield had become a corridor of shadows. The statues stood in formation, lining the path, protecting the living while clashing against the horrors closing in. Each impact echoed like muffled thunder beneath the snow.

"Keep moving! Don't fall behind!" someone shouted.

Oswald joined the flow of people, women, children, the elderly, wounded soldiers carried by their comrades. The line seemed endless. He didn't know a single face, but they all ran together, bound by the same desperate will to survive. Guards held torches along the corridor, the flames painting golden circles over the snow.

"Stay together! Keep moving!" they yelled, trying to impose order while the world behind them burned and screamed.

With every step, Oswald felt the storm's intensity change. The closer they got to the castle, the weaker the wind became, as if the place itself repelled the blizzard. But the cold remained, sharp and alive, cutting through every breath. He looked toward the fortress, and a memory struck him, the last words of Bartholomew, written in the letter he had read before the war began. Words that now echoed in his mind like a prophecy.

"Oswald, this tutorial is different. There's only one like it in each universe. It's the glue that binds the layers together, the final stage."

The sentences had always felt cryptic, filled with terms he barely understood. But he had memorized every word like a prayer.

"It's a game of chess, Oswald. The pawn is about to reach the last square and become a queen. That's what this is. The ones thrown into this tutorial aren't random. We're pieces, each one a door to what comes from beyond, each with a purpose of their own."

The wind seemed to whisper those words now, weaving them between the distant towers. Oswald kept his eyes fixed on the castle ahead. He didn't know what waited for him inside. But for the first time, he understood that he was part of something far greater than a simple war.

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