Rolan trudged through the snow on his return journey, but a problem soon arose: navigating his way back. He was hopelessly lost due to the seemingly identical landscape. Left, right, behind, and ahead—all looked the same: blinding white patches of land.

Rolan waited in the middle of three ice hills, scouting the area for any landmarks he could find. Unfortunately, there were none. To make matters worse, he kept hearing a repeated clicking from the near distance; though low, Rolan knew something was going on.

He pretended not to notice and sighed bitterly. 'I can't let any strange thoughts fill my mind. I am Rolan the Swindler right now; in order to make my new persona convincing, I have to formulate a new behavioral pattern.'

Rolan kept trekking like a lost adventurer until....beneath the snow far from him, something out of place caught his eye. 'A landmark?' he speculated.

If it was one he was familiar with, everything was solved. The abnormal increase in snow made it difficult to distinguish the landscape after all. Rolan rushed towards it, his joints hindered by the malevolent snow and its chilling presence.

He slid to a halt by the supposed landmark. Instead of a recognizable object, it resembled a possession buried by the snow. Rolan dug through the crystalline pile of hellish - white snow, his shivering eyes locked in as he grit his chattering teeth; the cold toyed with his vulnerable features.

Piercing through the snow with his nails, Rolan parted the snow until he saw what lay beneath. To his greatest dismay, the snow was tainted by a deep red that turned its peaceful appearance into a horrific scene. Going deeper, his nails pierced through something soft and equally cold. A squishing sound resonated loudly as he pulled back his hand.

Rolan turned his gaze to his retracting hand; on the tips of his fingers and under his nails was a stain of partly hardened blood that shone beneath the weak Antarctic light like a harbinger of upcoming dread. Rolan's eyes flew wide open as he slowly parted his jaw.

With sharp movements, he dug both arms into the grave and flung out the corpse buried inside.

Rolan pulled out the top half of a dead man; his bottom half was missing, with intestines and a shattered pelvic bone serving as a grim decoration. In a moment of fright, Rolan tossed the corpse into the far end of the blazing snow and winds.

'What the hell...'

He looked below; what he had spotted before was the piece of a boot hanging out of the snow. Rolan wheezed as he fell on one knee, the surprise catching him off guard. Weakly, he pulled the boot from the ground and examined it.

Its temperature and condition led Cole to believe the slaughter had happened only recently—about five hours ago, to be exact. 'I only assumed trials involved putting human lives at risk. Then again, catering to frail human life is sort of part of an indulgers job, I guess.'

'Still, why send a bunch of rookies on a mission where people's lives are at stake?' Rolan furrowed his brows in a contemplating manner. 'No matter how much I want to, I simply can't wrap my head around the mentality that supports this. Unless they see the average human life as test subjects, that is.'

BADUMP!

Rolan felt a strong chill run through his body; the Venerable heart in his chest roared like a car engine, as if it were reacting to something. The sharp, squeezing pain originating from the area made Rolan clench his chest as he curled into a ball.

'Shit, shit!'

His senses distorted and stretched; the snow climbing onto his face seemed so distant yet close at the same time. His sense of cold and warmth broke, leaving him with a confusing feeling.

BANG!

Rolan slammed his fist against the snow and inhaled sharply. Instantaneously, everything reverted, and his heart simmered down to its steady beating. He turned back to the corpse, glaring with narrowed eyes for a moment before getting up and walking towards it.

Rolan's expression went dark; the air felt murky and thin, yet loose all at the same time—a baffling sensation. Rolan calmly crouched and examined the body; his fingertips were greeted by a brief spark.

Rolan chuckled in a low tone, covered his face, and then gradually burst into hysterical laughter. He bit his lip and bowed his head; the region from his temples to his nostrils stung due to the cold, or perhaps something else.

"This man is an Indulger," he whispered, rubbing his forehead.

Maybe it was due to the cold that Rolan's senses hadn't been functioning at full capacity previously, especially his sense of smell. But now, he smelled an overpowering stench of blood floating in the air, so overwhelming it couldn't have sourced from the single corpse before him.

'How didn't I notice this before?'

He got up and searched the area as best he could, using his smell as a guide. Behind a ridge-like pile of snow was a corpse; under a large snowman was a dismembered corpse; in the frozen lake, a terrifying red hue froze with the water. Though obscure, body parts peeped through in some places.

Rolan wiped his mouth clean. He didn't throw up nor revolt in disgust; he simply tried to clear the ominous taste disturbing his tongue as it stuck to his lips. With his returned sense of smell, Rolan realized he was in the midst of an unwilling graveyard for many. The scene of a massacre, to be more accurate.

He couldn't do much for them, nor was he obligated to. Still, Rolan's heart intensified with ferocious beats, yet his mind was blank and almost unbothered. Rolan shut his eyes and concentrated on nothing; after a few minutes of self-conversation and silence, he arrived at a conclusion.

Rolan fished out every corpse in the area, counted them, and memorized the number. After which, he dug through the snow, crafting proper graves equivalent to the number of corpses he found.

Despite being made of snow, each grave was ten meters apart with a solid internal layout and broken ice fragments for decoration. Most of the corpses were dismembered; thus, the ones he couldn't identify with a face or discernible figure were placed in the same grave, while the ones he could identify were respectfully placed in individual graves.

Rolan then bowed, muttering respectful parting words to the deceased in hopes that their souls would find peace. He then carried large stacks of snow; the mere contact injured his skin as it turned a pale white, and small blisters appeared in the arm region.

Four hours passed, and Rolan successfully covered each grave he made. He also broke the frozen lake full of corpses and buried the parts he could find. Rolan felt his body was at peace; the sight was absurdly calming to his heart, though his mind still had a few objections.

Short on time, Rolan got back on his feet, gave the burial ground a parting bow, and continued on his return journey. He used the left side to prevent disturbing them.

Walking with tucked hands, Rolan found a small pole hanging out of a bedding of snow.

It had three arrows pointing out from its rod; on their bodies, "West," "South," and "North" were boldly written.

Rolan couldn't believe his eyes; his vision was mainly blurred by the angelic winds, but he could still read clearly.

He smirked, his appearance like a pale white ghost. 'I'm actually surprised this was here; it makes sense they had directions.'

Rolan glanced behind. "I never knew about this place. Then again, it makes sense since we used only one path back then."

'Could my aunty also be...' He gripped his jeans, the knuckles on his hands already a depressing blue.

'No! I have to remain positive. I can't assume she's dead. I'll investigate while I'm here; I don't have much to work with, but I might still get somewhere.'

"Really wish she left a coat, though," Rolan spoke with a shaking voice. His vision flickered for a moment.

'Not good.'

His nerves went numb. Rolan collapsed like a logged tree and fell flat on the hard snow. Blood seeped out of his lips, and his strength dissipated like smoke.

'When did I become such a nice person?' Rolan asked himself with a faint smile as the light in his eyes burnt out. His hair reverted back to its dark color, and his true features returned.

His fingertips, toes, nose, and cheeks were a greyish blue.

Cole stopped thinking, speaking, seeing, hearing, smelling, and moving.

He died from hypothermia.

The falling snowflakes performed a funeral of their own, covering Cole's corpse in a coffin of ice crystals.

Like a mocking gesture, the speeding winds howled, sounding like the composed applause of a gathered audience in an arena.

Brushing through his ice coffin, the cold froze Cole's heart, and his tissues died along with him.

The area was practically vacant, abandoned even. Not a single cry nor call could be heard.

A gloomy end for those who met their fates in the icy wasteland, plagued by the cold of loneliness and ice.

Shrouded in sheets of ice and the katabatic wind, Cole was the first rookie to face death at the hands of the grueling Arctic.

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