Pillar of Yita

Parker gently swept away the dust and picked up a scale from underneath; it was shield-shaped and reflected the metallic sheen in the firelight, heavy and somber to the touch. He carelessly tossed the scale aside, looked up, and saw speckles of red dots that extended to the end of the torchlight’s reach.

He extinguished the torch and his short, stout body struggled a bit to lie flat on the ground; he sniffed the dust with his nose, and a dark red path emerged in the darkness, extending on both sides, countless dark red paths began to appear, resembling streams flowing into the sea.

Xiangzi, Fang Hong, and Tainaric finally caught up from behind. The teen with a flair for the dramatic took out a crystal from beneath his coat, which emitted a faint glow, casting light on his frowning face, and asked, ”Why did you put out the torch?”

”Did you find something?” Fang Hong then asked.

Parker tossed something over; it landed on the ground and Xiangzi leaned in with the crystal to see—it was a black horseshoe. He couldn’t help but ask, ”What is this, your lucky charm?”

”Shut up, it’s just a horseshoe, nothing more.” Parker stood up, using his short arms to pat his body down: ”I think you’d better come with me to have a look at this.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked ahead.

Fang Hong hadn’t often seen Papalarians act this way, but perhaps it was to defend the dignity of the ’King of Nightingales’, he thought, following without slowing his pace.

Xiangzi shook his head and also hurriedly followed. Behind them, Tainaric, the Lizardman Prince from Andasok, remained silent, but Fang Hong could feel that he was always on alert, ready to confront any approaching enemies.

The three of them passed an intersection, took a turn, and were about to continue forward when the Papalarian stopped there, lifted his head, and peered into the vast, desolate wilderness ahead.

The underground wilderness.

Under Fang Hong’s signal, Xiangzi raised the crystal in his hand to make the light shine brighter, and the cold glow illuminated a patch of gray gravel, resembling moon soil, but covered with a complex array of symbols.

The symbols, line after line, extended far into the distance, intersecting with each other, converging into the scene of an army on the march. Everyone fell silent at this sight. Xiangzi, somewhat shocked, unwittingly extended the light from the crystal further forward, and those endless symbols seemed to have no end, stretching infinitely into the distance.

”...What is this?” He asked aloud.

The tiny symbols were actually footprints, but gaunt and skeletal as if a horde of skeletons had stumbled through this place. Just the sight of what remained was enough to imagine the spectacle of that time.

Yet this spectacle was somewhat awe-inspiring.

Fang Hong bent down and picked up a metallic piece from the gravel, somber and slightly rusted, like a shard of scale armor. He looked up; such tiny items were abundant in this grand march, and at the edge of his vision lay a dagger, slanted into the sandy soil.

”This is...” He staggered for a moment, then found a match among those legendary terms—Shaerhorne’s long call, the Wanderer from the Lowlands, Forest Cold Song, Crow Speaker, and The Homeward Bound.

To stumble upon this thing.

Fang Hong felt like he’d hit the jackpot.

”...The Homeward Bound, the Ancient Monarch Hunter, huh.”

The girl exhaled gently, and the breath turned into frost amid the chill, blending with the faint mist.

Her deep, autumnal eyes glimmered slightly, her gauntlet gripping the longsword firmly as she turned, peering through her helmet at the others. Among the knights, a mountain girl also stood, and the two exchanged glances for a moment.

”Looks like we hit the jackpot this time.”

The knights shrugged; the enemy might be strong, but for the Silver Weslan, there was only ever moving forward; they adhered to a single maxim, the club’s motto—”Only forward, lies victory.”

The enemy indeed struck cold fear into their hearts.

In the west of the Ancient Tower, as the harsh winter began to grip the Lowland nations, all was silent in the cold death, and in Shaerhorne and many regions, old legends circulated about the Cold Forest; among them, the most famous was the story of the Lord of the Crows, the Homeward Bound, and the haunting call through the forest, all of which actually stemmed from a common myth.

A cold-blooded Hunter and its undead army, the slayer of the Primordial Lord.

Legend has it that the Tower’s first King died from a cup of poisoned wine, and the traitor decapitated him, leaving his eyes to the crows’ mercy. But a month later, on a full moon night, people saw the ancient King rise from the grave, disappearing into the Cold Forest.

Thereafter, during the coldest winter in Shaerhorne, the ancient King would return with his undead army, accompanied by the wintry call, hunting in the forest. No one with betrayal in their blood could escape this merciless hunt, and often, all that was found afterward were corpses defiled by crows.

That is the story of the Lord of the Crows.

Many had seen it in the Cold Forest, as well as the pitch-black crow perched upon its shoulder.

Thus, when the horn for the hunt sounded, it signaled the Lord’s return to its homeland.

The Chosen of Shaerhorne had attempted to validate this legend, and as a result, the three largest guilds in the region were destroyed in the Cold Forest during winter, forcing them to call for reinforcements from Colin Ishurian and Rotao’s Super Competitive League.