Chapter 431: Snowfield Investigation, Soul Shock

"Over there."

One of the two guides sought by the Northern Grand Duchy in Winter City, a hunter named Ceron, lowered the clump of snow he had scooped from the ground and pointed. Amidst the raging blizzard, only he could track the scent to determine their path forward.

This seasoned, mature hunter possessed an instinct for the scent of life—and blood in particular—that seemed carved into his very marrow. Even after much time had passed, the blood that had once stained these snows remained perceptible to his body and his inner essence.

"..."

The other guide, a man of such imposing, muscular stature that he seemed almost grotesque, remained silent. He stood at the vanguard, shielding the others from the brunt of the gale, trudging through the thick snowdrifts with sheer, unnatural physical prowess.

"Mr. Ceron, how much further? The blizzard here is even fiercer than before we approached. If we haven't reached our target, I fear this extreme storm will only grow more monstrous as we press on. By then..."

The soldier following the two guides wiped the frost from his beard and brows, calling out to Ceron. The giant, Johnson, rarely spoke; the soldiers could only communicate with Ceron, who, though taciturn, would at least provide an answer.

"It won't be much further. Within ten kilometers. Don't worry. If the storm intensifies, I will have the team travel beneath the snowpack. At a depth of four meters, no blizzard can pierce through."

Ceron did not turn back, responding with steady composure. These two peculiar guides were, in fact, the original adventurers who had discovered these ruins; they would not have been hired had they lacked the necessary mettle.

"At this rate, it's hard to say if the storm won't reach that level."

The soldier, whose formal knight's battle aura could not yet manifest as a physical barrier, felt the layer of energy protecting his body being battered by the wind and ice. He spoke with lingering anxiety.

"If it truly comes to that, I suggest you turn back. Don't throw your lives away for nothing. Of course, that is just a suggestion; Johnson and I will continue on our own."

Ceron’s tone was indifferent, his words cold but undeniably pragmatic.

The giant, Johnson, seemed to have heard. His hairless, gleaming head turned back to glance at the soldiers before facing forward again, continuing to push through the gale. His meaning was clear: he agreed with Ceron.

"Understood. Regardless, we hope to discover what is triggering this blizzard without sacrificing our lives in vain."

The soldier ceased his pestering, apologized for his intrusive questioning, and followed in silence.

The storm grew more violent, the temperature plummeting ten degrees below zero. The ice and snow, whipped into a frenzy, obscured all light. The world was no longer a vast expanse of white, but a dim, oppressive gray, as the sun’s rays were almost entirely swallowed by the tempest.

Navigation now relied entirely on Ceron’s guidance and Johnson’s ability to break the wind, while the soldiers struggled to keep pace behind them.

"Ugh..."

Johnson’s footsteps faltered, a strained grunt escaping his lips. The intensity of the blizzard had indeed climbed higher; even for this formal knight, whose strength and constitution far exceeded his peers, progress was becoming difficult.

"How is it? Can you still hold on?"

Ceron patted his shoulder. They had not yet reached the giant's limit, but he chose to respect Johnson’s judgment. The instincts of this beast-like man were often remarkably sharp.

"Go..."

Johnson replied in a muffled voice. He channeled his battle aura, activating his inner essence. His skin shifted from its natural hue to a deep, flushed crimson. His heart rate and the force of his blood flow surged—Inner Essence: Berserk.

Johnson’s inner essence was unique. Much like his name, it was "Berserk"—identical in effect to the rage of orcs or barbarians, enhancing physical attributes at the cost of a heavy burden and diminished cognitive function.

As an inner essence, however, it possessed three distinct stages: Shallow, Constant, and Deep. The intensity increased exponentially with each stage, as did the toll on the body. If one were to reach the Deep stage and fail to deactivate it within ten seconds, they could effectively bid the world farewell.

Johnson was currently utilizing the Shallow stage. For a man of his constitution, the damage was negligible. As for the side effect of diminished intelligence, Ceron’s assessment of him as a "savage" held true; his intellect was already so low that the side effect was effectively ignored.

Steam rose from his crimson skin, only to be frozen by the biting cold. This heightened state allowed him to continue carving a path through the snow. The only issue was the rapid depletion of his battle aura; time was limited.

With Johnson leading the way in his berserk state, the team’s pace quickened. The remaining kilometers were covered rapidly under the strength of these knights.

Before the blizzard could exceed the capacity of Johnson’s Shallow Berserk, the silhouette of the Saint Anna peak finally emerged in their field of vision, along with the massive crater and the frozen ancient city within.

"Thank you for your hard work. We can use these magitech devices to withstand the storm from here on. We should have enough time to observe and analyze the situation before the mana crystals run dry."

The soldier stopped, expressing his gratitude to the two indispensable guides. He unloaded the equipment from his back and that of his men, assembling it with practiced efficiency.

An ice-elemental barrier rose, anchored deep into the ground to ensure the magitech array would not be swept away. Protected by the devices, the soldiers began deploying their observation instruments to pierce the storm and investigate the Saint Anna peak.

"The concentration of ice elements is staggering. Further in, the wind intensity actually drops, but the elemental density is so high that moving forward is impossible. Help me out, give me a heat-stone."

Analyzing the parameters on his device, the soldier spoke to himself, gesturing for a companion to assist.

A warm, faintly glowing stone was placed in his hand. A mineral unique to the North, it was typically saturated with ice elements; once treated, it possessed an exceptional capacity to absorb fire elements. It was commonly used for heating, and placing one in clothing could significantly increase its cold resistance.

Summoning his strength, the soldier hurled the heat-stone toward the Saint Anna peak, beyond the magitech barrier.

The glowing stone flew rapidly, but after less than a hundred meters, its light vanished, smothered by frost, lost forever in the swirling white void.

"As you can see, the temperature over there is so low that even a heat-stone can't last more than a second or two. There's no point in us trying to go over there."

He spread his hands in resignation. There was no use in being reckless; to go there was to become an ice statue.

"We have gained something, at least. We can confirm this ruin is the core. The eye of the entire blizzard is here—that’s why the wind is weaker, but the ice elements are concentrated to the limit. In other words, this place is the source of the blizzard’s elemental fury."

Though they could not advance, the soldier had secured valuable intelligence. Even if they retreated now, it would not be in vain.

"Let's collect a few more parameters for the mages, then we return. It will be up to the high command whether to bring in heavy military ordnance to destroy this place. If we shatter the eye, perhaps the blizzard will cease."

Having made his decision, he picked up his observation tools, meticulously recording the elemental distribution around the ruins. Once finished, they would return to Winter City.

"..."

Ceron offered no rebuttal. The decision was sound; their mission was fulfilled, and the approach was cautious, perhaps even overly so.

Yet, watching the silhouette of the Saint Anna peak flickering in the storm, Ceron felt a gnawing sense of unease. He could not name the source, nor find a reason for it.

His mind drifted to the nature of these ruins and the battles he had fought. Soul fragments constantly drifted from this site, affecting the newborns of Seuvintan, whose souls were relatively fragile and unstable.

These fragments caused the "dual-soul" trait—the secondary soul possessing no reason, only bloodthirsty rage, sometimes leading to a bestial transformation unlike that of any werewolf. As a hunter, he was well-versed in such threats, but...

"Ah!"

A sudden roar from Johnson snapped Ceron to attention. He pulled his focus inward, his peripheral vision sweeping the surroundings to process the incoming information.

Johnson’s muscles bulged, veins throbbing, his skin turning a deeper, darker red. He had grown taller—the Constant stage of Berserk. The giant had activated the next level of his power for a reason: there was danger.

What was the danger?

The next moment, a violent shock slammed into Ceron’s mind, twisting his expression. Damn it—a psychic assault.

The pain was sharp but brief. As a devotee of the Lady of Night and a member of the Nightfall Church, his faith provided a foundation of iron will, granting him a resistance to mental attacks that ordinary men lacked.

He withstood the shock, but what of the other soldiers, who were not believers? Recalling the nature of the ruins, Ceron drew his folding serrated blade without hesitation.

The ruins should not have affected those with stable souls, but the psychic impact he had just sensed warned him of a coming mutation.

"Roar!"

Behind him, a bestial snarl tore through the air. The soldier who had been observing the peak now lunged at Ceron on all fours, his eyes bloodshot and devoid of reason, filled only with a primal, bloodthirsty cruelty.

"Damn it!"

Ceron let out a low growl, swinging the long-handled serrated blade—now unfolded for close-quarters combat. Channeling his battle aura into his muscles, he struck, the blade biting deep into the soldier’s chest, shattering ribs and tearing into the viscera.

The soldier, oblivious to pain, tackled Ceron to the ground, his toothless mouth snapping at Ceron’s throat.

Ceron thrust his gloved right hand into the wound he had just carved, activating his inner essence. A formless force churned the soldier’s internal organs and blood.

"Boom!"

With a thunderous, explosive roar, the soldier’s entrails and the better part of his blood were ripped clean from his body by Siron’s strike, erupting into a magnificent and gruesome spray of crimson.