In the Northwest, a black wave of monsters rolled across the land. It was not a stampede, nor a charge; it was a tide.
From afar, it looked like the earth itself was moving, the open snowy fields swallowed by a crawling mass of warped silhouettes.
As they drew closer, the air above them shimmered unnaturally, as if reality itself recoiled from their presence.
A foul haze clung to the wave, thick, dark mana that pulsed and writhed like living smoke.
Snow should have reflected light, turning the world white and sharp, but here, it didn't. The ice was stained, dulled beneath a creeping shadow that spread wherever the horde passed.
Each step the monsters took left behind more than footprints. The snow hissed and steamed, frost cracking apart as if something beneath it was rotting.
Thin veins of black bled through the ice, spreading outward in slow, unnatural patterns, like ink soaking into parchment.
