The morning greeted Caleb with a silence that felt heavier than usual. The embers in the stove had long gone cold, and frost laced the edges of the window like crawling veins. Still, his hut was warmer than the wilderness beyond.
He sat down, reheated some of the boiled boar meat, and ate slowly, savoring every bite. The flavor had grown on him, even without seasoning—it was warm, filling, and real. A reminder that he was still alive.
After preparing his gear, securing his bracer, and sharpening the edge of his axe with the newly acquired whetstone, Caleb stepped outside. The world beyond his dome shimmered with white frost, glistening under the pale morning sun.
As he passed by the modest grave nestled between two trees, a quiet unease pressed into his chest. There was no marker, no name. Just a mound of disturbed snow, slowly settling. He nodded once, a silent gesture to the unknown soul beneath.
The journey eastward continued. He followed the hint from the system—a direction given, vague but purposeful.
Soon, the trees began to thin and the signs of ruin became more frequent. Shattered beams protruded from the snow like ribs from the earth. Broken pottery, collapsed fences, the skeleton of a cart half-frozen into the ground. The remnants of a life no longer lived.
Then came the corpses.
The first was half-buried in the snow, its eyes long frozen over, skin taut and pale. It was no walker—just another victim of this frozen hell. But something had gnawed on its leg. Caleb's jaw tightened.
The second was less intact. Torn apart at the ribs, likely by a beast desperate enough to eat anything with warmth.
Deeper in the ruins, he spotted movement.
A twisted figure limped into view, its gait broken, like a puppet dangling from rotted strings. Skin pale and cracked, its jaw slack. A frostbitten corpse, still moving. Drawn by instinct.
It turned toward him.
Caleb's breath fogged as he readied his axe. When the thing lunged, he stepped aside and brought the blade down on its spine. It crumpled. The second strike shattered its neck. It didn't get up again.
He stood over the body, chest heaving. Despite the fight, there was little blood. Only a creeping chill and a deeper silence. He felt no pride in the kill. Just necessity.
Then came the same hint again, subtle and cold.
"Not all bodies rest easy. But those who are given rest may yet return the favor."
Caleb didn't hesitate. He spent nearly two hours digging, his hands raw and the axe blade dulled slightly by frost-hardened ground. When the hole was finally deep enough, he dragged the body in and covered it with snow and dirt. Another grave among many.
The sun was low, but not yet gone.
He pressed on.
And then he saw it.
Through a break in the trees stood the skeletal remains of a once-majestic building. Its roof caved in, spires broken, and walls weathered by cold and time. A shattered stained-glass window still clung to the facade, glinting red and blue in the fading light.
A church.
His breath caught in his throat.
Caleb crouched low, scouting the perimeter. No visible movement. No signs of life—or death.
But something about the air shifted.
The ruins beckoned.
And after a moment of stillness, he stepped forward.
End of 13th chapter.