A wave of pure malice surged through the air.
Rayder's eyes snapped open just as the newly resurrected wights lunged toward him.
He didn't flinch. The dragons had been waiting.
With a single thought from their master, the sky ignited. Black and red Dragon Flames poured down like twin infernos, reducing the charging corpses to ash in seconds.
Rayder watched in silence, the reflected flames dancing in his cold, violet eyes.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So it works," he murmured, lifting the Night King's severed arm. "The power of resurrection… mine to command."
Excitement pulsed through his veins. Each experiment, each burning corpse, brought him one step closer to mastery.
---
He began to wander the icy wastelands beyond the Wall, searching for Savage Tribes.
When battles ended and the dead lay scattered across the snow, Rayder would appear like a shadow. He would raise the fallen with the Night King's arm — their corpses jerking upright under a pulse of blue light — then order the dragons to burn them to ashes.
Fire after resurrection. Death after death.
A cycle of annihilation.
Word spread quickly through the wild lands.
The tribes whispered his name in terror — the Harbinger of Death.
Some warriors, desperate to protect their dead, fought back.
Rayder burned them too.
The weak called him cruel. The bold called him cursed.
Rayder called it progress.
He had no interest in their opinions — only in the growing energy points his system recorded each time he destroyed what he created.
Still, a question lingered: Why did killing and resurrecting yield more power than simple destruction?
The answer eluded him, but he didn't care. The numbers rose. That was all that mattered.
---
The Night King, far to the north, felt it.
The Cold God's power — his power — was being drained.
Corrupted.
Used.
For the first time in centuries, the frozen throne beneath him cracked as he clenched his fists.
This human was stealing from the divine.
If Rayder continued, the Cold God might abandon his chosen servant altogether — and that, for the Night King, was unacceptable.
But Rayder remained blissfully unaware.
He spent his days perfecting the craft. He learned to conjure Mystic Ice Spears without using the arm at all. His magic deepened, his control sharpened, his empathy dimmed.
Now, he could raise wights with his own energy — fewer than the Night King, perhaps, but entirely obedient.
He tested his new creations by sending them against the Savage Tribes.
The tribes fought bravely at first, severing limbs and heads to stop the undead. Yet for every corpse they destroyed, Rayder simply raised two more.
And when the battle finally ended, Rayder would lift the severed arm once more, channeling the Cold God's essence through it.
The dead rose again — this time beyond even his control.
Their eyes burned with the Night King's icy blue light.
---
The wildlings screamed as their fallen kin turned upon them.
Fathers slaughtered sons. Lovers tore at each other's throats.
The air filled with the stench of blood and snow.
Rayder stood on a ridge above the chaos, arms folded, watching impassively.
When the fighting ended, when no heartbeat remained, he gave his final command.
"Burn it."
Two dragons descended from the clouds, their roars shaking the frozen peaks.
Twin streams of black and crimson flame swept over the battlefield.
In moments, the thousand-strong tribe became ash and silence.
The snow melted into rivers of steam, then froze again under the bitter wind.
Within two days, fresh snow would bury everything.
History erased.
---
Rayder stared down at the scorched valley, his face devoid of emotion.
No sorrow. No remorse. Only satisfaction.
He turned to leave, the severed arm glinting faintly in his hand.
Behind him, the wind whispered through the ruins like the echo of souls.
He didn't hear it.
He didn't feel it.
Because something deep within him was changing.
It wasn't visible — not yet. There were no horns, no scales, no marks of corruption.
But his heart was freezing.
Each time he used the Cold God's magic, a sliver of that divine frost crept deeper into his soul.
Where there had once been empathy, only ambition remained.
Where there had been reverence for life, only hunger for power.
And though he didn't yet realize it, the darkness was already whispering in his mind —
soft, subtle, seductive.
More. You can take more.
Rayder's eyes, once a brilliant violet, flickered with a trace of pale blue as he walked north through the storm.
The man was still alive.
But the god within him was beginning to stir.
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