Snow fell in slow spirals, each flake catching the dull red of a dying fire before it vanished into the wind. Qin Mo knelt beside the embers, palm hovering over the last scrap of heat, as if he could wring one more breath of warmth out of the mountain. His breath smoked, but the cold had already worked into his bones.
Above him, the ridge was a broken line of stone teeth. The wind combed through them with a whistle that sounded almost like speech—until he heard the answer.
Bells.
Faint, bone-pale chimes rolling down the slope.
He straightened. The weight under his ribs—the wolf king's shard—warmed a fraction, the way a hunting hound lifts its head when prey crosses the wind. He knew that sound. It had rung in his dreams for three nights, always just beyond reach, always pulling him toward something he wasn't sure he wanted to see.
The system chimed in his ear.
[Predator's Ledger: Trace match — 41%. Lead: Northeast approach, altitude +300m.]
He almost smiled. Forty-one was better than nothing.
The ascent was narrow, a goat's path that forced him sideways against the rock. Twice, the ice under his boots went hollow, and he shifted his weight just before the crust gave way to a drop that would have taken him straight to the valley floor.
At the third turn, the air changed. The wind carried not just cold but heat—dry, metallic, like the inside of a forge. The bells were clearer now, each note riding under the next in a rhythm meant to be followed.
He followed.
The path opened into a basin cut clean out of the mountain. No snow here—only frost rimming the edges of a stone grid that ran from wall to wall. Monoliths leaned inward, their shadows drawn toward the center where a slab altar sat like a black tooth.
Nine robed figures walked the grid in a slow spiral, staffs tapping in unison. Each tap called a red line of light up from the stone.
The system bled warning into his sight.
[Resonance network: Active. Lock progression 8%… 12%…]
At the altar's base stood a man—no, not a man. It wore a wolf pelt draped over shoulders too broad, hair the color of hammered copper, skin too pale to be entirely living. When it lifted its head, the copper threads in its eyes turned and fixed on him.
The shard in his chest burned.
"You came," the thing said, voice almost human. "Good. It saves me the walk."
Qin Mo drew steel without answering. The blade caught the red light and threw it back in silver arcs.
The first exchange was short. Steel to hand—bare hand. The thing caught the edge as if gripping the spine, knuckles uncut though the blade should have gone through armor. Sparks crawled over its fingers and died.
"Better than I thought," it murmured, and shoved.
The force drove him back across the lines. Cold climbed his boots in chains of light.
[Lock progression 16%… 22%…]
He burned it off. Flame Step roared underfoot, snapping glyphs with heat. The spiral stuttered but did not break; the robed figures didn't even look up.
The copper-eyed thing stepped through the haze. "I should take your heart before the crown drives you mad."
It came low, efficient. Shoulder to ribs, a short rake for the belly. No waste. Qin Mo twisted; cloth tore instead of flesh. His pommel strike landed on the pelt, which thickened under the blow like living armor. Pain buzzed up his arm.
[Heat Vein siphon 37%. Endurance loss accelerating.]
He shifted his weight toward the grid's weak points—sixth pace left, two forward, cut the seventh. Lines dimmed underfoot. The thing's head twitched, sensing the break.
"Your patterns are ugly," Qin Mo said. "Who taught you to sew?"
It smiled with too many teeth. "Your elders drew the first lines."
Two robed figures lunged in from the flank. Qin Mo stepped into one, heel crunching toes, and flung him into the other. Their lines tangled. The basin light faltered.
One cut, clean, and the nearest glowing path went to ash. The copper-eyed thing hissed.
[Resonance chain disrupted. Link strength reduced 19%.]
It came faster. Hand to his throat. Cold poured in like needles under the skin. Vision narrowed to a ring the size of a cup rim.
King's Howl sat in his lungs like a coal. He let it out.
The sound staggered the spiral. Grip loosened. Frost Thread hissed along his blade—thin, sharp, winter-cold—scoring the creature's knuckles just enough to break the siphon.
The draw snapped.
He fell back two steps onto a cold seam under the stone. Heat bled slower there. The copper-eyed thing flexed its hand and smiled. "You found a vent. Good. I prefer prey that learns."
"Not prey," Qin Mo said, and moved—
•
He didn't get to finish the move. A chime rolled across the basin—not from the robed figures, but from the bone-white bells in his pouch.
[Trace mark integrity: 43%… 57%…]
His stomach turned cold. Someone else was calling.
He had seconds to decide—cut the thing in front of him, or stop the bells from binding him.