THE FROSTBITE ALIBI
PERSONAL LOG: RIAN (ENCRYPTION LEVEL 5)
TIME: 00:30 (Post-Pentad Meeting)
LOCATION: The Nexus Hall -- Archives Room
(Sound of a long, shaky breath, followed by the sound of glasses being placed on a metal table)
Four days.
It's only been four days. It feels like four decades.
Let me review my life. Last Monday, my biggest ambition was to pass the Basic Mana Theory exam with a B-plus, avoid eye contact with Valdor students in the cafeteria, and hope no one noticed my existence. I was a ghost. A statistic.
*Unsorted-4491*.
And now?
(Sound of nervous finger tapping on the table)
Now I am the Executive Secretary to the most dangerous person in Zero Point City. I just forged documents for the seizure of assets worth hundreds of thousands of Lux, legalized brutal gang beatings as "Sanitation Protocol," and sat at a table with four Suzerains who could kill me just by sneezing.
Wynter Ash... Grand Praetor.
At first I thought he was insane. When he saved me in the dorm that night—when he froze that Valdor soldier's blood—I thought I had just traded one executioner for another.
But I was wrong. He's not insane. He's... calculating in his madness.
He is a statistical anomaly.
Just look at the data. Logically, he should have been dead ten times over.
He has no money (until we robbed that casino).
He has no political allies (except for us, this circus of outcasts).
His body is broken—I've seen his data, he's a walking Heat Sink that's thermodynamically nonsensical.
But somehow... he wins.
He turns his weaknesses into weapons. He turns his bankruptcy into leverage to blackmail Vianna. He turns Titus's hatred into a security asset. He even made Pontifex Silas—that venomous snake—provide his best doctor for free.
He plays bureaucracy like someone plays the piano. And me? I'm the one writing down the musical notes.
(Sound of a small, hysterical, and tired laugh)
God, I just turned an armed robbery into a "Tax Asset Liquidation." I wrote a report stating that breaking people's bones is a "Preventive Medical Action."
I have become a criminal. No, worse. I have become a Politician.
And the scariest part? I'm starting to enjoy it.
There's a strange satisfaction in seeing Titus's face turn red from losing a legal debate. There's a sense of power when I see Vianna yield to the logistics data I prepared.
Wynter gave someone like me something we never had in this city: Teeth.
But tonight...
(Brief silence)
Tonight was different. When that room froze... when he shattered the gavel with his bare hand... I saw something else.
That wasn't strategy. That wasn't politics.
It was hunger.
He's not a leader sitting on a throne. He is a dying machine that needs fuel. And his fuel is conflict.
Now he's down there. In the Under-City. To a place where maps are useless and laws are just myths. He says he wants to conduct a "Pacification."
Nonsense. I know that look. It's not the look of a peacekeeper. It's the look of someone heading to dinner.
I have to prepare his documents.
A liability waiver.
An emergency medical protocol.
A bribery budget for the sewer gate guards.
And perhaps... a will for myself.
Because if this Grand Praetor blows up, we'll all burn with him.
Alright, Rian. Focus. Breathe.
You've already sold your soul to the Ice Devil. At least make sure the paperwork is tidy.
(Sound of fast typing on a holographic keyboard)
STATUS: ACTIVE.
AGENDA: UNDERGROUND INVASION LOGISTICS PREPARATION.
ESTIMATED FATALITY RATE: ...High.
Let's get to work.
(Sound of a chair creaking as it leans back, followed by a long sigh)
Why am I doing this?
That question keeps spinning in my head like a stuck algorithm. Why did I want to be his secretary? Was it the triple salary? Was it the protection?
Or am I... stupid?
I used to think being a student at Zero Point Academy was about learning magic, memorizing runes, and passing exams. A normal school life. You know, the kind of life where your biggest worry is unfinished Mana Math homework, not how to forge state financial reports to avoid execution by the Oversight Council.
When was the last time I attended class? When was the last time I ate in the cafeteria without having to count calories for the budget?
(Sound of a small, bitter laugh)
I work. Constantly. Day, night, the early morning. I've become a stamping machine for someone else's ambition.
But... at least it's Friday night. Tomorrow is Saturday. Weekend.
According to the City Employment Clause (which, ironically, I revised myself yesterday), administrative staff are entitled to a minimum of 24 hours of rest.
Finally. Sleep. I can sleep until noon. I can do laundry. I can pretend to be a normal teenager not involved in high-level conspiracy.
Yes. Rest. That's all I need---
BZZZT! BZZZT!
(Sound of a harsh Magitek vibration on the metal table, shattering the silence)
Ah, damn it. Who is it this time? Vianna asking for stock data again? Or Elara needing a toilet paper budget?
(Sound of a button being pressed)
"Hello? It's break time, for God's sake."
(KARA'S VOICE - Through speaker, noisy with background sirens and shouts):
"Hey, Bookworm! Wake up! We have a Level Red Emergency situation in the Northern Sector!"
"North? Valdor?" I massage my temples. "What did Titus blow up now? If he damaged the perimeter fence again, I won't—"
(KARA): "Not Titus. A Valdor patrol just found something by the roadside at Iron Plaza. They're in an uproar. They found... a block of ice."
I frown, confused. My tired brain tries to process that information.
"A block of ice? Kara, it's the middle of the night. It's cold, but not that cold. Why are you calling me just because of a frozen puddle? That's a normal weather phenomenon. Let it melt."
(KARA): "Not a puddle, Fool! It's a large block of ice. Solid. And there's a person inside it."
"A... person?"
My heart skips a beat. A bad feeling starts creeping up my neck.
"Who? A drunk Valdor student? A homeless person?"
A brief silence on the other end. Only the sound of Kara's heavy breathing.
(KARA): "No. It's a Praetor."
(Complete silence. Only the hum of servers in the background)
"What?" My voice squeaks. "Repeat that."
(KARA): "It's the Boss, Rian! Wynter Ash! He's lying on the side of a Valdor street, frozen solid like a fish at the market! And now Titus's troops are swarming around him with full weaponry!"
The tablet slips from my hand. Falls to the floor with a loud CRACK.
Rest? Weekend? Normal life?
All of that just went up in flames. Or more precisely... froze.
"DON'T LET THEM TOUCH HIM!" I yell in panic, grabbing my jacket. "I'M COMING NOW! BRING ELARA! BRING ALL THE MEDICINE YOU CAN!"
(Sound of running footsteps, a slamming door, and the recording abruptly ends)
(END LOG)
(Scene transition to the next morning)
Time: 07:15 AM.
Location: The Iron Bastion -- Military Intensive Care Unit (ICU).
The smell in this room is a mix of harsh disinfectant, iron rust, and ozone from the roughly humming life support machines. There is no comfort here. Valdor didn't build a hospital for comfort; they built a workshop to fix broken meat so it can be sent back to the front lines.
I, Rian, stand in the corner of the room clutching a tablet to my chest, trying not to look as hysterical as I feel.
In the middle of the room, on a cold steel operating table, lies Grand Praetor Wynter Ash.
He's not literally encased in a cartoon ice block. Kara exaggerated—as usual. But his condition is still horrifying.
Wynter's body is completely stiff (early rigor mortis). His skin is a pale blue with a pattern of blackened blood vessels beneath the surface, as if his blood has turned into frozen ink. A thin layer of ice crystals (frost) covers his hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes.
Every time he exhales—which is very rare and shallow—thick white vapor comes out, instantly freezing the oxygen sensor on his mask.
"Core temperature 28 degrees Celsius," reports Sister Elara. Her voice is calm, professional, but there's a rarely heard note of tension.
Her softly glowing green hands (Flora magic) move over Wynter's chest, trying to coax a faint heartbeat.
"He should have died three hours ago, Rian. Medically, this is a corpse that forgot to stop breathing."
"Don't say that," I hiss, glancing at the tightly sealed steel door. "Titus is outside. If he finds out the Praetor is on death's door because of... because of cold, he'll crush us."
"I didn't say he's dying," corrects Elara, her brow furrowed. She touches Wynter's neck, right at the pulse point. "I said he's weird."
"Weird how?"
Elara pulls her hand back. "There's a thermal residue here. On his neck. Someone... or something... delivered a massive heat shock just before his system shut down. That heat is what's keeping his heart beating in hibernation mode."
Elara looks at me in confusion.
"It feels like he was just stung by a tiny sun. Who did he meet last night in Valdor?"
I shake my head. "I don't know. He said he wanted to get some air. He didn't say he wanted to find a sun."
BANG.
The steel door swings open roughly.
Imperator Titus strides in. He isn't wearing his full battle armor this morning, just a black officer's uniform with his sleeves rolled up, revealing his oil-shiny iron prosthetic arm.
Behind him, Kara enters with a sour face, her fists clenched ready to punch anyone.
Titus walks up to the operating table. He stares at Wynter's frozen body with a look of... disappointment.
"Pathetic," grumbles Titus. His voice is heavy, echoing off the metal walls.
"This is the man who threatened me at the meeting table yesterday? The man who froze two of my soldiers until their bones cracked? And now... look at him. Collapsed by the roadside like a drunk vagrant just from the night wind?"
Titus turns to me. His gaze is sharp, demanding an answer.
"Explain, Secretary. Why was the Grand Praetor found unconscious in my sector? Is this a failed espionage attempt? Or is he really this weak?"
My heart races. This is it. The moment I have to lie for all our lives.
I adjust my glasses, forcing my sleep-deprived brain to work.
"This isn't weakness, Imperator," I reply. My voice trembles slightly, but I meet his eyes. "This is... an Operational Overload."
"Overload?" Titus raises his thick eyebrows.
"The Praetor was conducting a secret field inspection in preparation for the Under-City Event," my lie flows smoothly.
I activate a hologram on my tablet, displaying a fake thermal map I just made 10 minutes ago in the hallway.
"He was testing the limits of his body's endurance against Extreme Environmental Simulation. He was trying to calibrate his circuits to match the temperature of the Dead Zone so he could lead troops on the front lines."
I point at Wynter's frozen body.
"He didn't faint from weakness. He fainted because he pushed his body beyond human limits to ensure our victory next week. That's dedication, Imperator. Something I'm sure you appreciate."
Titus is silent. He looks at Wynter again, this time with a touch of reluctant respect. In Valdor, self-injury for duty is considered the highest virtue.
"Crazy," murmurs Titus. "He tried to freeze himself for practice?"
"He's a perfectionist," adds Kara from behind, supporting my lie with a convincingly flat face. "The Boss is nuts. He doesn't trust simulators."
Titus snorts. He slaps the edge of the iron table hard.
"Fine. If he dies, bury him with military honors. If he wakes up... tell him not to die on my asphalt again. It disrupts morning logistics traffic."
Titus turns and walks out.
"Get him out of here as soon as he can stand. My hospital is not a hotel."
The door closes again.
I slump to the floor, my legs weak. "God... I hate politics."
"You've got a talent for lying, Rian," comments Kara, taking an apple from a medical tray and biting into it. "So, when is this Sleeping Beauty waking up?"
"Now," a weak voice comes from the operating table.
We all turn.
Wynter's eyes are open. Red, dim, and tired.
He doesn't move. His body is still too stiff. But his consciousness has returned.
"Operational Overload?" whispers Wynter, his voice hoarse like scraping ice. His lips form a thin, pained smile. "Creative alibi, Rian."
"I panicked, Sir," I reply, standing up and approaching. "What happened last night? You almost died."
Wynter stares at the gloomy metal ceiling. His eyes seem distant, as if remembering something unreal.
"I... found a furnace," he mumbles softly, more to himself.
He raises his trembling hand, touching his own neck—the place where Elara said there was a heat mark.
"A furnace that uses an umbrella."
Elara and I exchange confused glances.
"He's hallucinating," whispers Elara. "Cerebral hypoxia."
"No," Wynter objects. He tries to sit up, grimacing as his joints crack.
"I'm not hallucinating. There's someone out there... an anomaly."
His eyes fix sharply on me, urgency filling his frozen gaze once more.
"Rian. Check the Valdor citizen census data. And the academy student data."
"Looking for who, Sir?"
"Look for a female student. Gray hair. Blue fire eyes. And find out why she's carrying a weapon of mass destruction in the form of an umbrella."
Wynter gets off the table, his legs unsteady but he forces himself to stand. The hospital blanket falls from his shoulders.
"We have a new problem. Or maybe... a solution."
"Sir, you need to rest—"
"No rest," Wynter cuts in coldly. He picks up his hanging cloak.
"We have 6 days to conquer the Under-City. And now I know, I can't do it alone with this junk heap of a body."
He looks at his still-blueish hands.
"I need that battery."