Cold does not kill all at once.
First, it seeps through your feet. Then through your hands. After that, it steals your reason. When you finally notice, you feel nothing at all. And that is the true danger.
The mountains of the Altai knew neither pity nor mercy.
Snow covered everything. There were no roads, no signs—only ice, wind, and a warning carved into the memory of ancient peoples: No one must desecrate the land of the gods.
But human greed listens to no warnings.
A convoy of nine vehicles—six light, three heavy—cut across the landscape like an unhealed wound. They moved silently from east to west through the Tabyn Bogdo Ola massif, a cirque of glaciers crowned by eternally white peaks. Four countries converged there: Russia, Mongolia, China, and Kazakhstan.
And in the middle of it all, they.
A route change forced by heavy snowfall had closed several passes, pushing them farther and farther south. Unwittingly, they had entered the forbidden zone.
Now they were trapped.
And no one knew where.
The leader of the convoy stepped out of the first GAZ Tigr, a Russian military all-terrain vehicle built for impossible terrain. His face was hidden beneath a balaclava. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the gaze of someone who had seen too much—things he should never have seen.
He scanned the horizon through a thermal scope. Nothing. Only snow. Gray clouds raced across the sky, driven by gusts that roared like beasts.
—How does it look? —he asked without turning.
Beside him, a young man with Eurasian features clung to the vehicle for shelter from the wind. His cheeks were red with cold; his brow had been furrowed for hours.
—Not good. The ice isn't even. And that valley… it looks like a covered swamp. There must be underground rivers.
—Any alternatives?
—Only turning back. Trying a pass through Mount Juiten. But it's snowing harder there. We could get stuck all the same.
—Then we go down —the leader said, climbing back into the vehicle—. We'll find a place to camp if things get worse.
—We can't stay here —the young man agreed.
The leader grabbed the handset of the R-431 communication system and issued his orders.
—Continue toward the valley. Maintain formation.
The vehicles began their descent. No road. No lights. Barely twenty kilometers per hour. Only night-vision screens—and luck.
The wheels cracked over packed snow. Sometimes they sank into hidden shrubs. Every meter gained was a struggle. As they descended, the terrain changed: fewer rocks, more frozen grass. Softer. More treacherous.
Then a voice crackled over the radio.
—Problem with the second truck. We've got a flat. Repeat: we can't go on.
The leader responded immediately.
—Position Lambda. Surround the disabled vehicle.
The convoy formed a wedge, shielding the damaged truck at its center. Two soldiers dismounted to change the right middle-axle tire of the GAZ. No lights—only freezing wind and headlamps that barely pierced the darkness.
It took two hours. That tire was their last spare.
—Proceed —said the guide over the radio—. Switch to Zeta formation.
The convoy re-formed. The damaged truck moved into second position, protected by three light vehicles ahead.
Inside the GAZ, the leader studied a map—useless in a place where satellite navigation failed. They continued northwest. Vegetation thickened. So did the silence. Only the engines disturbed the stillness of the steppe.
It was a strange place.
Empty.
Menacing.
In the distance, a small snow-covered rise appeared. They decided to cross it—better than risking the frozen grasslands, which could be softer beneath the surface.
The all-terrain vehicle climbed slowly.
Then it came—a deep crack, as if the earth itself were breathing beneath them.
The two men in the cab exchanged a glance. No words.
The sound continued for forty meters. Then—grass again.
They exhaled.
The first truck crossed. It shuddered, but kept moving. The second vehicle avoided its tracks. Then the second truck followed.
Everything seemed fine…
Until the left rear axle sank.
A sharp blow.
The cab lifted, as if something beneath had tried to swallow it whole.
—We've got a Kappa —came the radio call—. Repeat: Kappa.
Critical condition. Immobilized.
The leader rushed out, running toward the sunken truck. Several soldiers were already there, silent. Others arrived with ropes, winches, and chains.
No one spoke. Tasks were divided instinctively. Two crewmen climbed down from the truck bed, secured by ropes. Others hammered anchors into the frozen ground. Fast. Precise. Too quiet.
The leader leaned over the gap between the wheels and switched on his flashlight.
What he saw froze his blood.
Beneath the surface was a structure—not earth, not rock.
Logs.
Massive, thick logs aligned like pillars of a primitive construction. As if they formed a hidden bridge beneath the snow.
Or a roof.
The roof of something far larger.
Then he understood.
It wasn't just a swamp.
Not an accident.
They were standing on something.
Something never meant to be found.
The truck began to sink, swallowed by the widening void beneath the snow. The driver flung open his door as the cab tilted upward. Panic and suffocating dread seized him.
His hand slipped on ice-soaked metal—and he fell.
The dull crack of his body striking wood echoed from below.
The leader trudged closer, the wind howling harder now. Endless white swallowed everything. No response from the driver's companion either.
The truck stood nearly vertical, swaying, its door gaping open. He shone his flashlight inside.
Nothing.
Heavy footsteps approached through the snow.
His first major mission—and everything was collapsing. He had to change the course of events. He inhaled sharply; the cold burned his nostrils.
Then he saw it.
Below, the silhouette of the fallen soldier—his arms moving.
Alive.
Without waiting for support, the leader slid into the pit. Misjudged his grip. A branch snapped beneath his hand.
He was left hanging.
Suspended over nothing.
Then—impact.
He crashed onto a tangle of wood and stone. Pain exploded through him. His head fell limp.
From the darkness, a bluish beam of light emerged. It cradled him, gently lowering his head, almost tenderly.
The blue light fractured into wisps and drifted upward, rising from the hole. The wind carried it away.
Everyone saw it.
Strange.
Magical.
They set up a lifeline, descended to where the two unconscious men lay, and hauled them back to the surface. Wrapped them in blankets.
Both still had a pulse.
Faint—but present.
They needed help.
Fast.