Silent Angel

The northernmost end of the world.

Night had fallen completely, yet the surroundings were not too dark. The entire land was blanketed in white snow, and the reflected moonlight cast everything on the ground in a faint crimson glow.

The snowfield stretched endlessly ahead, joining the dark blue-black sky at the horizon. The world was filled with vast swathes of white and black, monotonous and desolate, with only the solemn coniferous forest providing a different kind of adornment.

Yet amid this terrifying wilderness, there were actually signs of human habitation.

A small wooden cabin stood amid the ice and snow, its windows casting warm orange light outside. Its construction was exceedingly crude, yet it was the only splash of color in this world.

"Scrape, scrape."

A figure stood before the cabin, bent over as he used a battered wooden shovel to clear away the snow.

He was a thin old man with deeply lined features, dressed in a flimsy white robe that resembled a clergyman's garb.

However, the robe had been worn for far too long. It was covered in patches, and its original appearance was no longer discernible.

The old man worked with his head lowered, intending to clear the snow before the cabin. His movements were slow, and he lacked strength, making the task far from smooth. Yet he did not seem anxious, merely shoveling away one scoop after another.

Gradually, he cleared out a narrow path.

"Whoosh."

At that moment, a cold wind howled, and the tall coniferous trees rustled. Great swathes of black suddenly churned across the surface of the pure white snowfield, like ink spilled across paper, rapidly surging toward the old man.

In an instant, the black shadow had arrived before him.

As though a filthy, living corpse had been forcibly pulled from a