On the summit of a rarely visited, snow-covered mountain stood the Survivor's Cabin.
Three men and five women, eight young people of similar ages, huddled inside the little wooden cabin, shivering as drafts blew in from every side.
The oldest was not yet thirty, and the youngest was only fifteen.
Only two were Easterners; the other six were Westerners.
Every one of their faces had turned ashen from the cold.
The flame of life could go out at any moment.
Despair and death were written all over their faces.
They had been trapped on Death Snow Mountain, where blizzards raged year-round, for a full half month.
Rescue never came, and they had no way to send a distress signal.
Their food had run out a week earlier.
For the past week, they had survived entirely on water from boiled snow.
But every one of them was already sallow and gaunt, their complexions looking no different from those of zombies.
Worst of all, even their firewood was nearly gone.
They had reached their final dead end.
Without food, they would starve.
Without water, they would die of thirst.
Without fuel, they would freeze to death.
Eating snow directly would also cause hypothermia, which amounted to the same single word: death.
Even the little wooden cabin was on the verge of collapsing in the blizzard!
What they had experienced over the previous two weeks was enough to fill a million-word script for a PC game.
Add some intrigue, superpowers, and murder.
It would be enough to make a highly rated, tearjerking visual novel set in a snowbound lodge.
Yet.
Here, it was bloody reality, and the horror of actual death!
Suddenly.
The figure of a lightly dressed man appeared in the blizzard.
In the terrifying cold of dozens of degrees below zero,