How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game Chapter 680: Frozen North 8

Amid the icy realms of the north—

Thud.

Thud.

Every footfall caused the frozen soil to shake, with the noise reverberating boundlessly over the desolate wilderness.

Avalanches of snow tumbled down from sharp peaks with each ponderous stride, as if the terrain itself shrank back under the burden of the nearing entity.

Creeeak—!

The iced terrain split open fiercely while a gigantic club made of pure ice scraped along it, etching profound gashes into the glacier's face.

Ice shards burst out like broken shards of glass, and the chill intensified even more with each bit of progress the armament made.

The being grasping it towered more than five meters in height.

Its hide, blue like timeless frost, covered a physique resembling a mobile bastion, with muscles stacked firm and solid like rock.

Its build matched that of a troll warrior, but its extended ears—pointed and refined—evoked images of a superior elf, a stark sign of its species' cunning.

A Frost Giant.

A title uttered in terror throughout the lands.

The mana radiating from it sufficed to shatter the spirit of lesser creatures.

Ancient, icy, and raw, it emanated from him in overwhelming surges, icing the atmosphere with each respiration.

Unlike common ice beasts, frost giants held primal frost—a horrifying power enabling them to dominate cold in its rawest, most ruthless state.

Not just solidifying water or skin, but stopping all activity, turning everything to immobility.

And even more alarming—they possessed intellect.

They established clans. Created ranks. Orchestrated conflicts.

They weren't mere animals, no matter how fiercely humans attempted to classify them so.

Even dragons—proclaimed as the pinnacle beings of the realm—shunned challenging frost giants except in dire need.

To battle one meant wagering against a foe blending immense bodily power, fearsome sorcery, and icy, strategic mind.

Gallan, such a frost giant, passed through a huge portal etched with runes directly into the ice.

The atmosphere altered at once.

Beyond lay a profound grotto where walls sparkled with eerie frost, sharp crystals mirroring faint azure glow.

Endless lines of enclosures—crafted wholly from spellbound ice—filled the grotto's inner reaches.

Gallan's weighty stare scanned the vista.

The odor struck him immediately.

Blood. Decaying meat. Terror.

The atmosphere hung heavy with it.

Muffled wails emerged from the enclosures—some faint, some frantic, some strangely quiet.

Humans, demi-humans, and various sentient kinds were confined side by side, their forms battered, iced, shattered.

Some held on fiercely to existence, digits clutching frozen bars that scorched their flesh upon touch.

Others stirred no longer.

Skeletons littered the areas under the enclosures.

Iced appendages protruded at odd angles. Gazes fixed emptily, trapped eternally in their last instant of horror.

Demise hovered all around.

This place served not as a mere jail for holding.

It functioned as a prelude chamber for massacre.

Gallan's hold clenched on the frosty club while ice flared across its length, causing the grotto's chill to plunge deeper still.

His face stayed impassive—sculpted from frost and years—but his gaze paused momentarily on the surviving prisoners.

Not out of compassion.

But for evaluation.

"N–No, please, I—"

"Hush now," the old man said gently, almost tenderly. "I only need a little blood."

"P–Please—!"

The young man’s plea never reached its end.

In a single, precise motion, a dagger flashed.

The blade pierced straight through his skull.

There was no scream—only a sharp, wet sound as his body went limp, eyes glazing over in an instant.

The old man did not even flinch.

He leaned closer, his weathered face illuminated by the dim crimson glow that began to pool beneath the corpse.

With practiced fingers, he dipped the dagger into the still-warm blood and began to trace a sigil upon the man’s forehead.

Curved lines.

Twisting marks.

A symbol that should never have existed.

As the final stroke was completed, the rune pulsed.

Once.

Twice.

Then it flared violently red.

The man’s head burst, fragments of bone and frozen blood splattering across the icy floor, instantly crystallizing upon contact with the frigid air.

"May the great lord bless you..." the robed man whispered reverently.

His voice trembled—not with fear, but with ecstasy.

The aged man straightened, breathing heavily, his eyes shining with an unhinged devotion.

The black robes clinging to his frail frame fluttered slightly as unseen energy rippled through the cavern.

Then—

A presence.

The air grew heavier.

Colder.

The fanatic froze.

Slowly, he turned.

"Chief Gallan."

He bowed deeply, pressing a bloodstained hand to his chest.

"How are things...?" Gallan’s voice rumbled, deep and distant, like shifting glaciers.

"Kuku..." the old man chuckled softly, straightening as if proud of his work. "As you can see, everything is proceeding smoothly. The share of captives you’ve spared for our church is truly appreciated."

He gestured broadly to the cages, to the bodies, to the blood-soaked runes carved into ice and flesh alike.

"Our lord greatly appreciates such... fascinating sacrifices."

Gallan said nothing.

His massive form stood unmoving, icy eyes fixed on the crazed human before him.

Among humans, he had seen greed, cowardice, and desperation—but this was something else entirely.

Madness born of worship.

False gods.

Filthy devotion.

If circumstances were different, Gallan would have crushed the man beneath his heel without hesitation.

But he did not.

Because the human was useful.

Gallan neither knew nor cared what purpose these sacrifices served, nor what grotesque ritual the old man and his priests were preparing.

The details were irrelevant.

As long as it furthered his queen’s will—

Nothing else mattered.

"The plan?" Gallan asked.

His voice was low, rumbling like distant thunder beneath ice.

The old man stiffened for a moment before quickly realizing what the frost giant meant. A thin, eager smile crept across his lips as he nodded repeatedly.

"It is proceeding smoothly," the priest said. "The arrangements with your queen are well underway—there is no need for concern."

He spread his arms slightly, as if presenting an invisible masterpiece.

"Soon, death itself will rise. And when it does... you shall have full command over them."

Gallan gave a slow, approving nod.

They did not truly need these humans.

His queen’s power alone was enough to drown nations in frost. But the orders had been clear—these sacrifices, these rituals, were necessary for what was to come.

Tools, nothing more.

Turning away from the priest, Gallan looked deeper into the cavern.

His gaze sharpened, and the mana within him stirred.

Frost crept along the ground at his feet as his perception extended far beyond the cave’s mouth.

In the distance—

A castle of ice stood tall.

Majestic. Absolute.

Its spires gleamed like frozen stars beneath the pale northern sky.

Around it gathered countless frost-born races—beasts, giants, spirits, and monsters shaped by eternal cold.

Camps and frozen dwellings surrounded the fortress, forming what could only be described as a city carved from ice itself.

Among them stood his own kin, towering and proud.

Near the castle walls, a massive frost dragon lay coiled, its breathing slow and steady, each exhale frosting the air around it.

An army.

Assets.

A force ready to move.

With the dark priests’ ritual advancing as planned, it would not be long before the first step was taken.

"By the way, Chief Gallan,"

the old man said carefully, his tone shifting.

"If I may ask... what does the queen intend to do with the Grand Duke Heavens?"

The name carried weight.

There was only one human they openly referred to as Heavens—the strongest swordsman of the human race.

A being whose very existence could shatter their plans if left unchecked.

Gallan stopped.

For a brief moment, the temperature in the cave seemed to drop further.

He turned his head slightly, icy eyes glancing back at the priest.

"That is not our concern," Gallan replied curtly. "He is yours to deal with."

The words were cold. Final.

With that, Gallan continued deeper into the cave, his heavy footsteps echoing through stone and ice alike, leaving the old priest behind—smiling thinly.

...

"Hoh..."

A faint breath of frosted mist escaped Snow’s lips as she exhaled.

She briefly brushed a gloved hand over her shoulders, adjusting the thick white coat draped over her frame.

A matching jacket hugged her form beneath it, a pristine white scarf wrapped neatly around her neck as she stepped lightly across the snow-covered ground.

"I thought the cold doesn’t affect you?"

Riley asked, glancing sideways at her.

"It doesn’t,"

Snow replied calmly.

"But dressing properly is still a must for a lady, you know."

There was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice.

Deep within the forests of the northern lands, the two of them walked side by side, their footsteps the only sound breaking the silence.

Towering frost-laden trees surrounded them, branches creaking softly beneath layers of ice as pale light filtered through the canopy.

Even without releasing their mana, they could feel it.

The dread.

The moment they had crossed into the north, it had been unmistakable.

The entire frozen land was being smothered by a foreign presence—an overwhelming mana that seeped into the air itself.

Cold.

Dark.

Oppressive.

It was similar to the mana one would sense before a dungeon outbreak... yet fundamentally different.

More deliberate.

More unified.

As though the entire region was breathing in unison under a single will.

And that was what made it truly unsettling.

This mana did not come from countless scattered sources.

It most likely stemmed from one distinct existence.

Right now, the two of them moved alone, having deliberately ignored the natural order of things.

They had entered the territory without greeting the ruling lord of the north, without announcing themselves to the Grand Duke whose domain they had crossed.

No banners.

No escorts.

No warnings.

Riley slowed slightly and looked to his side.

Snow walked forward with steady steps, her expression calm, almost serene.

Yet he knew better.

Soon, a trial awaited her—one she had to face alone.

Something tied not to strength alone, but to her resolve.

A quiet determination settled in his chest.

Subtly, imperceptibly, his divinity stirred. It wrapped around his body like an unseen mantle, restrained yet ready