Chapter 255 Kalosh, the Solidified Tears of the Night

Time and space seemed to stagnate the moment the brilliant silver light burst forth.

Scarlet blood splattering across the leaves flowed downward under gravity's pull, only to be scattered by the raindrops plummeting from the sky. As it shattered, it blossomed into a frozen flower of blood:

Lawson, his left hand severed and his right tightly gripping his rapier, had bloodshot eyes from the excruciating pain; veins bulged wildly on his neck from his exertion.

Opposite him stood the heavy-armored knight Trevelyan. His eyes were incredibly cold and his handsome face was drenched in rain, yet his gaze was not fixed on the opponent before him. Instead, he stared at the nearby wasteland—where the Metal Block had landed.

The two men stood in opposition, locked in a tableau as motionless as the suspended raindrops.

Xia Nan knew very well that time had likely not truly stopped flowing.

It was just like "bullet time" from his past life. His mind was so active that millions of thoughts flashed by in a single instant, making the external world—including his own body—appear to slow down.

The source of this change was, naturally, the strange object in his hand. It was an oval creation radiating a dazzling yet gentle silver-white glow, known as the [Dream Weaving Corridor].

In the center of his chest, the wound suppressed by "Lesser Healing" still throbbed with sharp pain.

A cold, emotionless mechanical voice echoed in his mind; at first, it sounded unfamiliar, but as if sensing his thoughts, it shifted into Common, the language widely used across the Aifala Continent.

"Entering Dynamic Password..."

"Password verified!"

"Activating 'Dream Weaving Corridor - Neural Roaming Terminal'..."

"Activation successful!"

"Dream Weaver, welcome."

"Warning! Remaining energy is below 5%. To ensure normal operation, please recharge immediately!"

"Checking Memory Archive Repository..."

"Warning! Storage unit damaged. Please contact the equipment manufacturer for repairs!"

"Connecting to Online Memory Cloud..."

"Connection failed!"

"Attempting local connection..."

"Connection successful!"

"Retrieving Neural Source Trajectory. Generating Subjective Experience Log..."

Accompanying the cold mechanical voice echoing in his head was a long string of characters flashing across the surface of the Dream Weaving Corridor device.

After localization, the text, just like the voice, used Common.

This allowed Xia Nan to understand their meaning.

But much like strings of background code on a computer from his past life, he might recognize the letters, but once they were combined with countless unheard-of technical terms, he could only stare in utter confusion.

Silver light flickered.

As Xia Nan's gaze swept over the words "Password verified" on the device, he inwardly rejoiced that the Goddess of Luck's [Fate Coin] had indeed worked.

Even though he hadn't known the password type, length, or if it required repeated input, he had just blindly guessed. As long as there was a possibility of success, the probability would absolutely reach one hundred percent.

Before he could continue reading and carefully analyze it word by word, that massive string of silver-white characters vanished in a flash along with the text "Generating Subjective Experience Log."

In their place appeared four seemingly abstract patterns that nevertheless precisely conveyed what they symbolized:

A black wolf with a swaying mane, crouching deep within the shadows;

A scattering cluster of ochre-red light bursting open like a firework;

A wooden longsword leaving a perfect, sweeping afterimage as it swung;

And a minimalist pattern made of pure lines and dots, resembling the orbital trajectory of planets within a galaxy.

Even though the device itself did not explain what these patterns meant, Xia Nan astutely linked their number and highly evocative imagery to the four combat techniques he currently possessed.

The black wolf—Fang Hunt. The ochre-red light—Gravity Etching. The swinging longsword—Spinning Slash. The planetary trajectory—Gravity Control.

'But... what does this mean?' Xia Nan wondered.

Based on the description on his Attribute Panel, he knew the [Dream Weaving Corridor] possessed a function similar to virtual reality, allowing one to experience life from a character's subjective perspective like an immersive movie.

But why would it link to his combat techniques?

As he pondered, his mind subconsciously focused on the image at the very end of the device, the one symbolizing [Gravity Control].

"Warning! Insufficient energy. Please recharge before use."

He was briefly taken aback.

He shifted his attention forward to [Spinning Slash] and [Gravity Etching], only to be met with two identical warnings of insufficient energy.

Just as he was secretly agonizing over whether he had wasted a precious opportunity to use the [Fate Coin]...

Xia Nan's attention fell on the sole remaining pattern on the device's surface—the black wolf symbolizing [Fang Hunt].

The image of the wolf crouching in the shadows suddenly moved. As if it had finally waited for the perfect hunting opportunity, the black wolf lunged forward, baring its sharp fangs at the edge of its maw, its limbs stretching out in mid-air.

"Activate Subjective Experience Log?"

The mechanical voice echoed in his mind.

At this point, the [Fate Coin] had already been used. There was no room for regret.

Xia Nan focused his intent, his gaze gently brushing against the black-furred wolf.

"Activation successful!"

"Weaving dream..."

I am Grom Windbiter, the bravest Barbarian warrior of the Frost-Proud Tribe, the favored of our ancestral spirits, and the future chieftain of the tribe.

When I was young, whenever I introduced myself like this to the adults in the tribal priest's igloo, I was always met with good-natured laughter and rough, calloused hands ruffling my hair.

I knew they never took my words seriously.

Nor did they ever believe that someone with a physique as unremarkable as mine among my peers could ever grow up to be a great Warrior who inherited the ancestors' will.

Perhaps they were right.

After all, even now, I can't help but blush when I think back to the boastful ambitions I used to declare while beating my chest.

Whenever someone brought it up, I would just wave it off and change the subject.

With my brothers and sisters in the tribe, a few mouthfuls of ale and a tale or two about the monsters on the snow plains were enough to gloss over any topic I didn't want to discuss.

But the "bravest," the "strongest," the "most favored," the "chieftain"—growing up in the tribe, who had not dreamed of these titles?

We all just knew the gap between ourselves and the leaders, and were too afraid to say it out loud in front of others.

"Grom"—my name was not common in the tribe, for it was not bestowed by the priest, a man who never smiled and had more wrinkles on his face than cracks on the ice.

Instead, it was given to me by my human father, a supposed important figure whom I had never met since the day I was born.

He hoped that I could be like a "grom"—the booming of thunder—and make my name echo throughout the wind and snow of the highlands.

Honestly, once this confused "stranger of a father" realized his son—me—was a half-blood of a Barbarian and a human, he should not have pinned such expectations on me.

The human blood flowing in my veins meant I was naturally a head shorter than the other children my age in the tribe.

While kids my age were wrestling with ice jackals in the blizzard, I still needed to wrap myself in several layers of thick animal pelts just to stand steady against the biting cold.

I even had a much harder time tapping into the frenzied Rage that symbolized the degree of an ancestor's favor.

My human heritage made my emotions far more stable than my fellow tribesmen; I rarely got angry.

Obviously, in a Barbarian Tribe, this was not a good thing.

But by the same token, it was like a blizzard on the highlands: it might cause a traveler to lose his way in the snow, but it also wiped away his scent and tracks from the dangerous predators trailing behind him.

The human blood made me far less physically robust than the other Barbarians, but it gifted me a talent they lacked.

Combat techniques. These immensely powerful skills were the prerequisite for gaining Class Levels.

I comprehended them much faster than anyone else.

When the leader of my peers—who had once dangled a jackal's head in my face and mocked that I could not even beat a snow rabbit—was still agonizing over reaching the Novice tier, I had already trained my first combat technique to the Mastery tier.

Soon, as my Class Level rose, the physical stat boosts provided by my "Mastery"-tier combat technique bridged the physical gap between me and my tribesmen.

I even fulfilled my childhood dream and became a member of the tribal hunting team.

My old boastful ambitions finally felt within reach.

No, this was far from enough.

My mixed blood meant I had to put in even more effort just to reap the rewards I deserved.

If I wanted to earn the respect of my people, inherit the ancestors' will, and take that glorious seat...

I had to give even more.

And I found the opportunity.

This was my 63rd day in the Split Tooth Highlands.

The white puffs of breath I exhaled were instantly shredded by the freezing air; wrapped in thick cave bear pelts, I blended into the earth, looking just like one of the scaly black rocks scattered across the highlands.

The blizzard raged on, but my heart burned hotter than ever.

How could I win the tribe's approval and be nominated for the highest position?

In the human kingdoms of the continent, it might require a complex, tedious, and incredibly difficult political process.

But for the Barbarians of the highlands, it only required two things:

1. Loyalty;

2. Making significant enough contributions to the tribe.

As for the former, the foreign blood in my veins meant I naturally started a step behind everyone else.

This meant I had to make a monumental contribution, one far surpassing any other candidate, to turn my childhood dream into reality.

So, in the eyes of a Barbarian, what kind of contribution would be considered monumental?

A victory so glorious it would be etched into tribal history?

The Frost-Proud Tribe currently had no enemy of that caliber, and my strength was nowhere near enough to be the centerpiece of such a war.

Food resources sufficient for the whole tribe to survive the winter without anyone starving or freezing to death?

While I was a member of the hunting team, I was far from being the captain, and my experience paled in comparison to the veterans.

If such an opportunity actually arose, it definitely wouldn't fall to me.

In the end, I chose to start from my own advantage—the very root cause that had put me in this position.

I pinned my hopes on the extraordinary comprehension granted by my human bloodline to develop an exceptional combat technique suitable for all tribesmen.

This would be my way of repaying the tribe, a massive contribution that would support my climb to the top.

Following the tribal epics recounted over countless freezing nights by the great priest who had lived for ages unknown, I ventured deep into the highlands alone, hoping that the blizzards and monsters here would grant me an epiphany.

After a long search and agonizingly patient waiting, I found my target:

A large pack of Winter Wolves.

"Awooo!"

Long, drawn-out wolf howls echoed through the skies above the snow-swept Ice Plains.

The silver-white wolf pack prowled through the snow like flowing cold iron, encircling, weaving, and carving a herd of deer into manageable pieces.

The fawns and the sickly were bitten and dragged out, becoming the pack's dinner.

To the Barbarians, Winter Wolves—dangerous monsters that roamed the snowy highlands in packs—were certainly no strangers.

The experience passed down by countless ancestors told me that these avatars of the bitter winter's will, with their blood-stained fangs and claws, would provide immense inspiration in forging a brand-new combat technique.

To that end, relying on special tools I brought from the tribe and the unique abilities of my class, I lurked around the pack for an entire month.

I followed their hunts and tracked their wanderings across the snowfields.

I thought I had observed them closely enough, but after all these days, my only harvest was freezing flesh and an increasingly exhausted mind.

Fortunately, I had enough patience to last for many more days.

Perhaps my thankless, foolish behavior was so pitiful that even the ancestors above the icy heavens couldn't bear to watch anymore.

On my 103rd day in the Split Tooth Highlands, things took a turn.

It was a furry little ball—a patch of pure, concentrated, ink-like black that stood out starkly against the snowy white Ice Plains.

A young mutant Winter Wolf!

This was the first time I had ever laid eyes on an entity that only existed in legends.

I bet even if you expanded the scope to the entire Frost-Proud Tribe, the only other person to have seen one would be the elderly priest, whose lifespan was as enduring as frozen stone.

"Tears of the Night Mother."

I silently recited its name from the tribe's ancient ballads.

Legend had it that when the Night Mother—the great Goddess who ruled over darkness and night—was betrayed by her twin sister, her tears fell upon this land, transforming into beasts as black and mysterious as herself.

I even felt a twinge of terror.

After all, in a Barbarian Tribe, black Winter Wolves were always an omen of misfortune.

It was said that anyone who laid eyes on one would die a gruesome death amidst darkness and blood.

But soon enough, my inner desires and my yearning for a bright, glorious future suppressed the unease in my heart.

Realizing this might be the turning point of my life, I began to observe it closely.

This completely black mutant Winter Wolf did not have an easy childhood.

Its fur color was vastly different from the other Wolf Cubs, making it an outcast from the moment it was born.

If it weren't for its mother—the robust and powerful pack leader—it might have had its neck snapped by its malicious kin right after birth, dying a premature death.

Having been ostracized by my peers in my youth because of my human bloodline, this similar experience actually stirred an inexplicable sense of sympathy in me, drawing my undivided attention to it.

Fortunately, the pack was large enough, and the relatively abundant prey on the highlands was enough to fill the bellies of every Winter Wolf in the group.

The little guy survived under its mother's protection.

The pack leader kept the cub tucked under her belly with an almost stubborn tenderness, using her body heat to stave off the cold.

Whenever the other playing cubs tried to push the black wolf aside, she would drive them away with a low growl, letting the black wolf drink her rich milk first.

Under this care, the pitch-black pup, naturally a fraction of the size of its kin, painstakingly grew up in the crevices of frost and shadow.

'Perhaps I should give it a name?'

I thought to myself.

After pondering for a long time, I decided to call it "Kalosh."

Please forgive me for borrowing the name for mutant Winter Wolves from tribal poetry; the meaning behind these syllables was just too fitting. I couldn't imagine a better alternative.

Kalosh—the solidified tears of the night, the shadow of misfortune.

The ancestors' records proved true.

This mutant Winter Wolf I named "Kalosh" truly seemed to be an omen of doom and death.

Before it could even fully grow, the largest Winter Wolf pack in the region suffered a devastating blow.

An adult centipede monster attacked the Winter Wolves' den on a howling, snowy night.

Mournful wolf howls rang out for almost the entire night.

When I cautiously approached the following morning, the area around the den was piled high with Winter Wolf corpses, their frozen blood soaking the snow.

The pack suffered catastrophic losses; nearly half of the adult wolves died in that tragic battle.

Kalosh's mother—the brave and gentle leader of the pack—was among the corpses on the snow.

Kalosh's life took a drastic turn for the worse.

The loss of its mother robbed it of its last foothold in the pack. It truly became that lone shadow symbolizing misfortune.

It faced even more rejection and silent expulsion. Whenever it tried to approach the pack to share a kill, it was always met with bared white fangs and low, threatening growls.

Its jet-black fur, as conspicuous as a banner in the snow, further excluded it from the pack's most vital activity: hunting. It couldn't participate with the group at all.

It became increasingly isolated.

Finally, after a failed hunt, the pack's new leader thoroughly banished Kalosh from their territory.

It stood alone on a howling, snow-swept ridge. Gazing down at the pack, it let out one last, long howl that sounded as if it could tear a soul apart.

Then, it turned and plunged into the pale depths.

It became a true lone wolf.

At the same time, I—whose goal was to observe monsters and invent a new combat technique—also had to choose between the pack and Kalosh.

Without a shred of hesitation, I chose the latter.

As for the reason, it had already been decided the moment I chose to name it.

I began tracking it across a broader and far more dangerous region.

To be honest, its black coat stood out on the snow plains like an ink spot on white paper. It was too conspicuous, both to me trailing behind it and to its highly alert prey.

Hunt after failed hunt left Kalosh looking increasingly emaciated, as though it would collapse into the snow at any second and be buried by the blizzard.

But just like a polished ice blade, once the naive innocence of an elder's protection was ground away, its true sharpness and lethality were finally revealed.

Its aura grew heavier, and its posture steadied. Those wolf eyes, as pitch-black as its mane, lacked their former glimmer, but they were incredibly chilling.

Kalosh stopped giving chase.

As a lone wolf with uniquely colored fur, the pack's old method of running down prey was no longer viable.

It chose to wait.

Perhaps beneath the shadowed overhang of a steep cliff, or under the trunk of a hemlock tree snapped by the blizzard and leaning against its neighbor.

Kalosh acted like a literal black stone. It would flatten itself against the freezing ground, taking long, faint breaths, its black pelt blending flawlessly into the shadows. Sometimes, even with my keen eyesight, it took me several heartbeats to locate it again.

A robust ice gazelle cautiously stepped into the area, lowering its head to graze on the moss between the rocks.

Time seemed to freeze as a gaze brimming with suppressed killing intent swept over the gazelle's fragile, slender neck.

It seemed to notice something; its ears perked up, and it raised its head in alarm.

But right at that hair-raising moment, as the ice gazelle tensed its muscles to bound away...

The shadow lurking just ahead of it exploded!

Without warning, the pitch-black silhouette launched from absolute stillness like a fully drawn ox-sinew bow, flashing through the blizzard as a blurry streak.

I witnessed Kalosh's entire hunt.

What played out in my mind were the contours of bulging muscles beneath its black coat as it exerted force, the fan-like spray of snow kicking up beneath its paws upon eruption, the sharp claws embedding into the gazelle's spine, and the sickening crunch of the prey's back snapping. It was the condensation of death, released in an instant.

An unprecedented, beautiful flash of inspiration flooded my mind.

I had finally found it—the key that would propel me to the peak, make me the tribal chieftain, and fulfill my childhood dream.

A combat technique modeled after the Winter Wolf's hunting posture, demonstrating instantaneous, explosive speed.

From that day on, I practically became the blizzard on the highlands.

I followed beside the black wolf day and night.

When it rested, I rested; when it hunted, I quietly hid nearby.

Kalosh must have noticed me a few times, but after realizing I wouldn't interfere with its hunts, it stopped paying me any mind.

I remained in stealth and never took the initiative to approach.

It was out of respect for a fellow lone wanderer, and a tacit understanding formed invisibly between man and beast.

Days passed by.

The combat technique I was visualizing gradually took shape, and Kalosh's frame continued to grow.

Compared to normal Winter Wolves, its build was much leaner and more agile. Its four slender legs housed powerful explosive force, and its aura—just like the shadow it symbolized—had grown deeper and colder.

Just as I thought these days would go on forever—until I either completely finished developing my combat technique or the wolf grew tired of my presence...

The unexpected happened.

On another howling, snowy night, that adult centipede monster once again attacked the already crippled pack.

As for how I knew... It was because during the day, I had followed Kalosh when it suddenly abandoned an almost-secured kill and dashed in a completely new direction, leading me near the den.

From such a great distance, I had no idea how it sensed the centipede monster.

But without a doubt, it hated this powerful creature. It hated the monster for killing its family and ruining its peaceful life. The battle dragged on through the entire night.

The swirling snow of the Split Tooth Highlands, condensed from highly concentrated magical particles, combined with the pitch-black night to obscure the battlefield. I didn't dare approach carelessly.

By the time I looked again at daybreak, the once-largest wolf pack in the area was entirely wiped out.

There was no centipede monster corpse.

And Kalosh, the black wolf, had vanished as well.

After that day, I never saw that ink-black, icy splash of color on the snow plains again.

Did it die?

I couldn't be sure.

Perhaps it was the unfinished explosive combat technique, which only needed one last touch of "soul" to bring the entire framework to life.

Or perhaps it was the countless days and nights we had wandered the snowfields together, eating raw meat, drinking snow, and weathering ice storms.

I gave up my position as the "hunting team captain" in the tribe and searched the Ice Plains for its tracks.

Finally, two years later, on the night of a waning moon.

Near the edge of the Split Tooth Highlands, atop a towering cliff.

Silhouetted against the moonlight, that familiar, slender black figure entered my vision once again.

It was leaner and stronger than I remembered, its skeletal frame broadened. Its mane was just as black, but it now carried the profound gravity of a creature that had truly been tempered through life and death.

Several terrifying wounds marked its body. A gruesome claw mark tore through the fur on its left shoulder, while another gash extended from its lower back down to its right leg.

It lowered its head slightly, casting a sidelong glance at me.

Those cold wolf eyes were more resolute than ever before.

I understood its intent.

It had returned to find me on its own.

The goal, naturally, was to let me bear witness to its unfinished revenge.

And so, just like those days two years ago, I quietly trailed behind it.

Through the blizzards of the Ice Plains, over mountain ridges, past the long-buried wolf den.

We arrived deep within the highlands, at a profound Canyon that never saw the sun.

This was the centipede monster's lair.

The battle ended quickly.

Much faster than I had imagined.

The tribe's ancient prayer to the Night Mother inexplicably surfaced in my mind:

"Grant him the feet of shadows, to tread upon the enemy's shade;

Grant him a heart of silence, to await the moment of thunder;

Grant him the fangs of vengeance, to drink the blood of foes."

The lean, black figure melted into the night, as if becoming the shadow itself.

Its movements carried a strange rhythm; with every step, snow dust and ice chips sprayed outward like silent, crystalline flowers.

Noise, vibrations, and visual blind spots were exploited to the absolute limit. Its pitch-black coat blended seamlessly with the darkness.

The centipede monster seemed to sense something, a flash of human-like suspicion crossing its insectoid compound eyes.

In contrast, Kalosh displayed patience akin to ancient ice.

It closed the distance. Then, it erupted.

It lunged forward, just like the thousands of failed or successful hunts from its past.

But its speed was astonishing, unlike anything before.

Even I struggled to trace the blur it left in the air.

"Slash!"

A teeth-aching noise—like an iron spike embedding into and tearing through a layer of ice—echoed through the air.

The centipede monster lost its head.

Kalosh had slain its enemy.

I stood on the vast snow plains. At the edge of my vision was the black shadow gradually vanishing into the depths of the snow and ice.

A long wolf howl drifted faintly over the howling wind.

I knew it would not return.

This was the final hunt.

It had taken its revenge, and in doing so, breathed that all-important soul into my perfectly structured combat technique.

"Awooo—"

Another wolf howl rang out.

But this time, it echoed right beside my ear.

A phantom Wolf Head, both blurred and solid, ferociously manifested around my body.

As for the name of this combat technique, I had already decided on it the very first time I watched Kalosh hunt down its prey and sink its fangs into flesh.

I named it—[Fang Hunt].