The Gentiles didn't seem to see Solva's approach. She approached from an angle out of the man's line of sight—from the flanks, slightly behind the direction, and the man never looked back.

Solva glanced around. If the Frosttooth Wolf or some other beast had followed the stranger, it would have pounced by now. There was nothing in sight, so she kept going.

She was far enough to distinguish the stranger's physical appearance. Now she could confirm that it was a man, dressed in fur, but not in the manner of the Freljords. Stupid, he didn't carry a gun, an axe, a sword, or a bow. Salva shook his head. In Winter's Claw, as long as a person learns to walk, he must never leave his sword. She had other, more arcane weapons of her own, but still carried three knives with her.

Even more strange was that the stranger was dragging a pair of iron chains behind him, and the chains were attached to a pair of strangely shaped, huge handcuffs, which were firmly attached to his wrists......

Too late, Silas of Sideditch realizes that he has grossly underestimated the sheer and overwhelming harshness of the Freeljord Moor. He knew that this northern land had a great magical power, and now that he was here, he could really feel the magic power even to his bones. It's just that in retrospect, it was a mistake to come here.

More than a dozen hand-picked mages set out with him to set foot in the frigid Northlands, but one by one they fell, snatched by blizzards, hidden chasms, and brutal beasts. He had thought that the greatest threat would be the barbarians from Freeljord, but so far, he had never seen any living souls during his weeks of travel.

He couldn't imagine how a man would live in such a place.

He thought they were well prepared, dressed in layers of furs and woollen fabrics, and carrying with them a steady long-haired bull a large amount of food, firewood, weapons, and trading coins, which had been liberated from the tax collectors' crates and nobles' coffers in his native Demacia.

Even the bulls didn't make it to this point alive, so now Silas was left alone.

He was driven by sheer willpower and a desire to see the fall of Demacia's monarchs and nobles.

He had already stirred up considerable resistance in Demacia. He had already lit the fire of the rebellion, but he also realized that more fuel was needed before it could actually burn. He had eaten every book, annals, and tome he could get his hands on in his prison cell in Demacia, and many of them mentioned the terrible witchcraft and ancient magic of the Far North. That's the power he needs. Even now, in the face of death, he still firmly believes that the power he is seeking is not far off......

Helplessly, even his persistence is not enough to resist this unforgiving cold. His hands and toes were blackened, he had long since lost consciousness, and a heavy feeling of drowsiness weighed on him, dragging him down.

He felt like he had seen a column of riders on the ridge in the distance not long ago, but he wasn't sure if it was real or some kind of hallucinatory conjecture from fatigue and hypothermia.

Still, he knew that stopping meant death. He must find that power in the Northlands, or he will not die well.

So he continued to stagger, one foot over the other...... But he only walked a few dozen more steps, and then he fell headlong into the snow and couldn't move.

Solva shook her head, and when she saw the stranger fall to the ground, she urged Icefang forward. The man didn't get up this time. As far as she knew, he was dead, had been taken away by the ruthless element, but she herself had long been ignorant of it.

Getting closer, Solva slid off the saddle and stepped into knee-deep snow. She cautiously approached the man lying on the ground, wading through the snow.

She looked at his restraint again, curious.

If he was an escaped prisoner, then where did he escape?

Winterclaw never held prisoners, but occasionally enslaved survivors, and if they could not be tamed or subjugated to become obedient slaves, a living person was a mouth to eat. Solva felt that even the Avarossa would not imprison prisoners in this way. Could he have escaped from the southern lands over the mountains?

She grabbed the staff with both hands and poked him. Finding no response, Solva stuck the end of his staff into the snow beneath the Gente, trying to pry him over and face up. It wasn't easy at all, as his huge handcuffs covered almost the entire forearm, surprisingly heavy. After some effort, she finally turned him over.

He rolled lifelessly to the front, his plush hood falling. His eyes were closed, his sockets were sunken, and his lips were cyanotic. His eyebrows, eyelashes, and beard were covered in frost, and his black hair was tied in a loose ponytail at the back of his head, which was also covered in frost.

Solva let his gaze be drawn to the shackles on his wrists. The Frost Nun was well-informed, and her mission of faith had seen her visit many different tribes over the years, but the pair of harnesses in front of her was made of some unknown pale stone, and she had never seen it before. The handcuffs made her feel a deep sense of unease. There's even a vague discomfort in just looking at it, and it's clear that it was never intended to be unraveled when it was created. What the hell did this stranger do to bind his wrists with something like this? She concluded that it must be a very terrible crime.

Solva knelt down on one knee beside him, wondering why he had been led here. Apparently God brought her here, as was the case in the past. But for what exactly? The man was still unconscious, and would die soon. She was led here to save him? Or is it what he brings that counts?

Solva's gaze returned to the stranger's shackles. She decided, and reached into one of the handcuffs.

Before she could touch the pale stone, a tingling pain came from her fingertips.

The man's eyes snapped open.

Solva ducked backwards in panic, but she was too slow. The man took off a glove and grabbed her arm, and just as Solva tried to summon her god-given power, she felt the power be stripped from her body, forced out of the core of her body. The sudden cold had incapacitated her from everything—something she hadn't felt in years. Then she collapsed downward, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to do anything.

As she was overwhelmed by the cold, she vaguely saw that the stranger's face was bloody again, as if she had suddenly received the warmth of a fire.

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you." He said.

Then he let go of his hand, and Solva lay backwards on his back, exhaling, weak and drained.

Seeing the shamanka fall, Freina cursed, smacked Guvask under her crotch with her foot, and rode forward.

"Keep up!" She yelled, and the rest of the raiders moved. The earth trembled under their thunderous charge, and it sounded like an avalanche.

The Gentile knelt on one knee beside Sister Frost, and the Man of Winter's Claws rushed at him, plowing deep furrows in the snow. To her curiosity, the man took off his fur coat and put it over the shamanka, and his movements seemed to be a little gentle.

Faced with the unstoppable claws of winter, he stood, chains dragging behind him. Freina clenched the spear in her hand.

Seeing the incoming troops, the Gentile distanced herself from the fallen shaman, who lay motionless in the snow and pale. He raised his hands to show that he had no weapons, but that didn't matter to Freina. It's not like she hasn't killed an unarmed enemy.

Without any gestures or signals, Freina's warriors spread out to the sides, forming a large encirclement that cut off any escape routes. Smart enough, he didn't try to escape. After all, where can you flee to?

He stood there and looked around, like the weakest of the herd, isolated by the wolves. His gaze traveled back and forth with the Freljord man beside him. Although he was ready to fight, he did not show any timidity, at least that was something that Flena could respect.

The Gentile took off his coat, his two strong arms naked in the elements, but he didn't look cold.

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