"It's all ...... Zhen Bing? He whispered, awe sparkling in his eyes.

"All of them," Hala said. "Only a few of the chosen ones have seen it. One-eyed is really watching you, half-barreled arrow. Watching us. We are blessed people. ”

Zhen Bing is part of the Frost Guard's faith, and they worship Zhen Ice as a divine gift to the three sisters. Infused with the power of ancient elementals, the Ice is harder than steel, and it never melts, even in the hottest furnaces. Even a few of the weapons crafted from Ice, such as Oral's Warhammer Son of Thunder, or Halrah's twin axes, Bloodfangs and Claws, are of great honor and religious significance. The technique of crafting Ice Weapons has long been lost, and all the existing Ice Weapons are sacred relics, all of which have been passed down from the ancient Ice Heroes. Sigvar prayed that one day he would be qualified to hold such a relic, but for now, his half-dagger would be enough. Forged far beyond the frozen wasteland, this sword was a good weapon by any measure, and it never failed him.

"We're almost there, thanks to the three sisters." Hala said. "Let's go."

They strode along the canyon for a long time, like wolves, led by Harra.

Although Sigvar has lived on inhospitable frozen soil all his life, the temperature here is something he has never experienced. Even through many layers of fur clothing, he felt cold to the bone, and every breath was accompanied by pain. His exposed face was quickly covered with a thin layer of ice, which shattered with each blink. Oraar's beard was all frozen, and if he touched something, he would break off immediately. The frost spread upwards along their boots, the ice on the soles of their feet holding them in their might, each step full of hardship.

Only the Iceborn can survive here. That being said, Sigvar isn't sure how long he'll be able to hold out here. An hour? Nu worked hard for two hours? It won't be possible any longer.

Hala led them along. To stop is to die.

They finally came to the place where the rift narrowed, wide enough for them to pass through one by one.

Hala was the first to go, and Oral motioned for Sigvar to follow her.

"Don't stare at it all the time," Oral warned him. "It's not a good thing to look at."

"...... are you talking about?" Sigwa asked.

Oral just shook his head and didn't elaborate on it. Sigvar slipped into the slit, figuring out what the old warrior meant.

The crack was narrow, and his body was much wider and thicker than Hara's. He barely squeezed through the gap, the ice burning hot. He was sure that his cold skeleton would shatter with a casual hammer, but he kept going, rubbing inch by inch, and finally wore it.

On the other side of the slit is a large bowl-bottom-like cave. The ice beneath your feet gradually turns from cloudy to transparent. The ice bottom in the center of the cave is a perfect plane, like a black mirror. In the center of the cave is a flat, open field surrounded by a large and abrupt ring of ice. It looks like a pillar, and it is arranged in the middle of the space along the circle, giving the whole cave a sense of the solemnity of a lost god. There were nine icicles, and Sigvar suddenly realized what the number meant.

"The Hall of the Nine," he said in a reverent tone.

Of course he knew about the Nine Venerables. They resemble giant shackles that bind those beneath them, and it is said that the magic that made them has long been lost. Some say that the Yeti made the nine, but Sigvar is no longer old enough to listen to such fairy tales.

He knew that they had reached their destination.

"Let's go sideways, around the perimeter of the center circle," Hala said to them, seeing that Oral had also turned through the slit. "Don't go near the center of the bottom of the ice, don't look down."

Sigvar knew it was kind advice to himself, and he nodded.

"Each of the nine must be checked. I'm going from here, this way," Hala said, gesturing to the nearest icicle and then to its right. "Fist of Stone, you start there and go that way. The child is handed over to you. ”

At any other time, Sigvar would have been furious to hear that he was called a child or even being cared for. He had faced hordes of troll berserkers in the deepest of winter's days, and his face had been ecstatic - but for now, he was grateful to be by Oral's side. A palpable tension hangs in the air, like the coercion of waiting for thunder after a lightning flash.

They made their way to the nearest icicle, Sigvar deliberately keeping his gaze upward. At one time, it may have been a closed cave, but the top collapsed a long time ago. Sigvar felt that the roof of the cave had collapsed because some behemoth had been thrown from above.

He didn't dare look down, but even so, he could see the shadows below out of the corner of his eye. It was tugging at him, as if it were pulling his attention......

"Don't look," Oral hissed, probably feeling the same pull.

Hala had reached the first piece of ice and began to slowly circle it, scrutinizing it. Oral and Sigvar approached the second block.

"What are we going to see?" Sigvar asked in a low voice, trying not to let his realization move to the center of the ice.

"Any change," Oral said.

Upon approaching, Sigvar could see a dark cord sealed inside the icicle. "How do we know what's changed?" He muttered quietly.

Oral didn't answer at first, his eyes narrowed and he scanned the sides of the ice spike. Finally he let out a grunt and pointed to it. "There are runes carved into the ice, a long time ago, when the things that dwelled below were just banished. See this? ”

Sigvar took a step closer and saw thin lines carved into the surface of the icicles, forming the handwriting of the runes. "What does that mean?" He asked.

"It means that the ice is not melting. Come on, go see the next one. ”

They set off, clinging to the left wall of the cave, bypassing the open field in the middle.

Sigvar will never be able to say what happened next. He remembered that he had been following Oral all the time, towards the next icicle. He remembered a heavy pressure rising in his head, and then he felt something move in his peripheral vision. The weight of the silence weighed down, overwhelming him, and then everything seemed to become a blur, as if a thick fog had suddenly risen around him, blocking all senses.

Then he found himself standing in the middle of the ice, staring down.

A large one-eyed looked back at him, unblinking.

Sigvar's soul was retreating, his heart was screaming, but he couldn't take his eyes off it, completely enslaved to the huge, receptive, eyelidless one-eyed.

There were about twenty feet of ice between him and the Black Shadow Behemoth, which wasn't close enough. It wasn't possible to see clearly, but Sigvar felt the giant eye surrounded by dark, curly, tentacle limbs. Any sea monster that wanders in the abyss under the ice sheet is dwarfed in front of it. It is impossible for a creature of this size to exist.

It's not dead. In that gaze lies life, and vast, unknowable wisdom.