"Why… Senior Brother?"
Ivan stared down at the blade that had pierced his body, disbelief hollowing out his voice. The steel trembled faintly where it was buried in his flesh, slick with blood that seeped steadily around it. His strength fled him all at once, as if the strike had cut through more than muscle and bone.
His legs buckled.
He dropped heavily to his knees, the impact jarring his already failing body. The sword slid free with a wet sound as his senior brother pulled it back, and the sudden absence of steel was replaced by a burning pain that tore through his abdomen. Ivan gasped sharply, his breath hitching as his hands instinctively moved to press against the wound.
Warmth spilled between his fingers.
His arms trembled violently as he struggled to stay upright. The world tilted, his vision blurring at the edges, colors smearing together as blood loss set in. Each breath grew heavier than the last, dragging painfully through his chest.
Slowly and agonizingly, he lifted his head.
His neck felt too weak to support the motion, yet he forced himself to look up, to meet the face of the man he had trusted without question. His senior brother stood before him, sword still in hand, its edge stained crimson. There was no hesitation in his stance, no regret in his eyes.
Only cold resolve.
Ivan's lips parted, but no words came at first. His throat tightened, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. Confusion warred with betrayal, disbelief clawing at his chest more fiercely than the wound itself.
"You…" His voice cracked. "Why?"
The question wasn't just about the strike.
It was about years of shared training. Shared meals. Shared dangers. The man who had guided him, protected him, and stood at his side, now looming over him like an executioner.
His body swayed, shoulders slumping as the last of his strength ebbed away. Blood dripped steadily onto the ground below, each drop sounding far too loud in the suffocating silence.
Still, Ivan kept his eyes locked on his senior brother's face, searching desperately for something, anything, that would make sense of this moment.
But there was nothing.
Only the quiet certainty that he had been betrayed… and that this betrayal would be his end.
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
The senior brother finally moved.
He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against the ground, and looked down at Ivan as one might look at a broken tool, useful once, now discarded. He held the sword loosely at his side, the blade angled downward as blood dripped from its tip in slow, steady drops.
"You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to," he said calmly.
Ivan's fingers tightened weakly against his wound. His breathing was shallow now, uneven, each inhale scraping painfully through his chest.
"The treasure," his senior brother continued, voice low and measured, "was never meant to be shared."
Ivan's pupils trembled. Understanding struck harder than the blade had.
They had nearly died for it.
A heavenly treasure, something born of pure qi, capable of pushing a cultivator past their limits. Something that could shatter a bottleneck that might never come again.
"This…" The senior brother exhaled slowly. "This is my last chance."
He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to Ivan's eye level. There was no hatred on his face. No anger. Only resolve sharpened by desperation.
"I've lingered in this realm for too long," he said. "My lifespan is running out. If I fail this breakthrough, there will be no next opportunity."
Ivan tried to speak, but his throat refused to cooperate. Blood stained his lips as he coughed weakly, his body shuddering from the effort.
"If we split it," the senior brother went on, "the efficacy will lessen. Even a slight loss is unacceptable." His gaze hardened. "And if my chances drop… then everything I've endured will have been for nothing."
The words were delivered with terrifying calm.
Ivan's vision blurred further, the world narrowing to the face before him and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. So that's it, he thought bitterly. Years of brotherhood, reduced to a calculation.
"You were unlucky," his senior brother said quietly. "Nothing more."
He straightened, turning away as though the matter had already been settled. The sword was wiped clean with a practiced motion, the metal flashing briefly before disappearing into its sheath.
Ivan's strength finally gave out.
His hands slipped from his wound, falling limply to his sides as his body slumped forward. The ground rushed up to meet him, cold and unforgiving. His breathing slowed, each breath weaker than the last.
As darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, one final thought surfaced in his mind.
Would he be reborn again or die truly and join the others in oblivion.
Then everything went dark.
—--
Snow filled the world without a sound, thick and endless, swallowing everything it touched. The sky above was gone, hidden behind a solid sheet of white. There were no clouds to count, no stars to guide the eye, only a blank, colorless ceiling that pressed down on the earth.
The figure stood still, looking out at the world around him. He could not tell where it began, nor where it ended.
The ground beneath him was snow. The air around him was snow. Every direction he turned, every step he took, led only to the same pale emptiness. Shapes vanished after a few steps, dissolving into nothing. Distance had no meaning here. The world had been reduced to cold, white, and silence.
From the moment he had been reborn into this world, this was the weather that greeted him.
He didn't know if this was punishment. Perhaps it was the whim of whatever unseen entity had dragged his soul across worlds again, an unseen hand that seemed to delight in placing him in lives of suffering.
But at least he lived, again.
He had been in this world for almost three years now, and he had yet to see the sun, not even once.
It took him a long time to understand the language of this world, but from what he eventually gathered, this was considered normal here. Winters lasted for years, and summers did the same, stretching on far longer than any season he had known in his previous lives.
By then, he already had a faint inkling of where he had been reborn. The signs were too familiar, too deliberate to ignore. Still, suspicion alone was not enough. He needed proof, something undeniable, to be certain of the world he now lived in.
After all, who hadn't watched that particular television series in his first life? It had been impossible to avoid, talked about everywhere, dissected endlessly, praised and criticized in equal measure.
In fact, if his memory served him correctly, he had died while watching it in his first life. A sudden, cruel heart attack, striking in the middle of an episode, before the story on the screen could even reach its conclusion.
"Ivar!"
The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade through thin ice.
He blinked, the frozen world snapping back into focus as the sound echoed across the snow. The wind carried it from afar, rough, familiar, and edged with impatience. His Ma was calling for him again.
"Ivar!"
That was his name now.
He exhaled slowly, a thin cloud of breath escaping his lips, and let his shoulders sag. For a brief moment, he had almost forgotten where he was now, lost in memories of other lives, other worlds, and other endings that had come far too suddenly.
But this world did not care for such thoughts.
He turned away from the endless white horizon and began to walk back, his boots crunching softly against the packed snow. His steps were small but steady, practiced after months of trudging through the cold that never truly relented. The wind tugged at his furs, slipping through gaps no matter how tightly they were tied.
"I'm coming," he called back, his voice still rough, still unfamiliar to his own ears.
As he crested a small rise, the shapes of crude huts came into view, low structures of wood, bone, and hide huddled together as if for warmth. Thin trails of smoke rose from fire pits, vanishing almost immediately into the colorless sky. Figures moved between the huts, bundled in thick furs. Adults hauled firewood or tended small tasks, their faces hardened by wind and cold, while children chased one another through the snow, their laughter sharp and brief before being swallowed by the wind.
He passed them without slowing, ignoring curious glances and half-finished greetings as he hurried onward. A few children called out to him, waving or shouting his name, but he didn't respond. His focus was fixed on the largest hut at the center of the settlement.
This was his home now. Not a city. Not a town. Not a sect. Not even a village in the proper sense.
Just a place where people huddled together and endured.
Another shout from his Ma followed, closer this time, and he quickened his pace. With each step, the weight of his past lives settled quietly behind him, tucked away where it could no longer distract him.
Whatever he had been before no longer mattered.
Here, he was Ivar, a child of the frozen land, walking back to his new home beneath a sunless sky.
When he reached the middle hut, larger than the others and reinforced with thicker logs, he barely had time to step inside the ring of trampled snow before a hand shot out and seized him by the ear.
"Ow—!"
His protest was cut short as his mother twisted her fingers mercilessly and dragged him forward. The strength in her grip was startling, especially coming from someone who wasn't particularly tall. Astrid stood lean and compact, her posture relaxed but coiled with strength, the kind that came from a lifetime of survival rather than comfort. She wasn't overly beautiful in the way songs described, yet there was no denying her appeal, sharp features weathered by wind and cold, eyes clear and unyielding.
Her black hair, braided tightly to keep it out of the way, was a stark contrast to his own wild red hair, a trait he had inherited from his father. Even now, the way she moved made it obvious she could fight if needed; every step was balanced, every motion was efficient, leaving no doubt that she was far more dangerous than she looked.
She bent down to his level, dark eyes blazing as she rattled off a stream of harsh words, her voice low but fierce.
He understood enough of the language now to grasp the meaning.
Don't wander off.
Don't ignore my calls.
The cold doesn't forgive foolish children.
Each sentence came with a tug on his ear or a sharp tap to the back of his head. He winced but didn't struggle. Experience had already taught him that resisting only made it worse.
"Aye… m sorry," he muttered in broken words, his accent still uneven, his tone suitably repentant.
Satisfied, or at least no longer furious, she finally released him and gave him one last glare. With a curt gesture, she pointed toward the far side of the hut.
"Sit there and wait for the food. If I find you missing again, I swear I'll feed you to the wolves."
He nodded quickly and scurried away before she could continue her barrage of threats.
The inside of the hut was dim and warm, lit by a central fire pit whose flames crackled softly. Smoke curled up through a hole in the roof, clinging to the wooden beams and layers of hide. The air smelled of ash, cooked meat, and damp fur, unpleasant, yet oddly comforting.
He wasn't alone inside.
Two other women were already there, his father's other wives, moving about the hut with quiet familiarity. One tended a pot, not really a pot but a broken skull of something big, hanging over the fire, stirring it slowly, while the other was mending a torn piece of fur with practiced hands. Two children lingered nearby, their faces smudged with soot and dirt as they spurt out gibberish words and played among themselves or gnawed on scraps of dried meat.
The women looked at him for a moment as he passed before continuing their work. In a household like this, children came and went, and unless they were screaming or bleeding, they were largely left to themselves.
He slipped past them quietly, keeping his head down, and made his way toward the far corner of the hut. That space was larger and much more comfortable than the rest, lined with thick furs piled against the wall, courtesy of his mother being the favorite. It was where his mother slept, and where he slept beside her, pressed close for warmth during the long, merciless nights.
He settled down there now, curling into himself and pulling the furs tighter around his shoulders. From his corner, he watched the others move about the hut, listening to the low murmur of voices and the steady crackle of the fire as he waited for dinner to be ready.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
Just a moment, he told himself. Just to feel that familiar sensation.
He steadied his breathing, shallow at first, then gradually slower, more deliberate. This body was still young, still clumsy, but his mind knew the rhythm well. He guided his breath the way he once had in another life, letting it sink deep into his chest, then lower, imagining it settling beneath his navel.
The qi in this world was painfully thin, nothing like the abundant flow he had known in the cultivation realm. It was weak, scattered, and stubborn, as if even the energy of heaven recoiled from this frozen land. For nearly three years, since the days when he had been nothing more than a helpless infant, he had cultivated whenever he could. Every day. Every hour. Every stolen moment of quiet peace.
The effort had been brutal.
It had taken him two full years just to break through the first level of his chosen cultivation technique. In another world, such progress would have been laughable, an embarrassment. Here, it felt like clawing his way forward inch by inch through solid ice.
He had not lacked options. His memories held countless techniques, methods focused on qi refinement, spiritual growth, or profound comprehension. Yet they barely worked in this world. He had tried cultivating them all, but none yielded any meaningful progress.
Only when he turned to other methods did he find a path that responded at all. Body cultivation was the only technique that worked, even if only barely. It was crude, slow, and relentlessly demanding, but at least it worked.
More importantly, it suited the harsh world he lived in. It hardened his body, strengthening him against the merciless cold and the brutal conditions of the land. He couldn't truly complain about the limitations placed upon him of whatever entity that was responsible for his repeated reincarnation; at least he had been given something. Something that, if his conjecture about this world was correct, could one day make him the strongest man alive.
Beyond qi, he could sense another kind of energy circulating through this world, vast, ancient, and utterly unfamiliar. It was different from anything he had encountered before, heavy with an oppressive presence that set his instincts on edge. He had tried to touch it once, driven by curiosity more than wisdom, and had nearly paid the price. The moment he reached for it, searing pain tore through him, as though his very blood had been set alight. It wasn't merely discomfort; it felt as if the energy itself rejected him.
That single attempt had been enough.
Since then, he hadn't dared to try again, choosing instead to remember the sensation as a warning. He had learned long ago that some things were not meant to be touched, seen, or even felt.
Ivar opened his eyes and pushed himself upright.
Shouts rose from outside, rough voices carrying excitement through the frozen air. The hunters had returned. He joined his mother, step mothers and siblings as they emerged from their hut.
A massive shape was dragged into the center of the settlement, an elk, enormous even in death, its antlers wide and impressive, its thick hide already stiffening in the cold. Cheers erupted almost immediately. Laughter rang out. Children ran closer, eyes wide with awe, while adults clapped shoulders and exchanged loud words of praise.
At the head of it all stood his father.
Towering and broad-shouldered, he looked every bit the image of strength and survival, his red hair wild beneath a dusting of frost and his beard thick with ice crystals. He lifted one hand, palm raised, and the noise gradually died down. Cheers softened into murmurs, then into silence, the settlement settling at his unspoken command.
He quickly delegated the task of dismembering the game, barking short, efficient orders before turning away. Without another glance back, he strode toward the central hut.
A wide grin split his face as he drew closer.
He approached his mother first and pulled her into a hard, unrestrained kiss, one that she returned without hesitation. For a brief moment, the cold and the hunt seemed to vanish entirely.
She broke the kiss first, her breath faintly uneven, and said firmly, "Welcome back, Bjorn."
Bjorn laughed it off, the sound deep and warm, and finally let her go. He then turned to greet his other wives, giving them a deep kiss just like he did with his favorite wife. After that, he crouched slightly to greet the children one by one, ruffling hair, tapping foreheads, and accepting their eager chatter with an indulgent smile.
Then his gaze landed on Ivar.
Before Ivar could react, a massive hand closed around him and lifted him clean off the ground. He let out a small grunt of protest as he was scooped up and tucked against his father's chest, his feet dangling uselessly in the air.
He might have been tall for his age, sturdier than most children his size, but it meant nothing in the face of Bjorn's towering frame. Fighting back was pointless, and he knew it.
Bjorn chuckled, looking him over with obvious pride. "So," he asked, blue eyes sharp and amused, "how was your day, eh?"
"It was… okay," Ivar replied after a brief pause.
Astrid snorted softly from the side. "He slipped out again."
Bjorn raised an eyebrow. Without warning, he reached up and flicked Ivar's ear with a practiced snap of his fingers.
"Ow!" Ivar hissed, wincing.
"That's for being stubborn," Bjorn said. "We only gave you a name not long ago. It would be bad luck if something happened to you. Listen to your Ma and stay inside." He paused, lifting his gaze toward the dark, rolling clouds above them, then added, "This winter will not last much longer."
Ivar followed his father's gaze and looked up as well. He hoped it was true, truly hoped so.
"Understand?"
Ivar looked back at his father and found him staring straight through him. With no other choice, he nodded.
"Good."
With that, Bjorn set him back on his feet and ushered everyone toward the hut. One by one, they filed inside, bringing with them the lingering warmth of the hunt and the promise of a full meal, leaving the howling cold outside where it belonged, for now.