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It was a night of slate-gray blizzards.
Piercing through thickets of branches that stretched out like a demon's claws, a single white horse galloped out, its long mane fluttering.
A man sat atop the horse, a backpack and a long rifle slung across his back, crossing the snowy slopes of a mountain where no paths existed—or if they did, they were buried beneath the snow. Having repeatedly looked back to check his surroundings throughout the ride, the man suddenly spotted a black fortress wall and pulled the reins.
"Whoa, whoa."
He slowed down and approached cautiously. As he slightly lifted his dark brown fedora, his white breath scattered like a train whistle. Up close, the wall looked old and shabby, as if it had endured for several centuries.
Even then, only a portion remained like a tombstone; half was entwined in withered vines, and the other half was buried under white snow, obscuring its full shape.
*Finally found it.* The man circled the wall and headed toward an open clearing.
The only remaining traces of this land, which must have once been a fortress, were the half-destroyed wall, a shabby guard post, and an old castle whose second floor had been completely blown away, leaving it a single-story ruin.
The man pushed open the rattling, rotten wooden door and entered the castle. Acrid dust stung his eyes. Depending on whether there was a ceiling, the corridors and rooms were divided into spaces where snow had piled up and spaces where it hadn't.
It was a land where not a shred of human presence could be felt.
Despite this, six horses were visible inside the castle. The only room with a perfectly intact ceiling was being used as a stable.
The man tied his own horse beside them, then approached the opposite wall and pushed aside a crumbling bookshelf. With a loud crack, a long, cold passage leading underground was revealed.
It was a path one could never step foot on without a torch. The breath of death wafted from its end. However, the man was not afraid. With his backpack and rifle securely fastened, he closed the bookshelf and slowly felt his way forward into the endless darkness. On and on. Until he reached the bottom.
Then, at a certain moment.
"Who is it?"
A chilling cold was pressed against his throat. The man did not panic; he raised both hands and answered calmly.
"A messenger. I have come to deliver an Imperial order."
As he spoke, he reached inside his chest pocket and pulled out a letter. In the dim darkness, a rough movement snatched the letter away. After a short silence, the letter was pressed back into the man's hand.
"It's correct. Your name?"
"White Weasel with a Revolver."
A bright light fell before his eyes like a bolt of lightning.
The man, the one who called himself a weasel, squinted hard and raised his hand to shield his vision. He could see a yellow lantern flickering through the gaps in his fingers. An unknown figure let out a small snort and spoke mockingly.
"That gun on your back doesn't look like a revolver to me."
"The gun I carry is a shotgun, not a revolver, and I am a human, not a weasel."
"This one knows how to joke. Follow me."
The weasel put the letter away and followed the unknown figure deeper into the basement. After turning a few corners, he saw small torches hanging here and there on the walls. Thanks to this, the view ahead became much brighter. Now at ease, he cautiously scanned his guide. A dark green uniform. Though old and soiled, it was indeed the military uniform of Ohala.
"Aaaaagh!"
Suddenly, a horrific scream erupted nearby. Ignoring it and continuing on, the soldier pushed him into a space lined with dense iron bars, like a prison.
"Captain, the messenger has arrived."
The weasel took a deep breath at the sight unfolding before him.
One-sided violence was taking place. A broken creature hung from chains fixed to the ceiling, and a hulking soldier standing before it had just poured cold water over it. Pools of blood, settled like dried mud across the floor, signaled that violence had been repeated in this place many times.
The person called the Captain was sitting on a wooden chair against the wall, as if observing the entire scene. The way he leaned comfortably against the back of the chair exuded an aura that was profoundly dissonant with the atmosphere of the room. Because of this, the weasel recognized him immediately.
*That man is the famous...*
"Save me!"
It was a scream thick with phlegm.
"An Imperial messenger? Save me! Get me out of here! These damn bastards will never believe me! I'm not the Pope's spy, nor am I a rebel! Hey, messenger... hurry back to the Emperor and tell him that his innocent citizen is being horribly tortured...!"
A rock-like hand struck the man's face.
"He's trash who threw innocent poor people into the river. I can't disclose it because it's classified, but he's also the one who planned something even more horrific. So don't pity him, pal."
Someone gave him a light nudge on the back. The weasel swallowed hard and slowly stepped forward. Specifically, toward the man called the Captain.
Their eyes met. Or at least, they likely did.
The man was wearing a mask. It was a wooden mask made very carelessly. The eye holes were narrow, barely allowing him to see straight ahead, and there were oval slots of similar length near the nose and lips.
Perhaps because of its bizarre appearance, just looking at it sent shivers down the spine and created an atmosphere that intimidated people. Moreover, if the location was a torture chamber drenched in screams and blood, it would be difficult to even maintain one's composure.
Especially after realizing that the slender man, as he slowly rose from the chair, was well over 180cm, nearing 190cm in height.
The weasel stared blankly as the man approached. Only when the man held out a blood-stained hand did he take out the letters he had kept carefully in an inner pocket close to his heart.
It was not one, but two letters.
One of them was on high-quality paper that could hardly be used by anyone who wasn't a wealthy noble. The wax seal on the subtle purple rectangular envelope bore the crest of the Novarov Imperial Family.
An Imperial decree. The man took the precious object nonchalantly, crumpled the decree into his trouser pocket, and held out his hand again. Wondering what he meant, the weasel hesitated before belatedly pulling out the remaining item in his hand.
"As for this... I was not informed of what it is, but I was told that you would know immediately upon receiving it."
As the weasel handed over the yellow paper envelope, he was seized by a strange feeling.
He hadn't noticed when he first received it, but the moment he took the item out in the damp, foul basement, he realized it. A soft, fragrant scent of flowers, enough to tickle the tip of the nose, wafted from the envelope. The scent was so distinct it made his head spin.
*Sniff, sniff.* Someone flared their nostrils violently.
"What a dainty smell... Is there a woman? Is this something from a girl?"
*Kaaak, ptooey!* Blood-tinged spit hit the ground. The man hanging from the ceiling burst into laughter with a manic glint in his eyes.
"Haha! You actually have a woman? You pathetic fool. You're creating your own weakness! Does that woman know that you're a hunter who stays in a filthy basement like this, butchering lumps of meat? Does she know you're a demon who doesn't blink an eye when people die? Heh... this is priceless... If rumors spread that the famous... of Ohala has a woman... that woman will surely be able to close her eyes in peace..."
At first, the weasel thought the masked man's ears must have been severely damaged. Otherwise, he couldn't have remained so unresponsive to such insulting mockery, simply tucking the yellow envelope under his arm and pulling out the crumpled Imperial decree to examine it.
That was how little agitation could be felt from the man. Standing still like a statue, he scanned the decree, then took out a lighter and burned the paper. *Sizzle.* After searing the black ash into the floor, the man skillfully walked past him, then paused and turned his head.
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