POWER UNTOLD SHALL EMERGE FROM THE COLD AND WRATH SHALL FOLLOW SOON AFTER A BEAST OF A BOY SHALL FIGHT THE PLOY OF THE MORTAL GOD, A MASTER Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. A simple, repetitive sound, made by the snow being trampled underfoot. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The barren expanse, its reach seemingly incessant, was a temperature that could make a polar bear run back for its coat. The perpetually grey sky looked upon the land, the immeasurably deep layers of snow and solid ice taking care of the ground. The snow on top was forever receiving more layers – the endless blizzard saw to that, its winds unleashing razor snow upon those foolish enough to venture out into such weather. However, in this scene that was predominantly a lighter monochrome, the crimson splatters forming a trail were quite the sight to see. A colour, not usually found in such a place was there – not just in abundance, but in a trail, nonetheless. And, as luck would have it, the child creating this trail was still very much alive. Any onlookers would be astounded to see him – dressed in dirty rags and footwraps, with his left arm hanging limply at his side – a horrendous gash on it bleeding profusely. Yet, despite all that was being thrown at this ten-year-old, he continued as if each impediment was nothing more than a mere annoyance. It was impossible to tell how long he had been wandering – the fact that nothing seemed to phase or harm him, saw to that. A building came into sight – barely enough to see anything but its vague outline, but it was there nonetheless. It was gargantuan – towers of dark grey rose up from the frozen ground, their amber lights like beacons in the bleakness that was the Northern Wasteland. Walls blockaded the establishment, barring entry to those not allowed in through the solid gates of rock. Almost instinctively, the boy knocked on the arching entrance. Evidently, the gate was not as solid as its makers thought – holes were left where he had knocked, prompting alarm bells to go off in the head of the guards on duty at that point in time. The looks on their faces were, when they opened the gate, quite varied. In just a small group of men, never had such a collection of expressions been in existence all at once, their disbelief the only consistent thing. Innocently, the child looked at them, his meek demeanour betrayed by his tremendous display. It was only natural that the man at the top was called in to inspect – such a phenomenon had to be seen with one’s own eyes, to truly be believed. And still, he bled, the wound seemingly nothing more than a scratch to him.