The shattered remnants of the flying boat were swept away by the cursed wind, and the ice giant began to dissolve. Its massive form turned ethereal, drifting like frost vapor into the air, and then vanished as if it had never been there. Silence followed, and then the sky shifted.

  The blood-colored clouds receded, unveiling a sky so blue it resembled the mortal realm. It was a surreal contrast to the usual Netherworld's sky. Arayn blinked once, then realized, he was falling.

  He immediately conjured [Cursed Fang], the red fang surged beneath his boots. He mounted it and stabilized midair, his eyes scanning the others.

  Locci was already flying, his long scarf flapping behind him like a banner. He spotted Arayn, nodded once, and said calmly, “I’ll help Husk. You go help Qi.”

  Without waiting for Arayn’s reply, he dove toward Husk’s flailing form, wind howling past him as he plummeted.

  Arayn turned his gaze toward Qi. She was falling fast, spinning in the air, one hand outstretched toward him. “Help me, Senior Brother!” she called.

  Arayn's face remained indifferent.

  Help her? Why?

  As horsemen of apocalypse, survival capability was the bare minimum. If she couldn’t manage that, what worth did she hold? He hadn't seen any strength from her, only passable etiquette.

  As he passed by her, the veil on her face lifted, caught in the wind like silk. For a fleeting moment, he saw her true face, fair skin, a small beauty mark under her lower lip, and a pair of trembling pink eyes filled with confusion and fear.

  It was a beautiful face, delicate even, but Arayn didn’t care. He didn’t even slow down.

  Qi’s hand hung in the air, reaching for someone who never intended to reach back.

  Arayn shot past her on Cursed Fang, his coat flapping behind him, eyes locked ahead as he descended toward the snowy white expanse below, uncaring and utterly focused.

  As Arayn skimmed low over the snow, a crowd caught his eye.

  Down below, scattered across the icy wasteland, a crowd wandered aimlessly. Their figures stumbled without purpose, their bodies twitching and jerking as though some unseen puppeteer tugged at invisible strings. Demons of many kinds were among them—horned, scaled, winged—but none bore the pride or ferocity of their races. Their eyes were blank, their mouths hung open, and a slow, disjointed shuffle drove them forward through the frozen plains.

  Arayn hovered silently above them, observing with a faint frown. Something was wrong.

  He sifted through his memory, recalling an old book he had read about unnatural creatures. The undead.

  Yes. That was it.

  They weren't living beings anymore. They were husks.

  An understanding clicked into place. Undead could come into existence for many reasons. Some were controlled by necromancers or curses. Others moved because of mana anomalies or a viral plague that corrupted their nerves and animated their corpses. One thing remained the same across all types of ordinary undead, they had no soul.

  Because they had no soul, they granted no experience points when killed.

  Arayn had no interest in wasting time or energy. There was no point in cutting through hollow shells unless he had reason to believe they were special, undead who had defied their nature and birthed a soul within their rotting frames.

  With a disinterested glance, he directed Cursed Fang upward, ascending higher into the cold blue sky. He had better things to do.

  As he rose, the mindless crowd below continued to wander, unaware.

  Except for one.

  Amid the sea of blank faces, a single figure paused.

  A humanoid zombie with cracked, pale skin tilted its head upward. Dead white eyes locked onto Arayn. It didn’t lurch forward or growl. It only looked up as if it were thinking.

  Arayn continued gliding across the air, riding Cursed Fang as he pushed deeper into Winterhell.

  The land beneath stretched endlessly, a sea of white plains and ice ridges, dotted by the wandering undead. The deeper he went, the more of them he saw aimlessly roaming like ants across a giant slab of marble. Their numbers unsettled him. It wasn’t natural.

  There was something here that was turning the living into those husks.

  Arayn’s gaze sharpened as he soared higher, scanning the horizon. No living settlements, no visible cities. Everything whispered decay, of something gone terribly wrong.

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  His eyes turned upward to the "sun" that hovered over Winterhell. It wasn’t the real sun.

  The entire island was encased under a massive barrier, a hemisphere that distorted the air like a mirage. The artificial sun was simply a massive light source, hovering high above like a lone eye watching over the dead land. Its white-blue glow illuminated everything beneath, giving the sky an uncanny mortal blue.

  It reminded Arayn of the Netherworld. There was no real sun either. Instead, the Netherworld was lit by a natural mini star called Crimson Sun. They burned red, bathing the world below in a constant crimson dusk. It was why the Netherworld sky was always stained in blood-red hue. In Winterhell, the sky was a pure and hollow blue.

  Aside from the eerie artificial sun and the endless sea of undead, there was one more thing about Winterhell that gnawed at Arayn's mind.

  The air was dead. Not in the literal sense. He could still breath, but there was no mana fluctuation. No gentle currents. No latent energy drifting through the atmosphere like there should be, even in the most barren parts of the Netherworld. Here, it was sterile.

  Devoid.

  He realized the implication immediately. Without ambient mana, no one could regenerate their mana naturally. Once a person exhausted their internal reserves, that was it. They would be forced to rely on external resources, mana potions, crystals, artifacts, or risk facing mana exhaustion in this hostile land.

  Arayn didn’t want to waste his mana unnecessarily here. The only reason he was still flying atop Cursed Fang was because he hadn’t yet found a safe place to land. The frozen plain was infested with undead. Touching down without preparation would be foolish.

  Arayn tightened his grip on his sword hilt and rode the fang carefully, conserving his energy as he searched for shelter.

  After some time, Arayn finally spotted something different in the desolate landscape, a valley nestled between cliffs. There were caves lining the walls, and a river snaked through the center. More importantly, there were no undead nearby.

  Cautiously, he guided Cursed Fang downward, approaching the valley. As he passed the caves, he noted the details. Some entrances were sealed with massive boulders, while others remained open. He glimpsed movement inside, residents living in this forsaken land.

  Arayn quickly pieced it together. This must be a safe zone, one of the rare sanctuaries hidden within Winterhell.

  As he descended further, some of the cave dwellers emerged from their shelters, gazes fixed on him. Some stared at him like he was a fool, as if flaunting flight and power openly here was a death sentence. Others watched him with thinly veiled greed, sizing him up, calculating if he was worth the trouble.

  Arayn ignored them all.

  He didn't come here to pick fights or entertain their petty thoughts. Without sparing them a glance, he steered Cursed Fang toward the river, landing lightly by its bank.

  The river emanated thin wisps of steam. Curious, Arayn crouched by the bank, his red coat brushing against the snow. He dipped his hand into the water.

  It was hot. Not scalding, but comfortably warm, strange for a place like this.

  He carefully cupped some in his palms and brought it close to his nose. No strange odor. No hints of poison or rot. Still, he was cautious. He didn’t drink it immediately.

  Instead, he lifted his gaze and observed the valley around him. Further down the riverbank, a demon in patchwork armor knelt to fill an iron pot with the steaming water. Not far from him, another figure, his horns chipped and crooked, simply drove his face into the river and drank greedily.

  Arayn watched for several moments. Neither of them showed any signs of distress. Satisfied, he lowered his head and took a cautious sip.

  The water was hot against his tongue, but otherwise clean. It carried a faint mineral taste, but nothing unpleasant.

  Arayn nodded once to himself. This place would do. He would stay here, gather information, and plan his next steps carefully.

  Arayn rose to his feet, brushing the frost from his coat with a flick of his hand. His crimson eyes locked onto a demon standing a short distance away. Without hesitation, Arayn approached.

  The demon straightened and tensed, eyeing him warily. His hand hovered near the crude dagger at his belt.

  "What do you want?" he barked, his nostrils flaring. "Don't try to enchant me with that human stink."

  The accusation didn’t faze Arayn. It wasn’t entirely wrong. Being half-human, his scent wasn't purely demonic, but the demon didn’t seem to realize the truth, only that something was off.

  Arayn stopped a few steps away, keeping his posture relaxed. "You," he said calmly. "Tell me everything you know about Winterhell."

  For a moment, suspicion lingered in the demon’s eyes. Then, recognition dawned on his face, followed by a crooked smirk.

  "Oh... so you’re new," he said, chuckling under his breath. "Listen, we’re demons. We cannot make contracts with each other, but do you think you can just get information for free?"

  Arayn narrowed his eyes slightly. He could form contracts thanks to his human blood, but revealing that would be foolish. Instead, he played along.

  "Name your price," Arayn said.

  The demon didn’t even hesitate. "Three thousand low-grade mana crystals or soul stones," he said with a glint of greed in his yellowed eyes. His sharp teeth gleamed as he smiled, clearly thinking he had found an easy mark.

  In the Netherworld, two currencies ruled over all others. The first was mana crystals. Many regions in the Netherworld were treacherous wastelands, drained of natural mana. In places like those, a single mana crystal could mean survival. People carried them to replenish their magic when the environment failed them.

  The second currency was soul stones. Each soul stone held the essence of a living being. Demons needed souls to survive, just as they needed food and drink. Absorbing souls fueled their existence, strengthened their bodies, and staved off the slow decay that waited for all life in the Netherworld.

  Arayn possessed both types of stones. Tyras had given each of his horsemen generous "pocket money" before they departed. Inside the inventory ring wrapped around Arayn’s finger, he carried tens of thousands of mana crystals and soul stones. Enough to live comfortably or to buy the loyalty of a small army, should he wish.

  Arayn narrowed his eyes. Three thousand low-grade mana crystals? In this dead zone where mana refused to flow, an average expert needed maybe ten crystals per day just to function. This demon was trying to bleed him dry.

  He said coldly, "Are you picking a fight?"

  The demon chuckled. "You really are new. Veterans know that fighting here is foolish. Draw your weapon, and you'll become a common enemy to everyone. And let me tell you something. Three thousand crystals is the normal price. You'll realize soon enough I'm not deceiving you."

  Arayn's voice stayed flat. "Is that so? Then forget it."

  Without another glance, he turned away. He heard the demon's sneering voice chase after him. "Judging by the color of the sky, night is near! I promise you, no matter how strong you are, you won't survive the night without information. Knowledge is the king here!"

  Arayn didn't slow. He strode away without a care.

  The demon shouted after him, "Wait!"