On the summit of an immense ant hill that rose like a solitary black tower piercing the sky, Yanrid stood motionless against the biting wind.
The hellish winter had finally ended. Snow still clung stubbornly to the branches of the ancient forest surrounding the hill, but the endless blizzards had given way to a cold, fragile silence. Yanrid's piercing blue eyes scanned the white horizon with the sharp focus of a predator. Heavy white coat made from the fur and leather of some long-forgotten beast hung from his broad shoulders. Beneath it, rugged leather pants, an iron breastplate worn over bare skin, and reinforced shoulder and arm guards completed the image of a warrior who had survived far too many winters. A massive iron sword rested in its sheath across his back, its weight a comforting presence.
Behind him, a soldier ant knelt in perfect silence.
"This hellish winter is over and we survived again," Yanrid said, voice low and commanding. "Go and inform the hunter and forager units that they may head out. They are to gather wood and hunt whatever they can find… but they must not go beyond the range of my sensing ability. To be safe, alert the soldier ants on duty to escort them."
The kneeling soldier ant rose swiftly and dashed down the spiraling paths of the ant hill without a word.
Yanrid remained alone on the summit, arms crossed, blue eyes never leaving the forest line. He was tall, tanned, and built like a living fortress—bulging muscles and an aura that demanded respect from every ant in the tribe. As the border patrol officer in charge of all external operations, his job was simple yet vital: keep the non-combatants alive while they worked outside the nest.
Another soldier ant sprinted up the hill and dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
"Lord Yanrid! I bring good news from the inner nest. Our king has awakened."
Yanrid didn't even glance at him. "What about it? He will fall back into his coma soon enough because of the mana pollution. He always does."
The soldier hesitated, then continued carefully. "This time… it is different, my lord."
Yanrid finally turned, one eyebrow raised. "What do you mean, soldier?"
"It has been a full day since the king woke up. There are no signs of mana pollution. He was seen chatting normally with his caretaker, Lady Zarah, and he has already begun manifesting the royal awakening aura."
For the first time in years, a genuine smile cracked across Yanrid's cold face—small, sharp, and dangerous. If the soldier had dared look up, he would have been stunned; Yanrid almost never smiled.
Two sets of translucent insect wings, veined with glowing blue, unfurled from Yanrid's back. They shimmered like frozen starlight, beautiful and deadly—the most admired wings in the entire Scarlet Ant Tribe.
"Guess it's time for me to go greet my beloved king," Yanrid murmured. "But before that… let's do some exercise."
He stepped off the edge of the towering ant hill.
Right below the ant hill, the small surface camp buzzed with activity. Soldier ants, hunters, and foragers moved about their tasks—skinning fresh kills, sparring, bundling wood and meat for transport back into the inner nest.
One of them suddenly pointed skyward.
"Hey, what is that thing in the sky?"
"Where?"
"Right there! It's coming straight for us!"
"I have a bad feeling about this…"
"You think it's Lord Yanrid?"
"Nah, he's—wait, SHITTTTTT!"
BOOOOOOOM!
The impact shook the ground like thunder. A crater exploded in the center of the camp, sending snow, dirt, and shattered equipment flying in every direction. When the dust and snow cloud finally settled, a nightmare stood where the camp's heart had been.
A Terror Fowl.
Five meters tall at the shoulder. Ten-meter wingspan stretched wide like living storm clouds. Deep purple feathers shimmered with streaks of gleaming gold, while a regal golden comb crowned its head like a tyrant's diadem. Crimson eyes burned with primal fury. Its golden curved beak looked sharp enough to shear through iron, and its talons gouged deep trenches into the frozen earth.
One powerful flap of its massive wings unleashed a howling barrage of razor-sharp wind blades—invisible crescents of compressed air that tore through tents, splintered wooden crates, and sliced shallow gashes across the arms of three unlucky foragers.
Screams erupted. Soldiers scrambled for spears and shields, but the Terror Fowl was already preparing a second, far deadlier barrage. Its beak opened wide, crimson eyes glowing brighter as gale-force winds gathered around it like a living hurricane.
A streak of blue light shot down from the sky like divine judgment.
Yanrid slammed into the battlefield at terrifying speed, wings flaring behind him in a brilliant sapphire arc. He drew his great iron sword in one fluid motion, the blade singing through the air.
Demonic Ice Art: First Dance – Frozen Claw!
Frost exploded across the sword's edge in a violent spiral of icy blue energy. The temperature around Yanrid plummeted so sharply that the air itself crackled. Snowflakes froze mid-air and fell like glass shards.
The Terror Fowl sensed the threat and pivoted with unnatural speed, unleashing a point-blank storm of wind blades straight at the descending warrior. Dozens of invisible sickles screamed toward Yanrid.
He didn't dodge.
He cut through them.
The Frozen Claw met the gale head-on. Every wind blade that touched the glowing icy aura shattered into harmless sparkling fragments, frozen solid before they could even reach his coat. Yanrid's momentum never faltered.
In the blink of an eye he was on the monster.
The Terror Fowl shrieked in rage and lashed out with its golden beak, aiming to bisect him in a single snap.
Yanrid twisted mid-air, wings beating once for perfect control. His sword rose in a perfect upward arc.
SCHWING!
The blade connected with terrifying precision.
The Terror Fowl's head separated from its body in one clean, surgical stroke. The moment the icy aura touched flesh, the entire wound flash-froze. No blood sprayed. No gore spilled. The severed neck and head were instantly encased in a layer of crystalline ice, preserving the monster's furious expression forever in frozen death.
The massive body crashed sideways with a ground-shaking thud, wings still twitching once before going still.
Silence fell over the camp.
The soldier ants—now fully armed and ready for battle—rushed forward and skidded to a halt, staring in awe. Yanrid stood atop the colossal corpse like a conqueror, sword resting casually on his shoulder, faint frost still curling from the blade and his wings.
"Boys," he called out, voice calm and authoritative, "tie this up. It is my trophy. When the others return from their expedition, we pack everything and head back to the inner nest. Tonight we feast and celebrate our return to our families."
"AT ONCE, LORD YANRID!" the soldiers roared in unison and immediately set to work dragging the frozen Terror Fowl toward the camp's center.
Yanrid sheathed his blade with a soft click. He looked up at the sky, the faint smile still playing on his lips.
"Now this is getting exciting," he muttered. "I hope the young lord doesn't disappoint us."
Winter had ended.
The border patrol was coming home.
And for the first time in thirteen years, the Scarlet Ant Tribe had a king who might actually stay awake.