There was a young soul with a potential higher than the great tower poking the heart of Sky Oriels.

Like a finger reaching from heavens into the earth, the Chastity Tower conveyed morality for all to follow. And such was the believing soul—pure and light at heart, following with a sincere smile.

To be good meant to possess the kindness of snow covering caves of the wildlife, shielding the living beings from harsh winters. To purge the sinister and keep the demonic at bay. That way life could prosper and bloom.

However, childish purity shatters under the cruelty of heavens.

Truthful light blinds the greedy, yet the heavens could not allow the world to be blind, so virtue gave way to power. 

Darkness spread across the land, tainting it with crimson and salt. Morality was trampled like a forgotten relic. Greed and excessive urges prevailed. 

And as he gazed behind, he found himself shadowed by a figure more malevolent than any demon. A hand gripping his shoulder, guiding him down a path where selfish eyes turned hostile towards the feeble and weak.

"Why do people take more than they need?" the young soul asked, but the answer was always the same.

"Such is life. Plenty of unfair things happen."

Ages of experience piled up. Environments changed like autumn leaves. The child saw the poor grow poorer and the rich grow richer. Another question arose. 

"Why is the world unfair?" 

"When you grow up, you will understand."

But the young soul did not understand. Until the very day he felt the cold hilt of the sword in his hand, until the very moment he watched as life faded away before his blade, nothing became clearer. 

Was it unjust to kill? Or was it unjust to allow the evil to live? If both were wrong, then what was right?

Why was purity bound to wither into a rotting indifference? For the hopeless ones to slave away for the powerful and ruthless? 

With a belief stronger than oneself, he followed the inner compass.

If no one could carry the responsibility of power unsoiled, then he would be the one to do it.

If righteousness could not be found in the heavens, the young soul would carry its torch in his own hands. 

If his compass said to go north when everyone went south, then north he would go.

As long as the path below his feet was correct, it did not matter whether he walked in solitude or in company. 

And so he matured alone, hardened against the worldly truths and devoid of faith in the deities above him.

Prayers and wishes peppered the shrine he achieved to gain a voice. Yet, it was soon drowned out by the endless ebbing and flowing of prayers. 

Weathered voices knew only "I want to have..." and "I wish I had..." 

Time. Wealth. Health. Solutions. Love. Revenge. Earnest or ignorant, none of these he could grant.

Meanwhile, younger voices knew no prayers. They had wishes for snow-filled days, and laid offerings in the shapes of woven branch bracelets and snowbells. 

Children had nothing, but tried to give everything. Adults had everything, but yearned to take more.

Disillusioned was the perspective of the young soul. Cherished by the innocent, overlooked by the mature, such was the Keeper of Snow.