In the depths of the Celestoria Mountain Range, the quiet night enveloped the land.
A tall man with gray hair stood in a clearing, roasting a deer over an open fire.
The deer was skewered on a large stick, pierced from mouth to tail, and held securely over the crackling flames.
The man's steady hands carefully turned the spit, ensuring the meat was evenly cooked, while he occasionally drizzled a transparent oil from a bottle onto the roasting flesh.
Each drop of oil caused the deer meat to sizzle, and a rich, savory aroma filled the air as the flames danced.
The flickering light from the fire illuminated the man's face, his gray hair gently swaying in the breeze, his expression calm and focused.
As the oil continued to coat the deer meat, the surface began to turn golden brown, and the smell of roasted meat grew stronger.
The stillness of the surroundings was almost oppressive.
It seemed as though the entire mountain range had fallen into a deep silence, with the only sound being the sizzling of the deer fat as it dripped into the fire. The world around them was quiet.
The man exhaled softly, his gaze sweeping over the oil-slicked meat, and a satisfied smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Soon, two figures approached him.
One was a bald man missing his right arm, while the other was a fat man missing his left arm.
Both men looked pale and weak.
"Lord, that Father Raphael is too strong," the bald man spoke first, clutching his missing arm.
The fat man nodded in agreement.
"Yeah, and we still can't find the Black Panther.
We don't know if she's dead or alive."
The gray-haired man listened to their report in silence, unaffected by their injured appearances.
With a steady hand, he took out a small knife, sliced a golden piece of roasted deer meat, and brought it to his mouth.
He blew on it lightly before taking a bite, closing his eyes to savor the flavor.
The rich taste of the meat filled his mouth, and a look of satisfaction crossed his face, as if the report had nothing to do with him, and the roasted deer was the only thing that mattered.
The bald and fat men exchanged glances, nervous but unable to press further.
After chewing for a moment, the gray-haired man slowly opened his eyes.
"It doesn't matter."
He remained indifferent toward Father Raphael, his expression as cold as ever.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two small bottles and casually tossed them toward the two men, who caught them deftly.
"In a week, your arms will grow back."
His tone was nonchalant, as if regenerating limbs was a trivial task.
The bald and fat men, surprised and pleased, bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Lord!"
The fat man couldn't help but speak again.
"But we've lost the Black Panther's trail.
We don't know if she's alive or dead."
The gray-haired man continued to turn the spit over the fire, still calm and unhurried.
"She was just weaker than her opponent," he said softly, as if discussing something insignificant.
The fat man paled and fell silent.
The bald man also dared not speak further.
The gray-haired man didn't pay them any more attention, fully focused on his meal.
He cut another slice of meat, eating it leisurely, savoring the taste.
The two men bowed respectfully and retreated into the shadows, clutching their precious bottles.
The fire crackled in the still night, and the gray-haired man continued to enjoy his meal.
After a few more bites, he stabbed the knife into the roasted deer and wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"It's been years, and you're still the same?"
His tone was casual and relaxed.
From the darkness, a strong man slowly emerged.
His hair was as white as snow, and a prominent scar ran from his forehead across his left eye, which was now blind.
His right eye gleamed with a sharp, pale green light.
Despite the scar marring his face, the man smiled easily as he approached the fire.
"Still the same, huh? Well, I guess I have to enjoy your roasted meat again, don't I?"
The gray-haired man chuckled, shrugging indifferently.
"Of course, I must treat my guests well."
The white-haired man casually grabbed the knife from the deer, slicing off a piece of golden meat and biting into it, his face showing satisfaction at the rich flavor.
Then, he took out two jugs of wine from a ring on his finger, placing them on the ground with a grin.
"What's roast meat without some good wine?"
The two men sat by the fire, eating and drinking together.
The white-haired man took a long swig of wine, smacking his lips in satisfaction.
"The Northern Province is a godforsaken place, the worst of the worst.
The magic beasts there are savage, and all they understand is brute force.
No intelligence, nothing."
He shook his head in disdain.
"Dealing with those creatures is a waste of time."
The gray-haired man chuckled and clinked his wine jug against the other's.
"The Northern Province has always been like that.
The strong rule by force, and the magic beasts are no different. Isn't that how you got where you are now?"
The white-haired man laughed heartily.
"That's true. I've never had much use for anything but brute force."
They drank jug after jug, and soon most of the roast deer was gone.
The white-haired man finished the last jug of wine, letting out a loud burp.
He patted his belly, appearing relaxed, though the sharpness in his eyes remained.
Pointing to the scar on his left eye, he chuckled.
"I did what you asked, but I nearly lost my life over it.
This scar, my left eye—it's from that fight."
The gray-haired man glanced at him but said nothing, only nodding slightly.
The white-haired man laughed again and slowly pulled a flower from his ring.
The flower was pure white, with delicate, drooping petals that looked as though they could shatter at a touch, resembling a sickly, frail woman.
A faint chill radiated from the flower, as if it could freeze the surrounding air.
The legendary Sickly Beauty of the Abyss.
The flower was found in the farthest reaches of the Northern Province, deep within the abyss.
It was said to bloom only once every ten thousand years.
The white-haired man smiled, though the scar over his eye seemed to throb with pain.
"The place was like hell itself—freezing, crawling with magic beasts. I wouldn't have gone there if it weren't for this flower."
The gray-haired man carefully accepted the flower, handling it as if it were fragile enough to break at the slightest touch.
His eyes lingered on the snowy petals.
"You've done well."
The white-haired man waved a hand dismissively.
"It wasn't much. At least I didn't come back empty-handed. But don't ask me to do it again."
He paused, his tone growing somber.
"Your old injury won't be easy to heal."
The gray-haired man remained silent, his gaze fixed on the delicate, icy flower in his hand.