Chapter 445: Chapter 445

At the heart of the camp, the color of the bonfire was dimming, but the heat pulsed fiercer than ever, casting the illusion that summer had arrived early.

By the tents, Cui Huayin sat quietly reading a scroll.

In a corner of the camp, Tang Nian tinkered with her puppets, surrounded by a crowd of stiff-faced figures—strong men, elegant women, old folks, and children. Clearly, her craftsmanship had improved.

The Ice Folk from the Dawn Manor were wrestling nearby, testing each other’s strength.

As for Ping’an’s wives and children, they were gathered around the fire, deep in cultivation.

Knowing that Sheng'er and Naran were coming, Jing Shuixiang personally stepped into the kitchen to show off her culinary skills.

The four maids who had once served Xue Ning—Mei, Lan, Zhu, and Ju—now worked under Jing Shuixiang as her assistants. Dish after dish of exquisite food was laid out on the table.

The siblings, along with others from the camp, gathered around to share the meal. Sheng'er tried to pull the four maids to sit with them, but no matter how warmly she invited, they wouldn’t budge…until Naran gave a cold snort. Only then, under the silent pressure of his presence, did the four maids reluctantly sit down and accept the kindness.

Around the table, the group discussed the possible whereabouts of Ping’an. But no one brought up the Deathless Tomb. That topic had been explicitly declared off-limits by Li Yuan himself.

The Deathless Tomb was a tightly guarded secret. The fewer who knew, the better.

After dinner, the siblings once again mounted their direwolves and rode out. When they reached the edge of the Deathless Tomb’s domain, Naran clasped his fists respectfully and said, “Sister, I might head deeper into the ice fields this time. I may not return for a month or more. So…you might have to wait that long for your next home-cooked meal.”

Sheng'er maintained the graceful composure of an older sister.

“Go on, then,” she said, waving him off with an easy tone.

Her calm, relaxed demeanor always seemed to put him at ease. Something about her gentleness was unfamiliar yet deeply comforting to him.

Then he suddenly asked, “What kind of man…is our father, really?”

“I mean…why are you and I, and Ping’an, all so different? We’re all his children, aren’t we?” Naran said, furrowing his brow.

“I’m only 13 years old, and I already have…this terrifying power. But from what I hear, Ping’an’s considered a genius out there, too. Still, he’s 20 years older than me. He’s been training for 20 more years, yet I can beat him effortlessly. Why is that?” Naran looked truly puzzled.

Sheng'er, unaware of the secret of Naran’s shortened lifespan, simply said, “Well, I’m not like Ping’an either. But our father, he’s a legend.”

Naran thought for a moment. True enough, his big sister was very different from Ping’an. He quietly let go of that lingering doubt, then said, “Alright. You should go on in. Father said you're invincible inside the Deathless Tomb. But outside of it, you're...vulnerable.”

“Bye then,” Sheng'er said with a polite wave as she turned and walked into the dimly glowing blue corridor. After a few steps, she turned back and saw Naran still watching her. She smiled and waved again. “See you next time, Ran Ran!”

Ran Ran? Naran paused, momentarily stunned, then gave a short laugh. That name…it had a strange warmth to it. Only his mother had ever called him that, back when he was very, very small. But he didn’t mind. In fact, he kind of liked it.

“I’ll watch until you’re inside,” he called out.

“You be careful out there too!” Sheng'er nagged affectionately, fussing like an older sister.

Naran grinned and raised a thick, muscular arm in farewell, the force of his wave sending the snow around them into swirling tremors. He laughed heartily. “You’ve got it backward! I’m Jen’gal Naran. If anyone needs to be careful, it’s them!”

He stood watching as she disappeared into the Deathless Tomb, and only then did he turn and lead his direwolf riders back into the icy wilderness.

This time, he was heading northwest, to investigate a massive frozen region.

According to the ancient scrolls of the Nine Flames, this place was called the Sea of Slumber. Googlᴇ search 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵⟡𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮⟡𝓷𝓮𝓽

It was a strange place, nearly windless and eerily flat.

In the Western Extremes, where endless blizzards and jagged ice mountains were the norm, still air and level ground were anomalies, disturbingly so.

Even more disturbing was its sheer size. The region was vast. Far too vast.

And just like that, a month passed.

Naran hadn’t planned on staying out this long, until he realized that his unit was hopelessly lost. Still, he never despaired.

He was like a blazing sun, burning, unyielding, and radiant. As long as he breathed, his will would blaze on, and he would lead his warriors forward with fearless vigor.

But then, something changed.

All at once, everyone came to a halt.

Or rather…it wasn’t they who stopped. It was their direwolves.

The giant direwolves beneath them suddenly went weak in the legs, trembling, whimpering with low, pitiful cries, like lesser beasts instinctively submitting to a higher predator.

The riders quickly tried to calm them, but it was useless. One by one, the direwolves collapsed, groveling low to the icy ground.

A heavy, strange stench of blood flooded the air. It was thick, metallic, and deeply wrong.

Naran and his warriors scanned their surroundings, and from the shadows around them, enormous shapes began to emerge.

One after another…towering figures stepped out from the dark.

Thanks to their shared blood, they were able to make out the forms clearly:

They were twin-headed pale direwolves.

“Those things live out here? In the heart of the icefields?” one of the warriors muttered, startled.

“Be careful,” said another. “They don’t look weak.”

A third warrior let out a booming laugh. “So what if they’re strong? Just means their meat’ll be tougher to chew!”

But before the laughter had finished echoing, the twin-headed wolves charged.

These beasts weren’t just powerful. They radiated a dominance over the very direwolves the warriors rode. In mere moments, all the direwolves scattered in terror, save for one.

Only Finn, the white direwolf that belonged to Naran, gritted its fangs and held its ground.

The rest? Routed before a fight even began.

But the warriors of the Nine Flames themselves were born for battle. They laughed in the face of death and threw themselves into the fight with wild abandon.

Yet bit by bit, unease crept in. Something wasn’t right.

There were too many of these twin-headed wolves. Far too many. And what’s worse, a single warrior, even one as strong as Naran’s elite, could only just barely handle one of the beasts.

These weren’t ordinary warriors either. Half of them were already at fifth rank, formidable by any standard.

And yet even they were struggling to survive against just one wolf each.

The direwolves surged and circled like a living tide, their relentless assaults breaking the formation apart piece by piece.

Finn fought bravely, darting and lunging, but eventually its strength failed. With a shudder, it collapsed to its knees, completely spent.

Naran cracked his neck. He didn’t retreat. Instead, he planted himself beside Finn and fought like a storm, cleaving down every wolf that got too close with his golden battle axe.

But even he wasn’t an invincible god. He could protect himself, yes, but just one misstep was all it took.

And in that brief instant of distraction, one of the twin-headed wolves lunged and dragged Finn away.

Naran roared in fury. Eyes blazing, he sprang forward in pursuit, axe flashing with murderous light.

Finn…had been tamed by his father. Finn…had grown up alongside him. To him, that wolf was no mere mount. It was family. But the wolves…there were just too many.

Wave after wave, they came without end, and even Naran was slowly swallowed by the tide. Soon, he could no longer see Finn. He could no longer protect anyone but himself.

He didn’t know how long he fought. All he knew was that the mountain of corpses beneath his feet had grown. Twin-headed wolves, piled so high the ground was lost beneath them.

And he stood atop it all, chest heaving, eyes scanning the endless dark around him, only to realize that the beasts still filled the horizon.

They were everywhere.

At last, Naran gasped out a breath and muttered, “What kind of cursed place is this?”

Still, he fought on. Tirelessly. The mound beneath his feet grew higher and higher with each kill. But even the fiercest fire begins to flicker in a storm.

Time wore on, and little by little, that fire dimmed.

Naran didn’t know how long he’d been swinging his axe when he first noticed the tremble in his right arm.

And then…his legs began to shake too.

At last, with a thunderous pounce, a massive twin-headed direwolf slammed into him, bringing him crashing to the ground.

KLANG! Naran reacted instinctively. His golden battle axe arced upward in a savage swing, slicing the beast clean in two.

He climbed to his feet, grabbed one of the severed direwolf heads with his left hand and crushed it with a loud pop.

But Naran was disoriented. He had no idea which direction he was facing anymore, and all he could see ahead were more and more of those monstrous wolves. His breaths came heavier now, and his arms were growing sluggish.

He kept swinging his axe, hacking a path through the horde. But it was mechanical now, numb.

Somewhere deep inside, he began hoping the direwolves would eventually thin out. They didn’t.

The exhaustion kept growing, until finally his foot slipped. He stumbled forward, barely catching himself by driving his axe into the ice for balance.

That’s when it happened. The wolves stopped.

The endless attacks ceased. The monstrous pack parted, forming a narrow path.

Naran lifted his head and saw a figure emerge.

A silver-veiled girl, with a lithe figure and a face like a dream, walked out from among the direwolves. Her steps were graceful, her gaze alluring, and her smile… dangerous.

“The Wolfmother!” Naran blurted, recognizing the iconic appearance instantly.

But then, doubt clouded his eyes.

This wasn’t his tribe’s Wolfmother. The look, the aura, it was all off.

The silver-veiled girl stopped in front of him, voice soft and sweet. “I am the Wolfmother.”

“There are nine tribes,” she said with a teasing laugh. “So why should there only be one Wolfmother?”

Her voice shifted mid-laugh into something colder, mocking and derisive. The disdain in her tone was impossible to miss.

Naran’s voice came out rough. “What are you laughing at?”

“I’m laughing because you don’t know anything,” the girl replied. “And yet you wake up every day with a smile, so happy, so clueless.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “What don’t I know?”

She stepped closer, completely unafraid. Reaching him, she tilted his chin with a slender finger, then let her hand roam gently over his body, as if examining a prized beast.

Naran grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her into the air, his eyes cold and full of warning.

The girl didn’t struggle. She just smiled and said, “My name is Meng Xingxian.”

“I don’t care what your name is,” Naran growled.

Meng Xingxian’s voice turned coy again.

“I was laughing,” she said, “because I pity you. Poor little Khagan. You still don’t know you’re only going to live thirty-some years, do you?”

A sharp breath hissed through his teeth.

He pressed the edge of his golden axe against her neck, his voice now edged with fury. “Fool. Tell your direwolves to back off, or I’ll kill you.”

Meng Xingxian simply clapped her hands, nonchalant.

At once, the twin-headed wolves parted, forming a corridor through the icy field.

Naran glanced around warily, then carried Meng Xingxian by the scruff and began to walk.

With each step, he turned back to check, but the direwolves did not pursue.