The wind howled across the frozen plains, and the blizzard raged without end.
In this endless white world, withered trees could occasionally be seen beneath thick layers of ice and snow.
Mountains rose and fell in the distance, their outlines barely visible through the swirling snow.
In the villages scattered across Ursus, low wooden houses stood in orderly rows.
Wisps of smoke curled from their chimneys, bringing a faint sense of warmth to this frigid land.
The caravan sped across the frozen plains.
Three days had passed since Mo joined the merchant group.
Thanks to the intimidation he had established at the beginning and Roman’s coordination as the caravan leader, Mo had encountered no conflicts with the others.
If there was one thing worth mentioning, however, it was Mo’s current seat.
In the speeding caravan, one could clearly see a black figure nearly two and a half meters tall sitting in the truck bed of the final vehicle.
That’s right.
This was Mo’s current location—and his seat in the caravan.
There was no helping it.
One had to understand that in Arknights, the heights of the various races seemed to have been decided rather arbitrarily by Hypergryph.
Lolis barely reached a meter in height, while some mature women seemed destined never to grow tall.
Aside from exceptionally large races like the Wendigo, two meters was practically the upper limit for ordinary races.
Naturally, there weren’t any vehicles designed to accommodate a Wendigo.
It was…
rather ridiculous.
Over the past three days, Mo had followed the caravan through several villages.
Whenever they stopped to rest, Roman would always, intentionally or otherwise, introduce Mo’s existence to the villagers.
It was obvious that he was promoting Mo as a symbol of his caravan’s strength.
One had to admit that Roman really was a capable caravan leader.
In just a few days, he had basically figured out Mo’s bottom line.
Mo naturally didn’t care about the publicity.
For a caravan that traveled across the frozen plains all year round, nothing demonstrated its ability better than overwhelming strength.
Once clients trusted your capabilities, securing business became as easy as pie.
Mo rarely spoke while traveling with the caravan.
The principle that too much talk leads to mistakes was simple, but extremely practical.
Of course, Mo’s silence didn’t stop others from talking.
Roman was the sort of person who could strike up a conversation with anyone—or anything.
He was practically a social terrorist.
Over the past few days, Roman had tried every possible method to pry information out of Mo.
Unfortunately, apart from some basic facts, he hadn’t learned anything particularly useful.
At the same time, Mo had gained a deeper understanding of Roman and the surrounding environment.
Although Roman’s archery skills were impressive, they paled in comparison to his ability to deal with people.
After all, skilled individuals were everywhere in the army, but not everyone possessed the ability to survive and thrive in such a harsh environment.
Roman appeared carefree and easygoing, but he understood his clients’ needs extremely well.
He knew exactly what goods needed to be delivered, where they needed to go, and when they needed to arrive.
Combined with his exceptional ability to handle people, Roman had built up a rather good reputation across the frozen plains.
The locals welcomed him warmly wherever he went.
However, based on the information Mo had gathered, Roman seemed to avoid entering cities to conduct business.
Even when he had to visit a city, he would delegate the task to another member of the caravan.
There seemed to be a story behind that.
After the caravan was attacked by the Infected, those wounded by their suicidal attacks inevitably became Infected themselves.
Yet Roman didn’t seem to care.
The caravan even carried medicine capable of alleviating the symptoms of Oripathy.
His attitude toward the Infected was remarkably tolerant, completely different from the prevailing attitude throughout Ursus.
This was another significant point of suspicion.
Roman was likely an Infected himself.
Heh.
Doing business across the frozen plains while being Infected?
If Roman hadn’t experienced something terrible in his younger years, Mo wouldn’t have believed it.
But precisely because of this, Roman’s persistence in traveling across the frozen plains made him seem like someone carrying an entire story on his back.
Mo’s responsibility within the caravan was simple.
He was responsible for clearing out the “Hyenas” blocking their path, whether they were Infected or ordinary people.
Because of the information gap, plenty of Hyenas encountered the caravan without knowing about Mo’s existence.
Dealing with them required practically no effort.
After all, they were merely a group of people who couldn’t even be ranked as Cup-tier.
But continuing like this wasn’t a long-term solution.
After living a second life, no one would be willing to disappear into the crowd once again—especially after becoming a Wendigo.
To be honest, Mo’s current life was incredibly easy.
A Wendigo was still a Wendigo.
The rabble scattered across the Tundra simply couldn’t compare.
But once a person had enough to eat, they naturally began wanting more.
And after seeing too much suffering, one inevitably began wanting to change something.
Life across the continent of Terra was rarely easy.
No one wanted to become a desperate outlaw.
Every one of them had their own story and their own suffering.
They resorted to such methods simply because they needed to survive.
Mo could understand that.
But he also knew that simply helping people wouldn’t solve the problem.
Nor could he save everyone.
As long as Ursus continued its oppression, more and more people would be driven into the same situation.
He wasn’t a saint.
He was merely an ordinary person.
A Wendigo’s power might be immense, but he couldn’t change everything by himself.
All he could do was reduce the number of people suffering in a physical sense and wait for the turning point to arrive.
Traveling with the caravan allowed Mo to witness the suffering that existed everywhere across the Ursus Tundra.
It also allowed him to experience the frustration of possessing the power to help individuals while being powerless to change the greater situation.
The real world of Arknights was far crueler than what the game portrayed.
After all, a game had to operate within various restrictions, including censorship.
It couldn’t fully depict the darkness of the world.
This world chewed people up and spat them back out, leaving nothing behind but a pile of dust.
Conflicts between people.
Conflicts between the Infected and the non-Infected.
Conflicts between the ruling class and ordinary people.
All kinds of contradictions existed everywhere, giving birth to countless tragedies.
On this land riddled with suffering, contradictions and disagreements were simply too numerous to count.
The suffering endured by the Infected was merely one particularly obvious symptom of contradictions that had been accumulating for a long time.
The emergence of Oripathy divided the population into two camps:
The Infected.
And the non-Infected.
Because of Oripathy’s contagious nature, almost irreconcilable contradictions naturally developed between the two sides.
For those with ulterior motives, this inherent opposition became the perfect tool for pursuing their own ambitions.
Thus, the Infected were suppressed.
They became expendable resources for careerists seeking to achieve their ambitions.
The conflict between the two groups was no longer merely a matter of disease.
Under years of persecution and propaganda, it had developed into a deep-rooted social malady.
Until Oripathy could be cured, this problem was almost impossible to resolve.
Perhaps that was precisely the meaning behind Rhodes Island’s existence.
“If a conflict can be avoided, we should remain silent. If a battle is necessary, then fight to the end!”
Rhodes Island’s conviction had never changed.
That was good.
But there was still a long road ahead.
And everything remained the same.