Over the course of their long journey, Mo intervened more and more frequently across the icefields.
As his reputation spread, the caravan’s business flourished.
Everything seemed to be heading in a positive direction.
But for Mo, it was quite the opposite.
More and more people died by his hand.
Before their deaths, some begged for mercy, recounting their grievances and complaining about the hardships they had endured.
Others cursed him viciously, calling the Wendigo before them a monster and wishing him a miserable death.
Mo never spared anyone.
He was willing to believe the grievances of the dead, but they had broken the rules.
Those who wielded violence indiscriminately would inevitably be destroyed by violence themselves.
As for their wishes for him to suffer a miserable death…
Did it really look like Mo cared?
The people he killed might have been insignificant, but repeating such aimless slaughter was meaningless.
And exhausting.
The turning point he had been waiting for was taking too long to arrive.
Since that was the case, he would wait no longer.
Mo decided to make a change.
He told Roman that he was tired of killing and wanted to leave the caravan.
He intended to lead innocent Infected away and help them establish a new home of their own.
Roman seemed to have expected this.
“If you want to go, then go. Capable people always want to change something. Don’t worry about it. If you have any requests, just tell me. I’ll be by your side.”
To be honest, Mo was quite moved by those words.
Until he discovered that the caravan had actually been following him the entire time.
“That bastard.”
A raspy laugh escaped from beneath his broken mask.
This wasn’t so bad after all.
Since arriving in this land, it was the first time Mo had felt so relaxed.
He led the innocent Infected across the icefields, teaching them the survival skills he had learned during his travels.
He brought them seeds and tools and helped them establish a new home.
They still lacked food.
They still lacked warm clothing.
But even this small shelter gave the displaced Infected something they had rarely possessed before.
Hope.
On the night their new home was finally established, everyone gathered around the campfire in the center of the settlement.
They sang.
They danced.
They cheered loudly, as though all their hardships had finally ended and tomorrow was already within reach.
The jubilant crowd gathered around Mo, surrounding the bewildered Wendigo beside the campfire.
The dancing flames illuminated their faces.
Joy.
The happiness of being given a second chance.
And anticipation for a better future.
All of it appeared on their faces as bright smiles.
Mo could feel something within that dancing crowd.
A light called life.
That flickering light reached the depths of his heart, a heart that had long since stopped beating.
It was deeply moving.
And inspiring.
But everything eventually came to an end.
The revelers gradually grew exhausted and returned to their shelters.
Soon, only Mo remained by the campfire, sitting silently and staring blankly into the flames.
“Yo, isn’t this our great hero? Why are you sitting here all by yourself?”
Roman staggered over, a wine bottle clutched in his hand.
Mo looked up at him.
He said nothing.
“Tsk. Why aren’t you talking? Isn’t this exactly what you wanted to see? Or…”
Roman leaned closer, meeting Mo’s gaze.
“Are you worried that the hope you’ve given them is false hope?”
Mo silently shifted his position, moving slightly farther away from Roman.
“Hahaha! This doesn’t look like you. Do you know what they call you across the icefields?”
“What do they call me? The Tombstone Eater?”
“…Pah! Can’t you read the mood?”
Roman glared at Mo, took a swig from the bottle, and then shouted at the top of his lungs:
“The Pitch-Black Tombstone! The Hunter of the Icefields! What impressive titles! Everyone across the icefields trembles at the sound of them, yet here you are, sitting here worrying about a bunch of strangers. Is there any point?”
Mo lowered his head and thought for a moment.
Well…
Okay.
Those names did sound pretty cool.
Speaking of which…
Mo sighed helplessly and looked up at Roman with an expressionless face, waiting for him to share whatever profound wisdom he had.
“Tsk, you’re such a dull block of wood. Come here. I’ll tell you a secret.”
Roman leaned closer, his expression suddenly mysterious.
“I’m Infected, too.”
As he spoke, he raised his arm and removed the Ursus Army armband he always wore.
Beneath it were black Originium Crystals.
Mo glanced at them.
His expression seemed to say:
Just as I thought.
“Tsk. I knew you’d already noticed.”
Roman sighed.
“In Ursus, being Infected is a crime. So I decisively left the Army before anyone discovered me and came to the icefields, hoping to find a way to survive.”
“Making a living on the icefields isn’t easy, as I’m sure you’ve realized. I’ve been a merchant here for many years and have seen all kinds of joys and sorrows.”
“I know very well that, for the Infected, hope is an immense luxury.”
“Sometimes, simply surviving takes everything you have.”
Roman stood up, walked over to Mo, and looked him seriously in the eyes.
“Just try it.”
“False hope is still hope, isn’t it?”
“If they resent you for it, then it only means they weren’t worth it.”
“Just go for it, great hero.”
Roman turned and walked away, still carrying the wine bottle he always kept with him.
But Mo knew there had never been wine in that bottle.
Only the bottles Roman threw contained real wine—
…because those could burn people.
“Thank you.”
Mo quietly whispered his thanks to the departing Roman.
He looked around.
Everyone in the camp had already fallen into a peaceful sleep.
“May tomorrow burn as brilliantly as a flame, lighting the way ahead.”
“To an imperfect tomorrow.”
At some point, Roman had left a bottle beside Mo’s hand.
Mo glanced at it, smiled faintly, and drank it in one go.
Then, surrounded by the sleeping camp and warmed by the fire beside him, he slowly drifted into sleep.