Shuan screamed.
The sound ripped across the White Plaza with such raw agony that it silenced the celebration almost instantly.
It was not the scream of an ordinary wounded person.
Not the cry of someone simply dying.
There was something unnatural inside it.
Something sharp.
Violent.
As if his entire body were being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time.
“AAAAAAAHHHH—!!” The scream echoed between the frozen tents and metal poles surrounding the plaza, cutting through the cheering crowd like shattered glass.
One by one, the voices around him began fading.
The celebration slowed.
Then stopped.
People turned back toward the platform in confusion.
The rifles lowered slightly.
The smiles vanished from faces that only moments ago had been celebrating victory.
Because Shuan was still moving.
And that alone was wrong.
Very wrong.
He lay shaking violently atop the bloodstained snow, his body twisting weakly as steam continued rising from his skin in pale waves.
The bullets had torn through his chest.
His shoulder.
His leg.
Any normal person should have died instantly from wounds like those.
But Shuan— was still alive.
A soldier near the front unconsciously stepped backward.
“What…?” Another tightened his grip around his rifle.
Shuan’s breathing became ragged again.
His body trembled harder.
Then something happened that froze the entire plaza in place.
The wound in his shoulder moved.
At first it looked like a twitch beneath the blood.
Then slowly— the torn flesh began closing.
The skin pulled itself together little by little as if invisible hands were forcing it back into place.
Blood stopped flowing.
The damaged muscle tightened and sealed itself before their eyes.
A woman in the crowd gasped sharply and stumbled backward into the snow.
“No…” Her voice trembled uncontrollably.
Another wound near Shuan’s side began healing next.
The torn flesh slowly reconnected itself while the blood surrounding him steamed faintly against the freezing air.
The entire plaza watched in absolute silence.
Even the wind seemed quieter now.
No one breathed.
No one moved.
They simply stared.
Because what they were seeing was impossible.
A man near the back whispered in horror, “Impossible…” Another person stepped backward slowly.
“He’s… healing.” Fear spread across the crowd faster than panic ever could.
Eyes widened.
Hands trembled.
Several children began crying loudly now, clutching their parents in terror.
Even the soldiers surrounding the platform no longer held their rifles steadily.
Some lowered them instinctively.
Others looked toward Hol for orders, their expressions pale beneath frost-covered masks.
Shuan slowly lifted his head.
The movement was weak.
Painful.
His breathing remained broken and uneven while tears continued falling from his eyes.
But he was alive.
Alive after everything.
Blood covered his clothes.
Steam drifted from his skin.
And beneath him— the snow continued melting.
The heat pouring from his body had become visible now.
Thin streams of water spread outward beneath the platform while soft cracking sounds echoed from the weakening ice below him.
Shuan’s lips trembled weakly.
He looked completely lost.
Like someone trapped inside his own body without understanding what was happening to him.
He tried speaking.
But another wave of pain suddenly tore through him.
His entire body arched violently against the snow.
And he screamed again.
The sound was worse this time.
More broken.
More inhuman.
Several people in the crowd recoiled instinctively.
One soldier nearly dropped his weapon entirely.
The temperature around the platform rose sharply for only a few seconds— just enough for the nearest people to feel it.
Warmth.
Impossible warmth in the middle of endless winter.
And in that terrifying moment— the White Plaza realized something together.
The thing they had tried to kill… had not died.