Lord: I have built a witch's sanctuary.

Chapter 12 Frostwolf City

In the western district of Frostwolf City, there is a small church that looks like it could collapse under the weight of the snow at any moment.

The air was filled with the smell of stale wood, mixed with the grease from burning cheap candles, and the sour smell of dozens of poor people huddled together for warmth.

The smell wasn't pleasant; it was like an over-fermented black bread. But in this awful weather, the murky human scent made it feel more like a place for living people than the wind and snow outside.

The old pastor painstakingly braced the drafty oak door shut and reinforced it with two thick wooden strips.

He turned around, his prosthetic knees creaking under the strain.

"Father, this snowfall is strange."

The speaker was an old farmer wearing a tattered sheepskin coat, his face covered in black mud, and his cloudy eyes were fixed on the pale light shining through the cracks in the window.

"It's not even deep winter yet, but the snow is so heavy it's like it's going to bury the sky. In previous years, the moment of upheaval would have been gradually building up at this time, but this year the snow season has come early, so the moment of upheaval will probably last longer."

"I wonder if our city can survive the monsters under this extended snow season."

The crowd in the church, who had been praying quietly, fell silent instantly, with only heavy breathing remaining.

An extended snow season, Warcraft siege.

These two words are like a rusty saw, pulling back and forth on everyone's taut nerves.

"What's the panic?" The old pastor coughed twice.

"The Frostwolf Clan's banner still flies atop the city walls, and those bigwigs in the Alchemist's Guild aren't just sitting idly by."

"Didn't you see those level two city walls? And so many witch towers with lights on? As long as the fires inside the towers don't go out, those beasts won't even be able to touch the base of the city walls."

The old farmer shrank his neck, seemingly stunned by the words "Witch's Tower".

But he quickly sniffed again; the acid reflux from his stomach forced him to confront a more practical problem.

"The city may not fall, but what about the wheat in the fields?"

The old farmer pointed outside: "With this snow, the land outside is completely ruined. Once the city gates are closed, what will we eat? Father, you've seen the world. I heard that during the great siege of Black Iron City in the south a few years ago, people even resorted to cannibalism in the end..."

He didn't dare say the word, but the swallowing sound coming from his throat was particularly jarring in the deathly silent church.

Those who were a little older at the scene remembered that look in their eyes that regarded their fellow human beings as walking pieces of meat.

"The Lord will forgive everything and bestow grace."

The old pastor interrupted him, his tone becoming more forceful, as if he were trying to persuade someone else, or perhaps himself.

"If there really isn't enough food, the Earl will open the granaries and distribute it. The Church... the higher Church won't just stand by and watch God's people starve."

"Your Excellency?"

A sneer came from the corner; it belonged to a retired veteran with a broken leg.

He leaned against the corner of the wall, looking at the old pastor with an expression as if he were a fool.

"Father, are you getting senile? Those noble lords live in the inner city castle, which has three layers of walls."

"We're in the outer city. When that time comes, they'll close the inner city gates and be drinking hot soup and warming themselves by the fire inside. Who cares how many people die in the outer city? If we all die, it might even save them some food."

The atmosphere in the church instantly plummeted to freezing point.

That hard-won sense of security, a false feeling of security, was shattered by these few blunt truths.

The old pastor opened his mouth, wanting to refute, but found that he could not find any strong evidence.

He looked into those eyes filled with fear, doubt, and even beginning to breed malice, and in the end, he could only clench the polished wooden emblem on his chest.

"Even if the Earl doesn't care..." the old pastor's voice was soft, yet carried a stubbornness, "the church will care. As long as this church is still here, as long as these old bones of mine are still here, God will not abandon you."

No one responded.

Such empty promises are thinner than paper in the face of hunger.

The old farmer gave a bitter smile, wrapped his sheepskin coat tighter around himself, which offered no protection from the wind, and pushed open the door to go outside.

The wind and snow rushed in instantly, blowing out the two candles.

……

Outside Frostwolf Castle, a fierce snowstorm raged.

A black carriage without any family crest was rolling over the thick snow, its wheels wrapped in gold-plated rubber, leaving only two shallow tracks in the snow.

The carriage was warm as spring, with four high-purity magic crystals embedded in a copper trough in the corner, releasing heat without restraint.

This luxurious method of heating is enough to feed everyone in that little church for several months.

A young man dressed in an exquisite velvet suit held a half-full glass of amber-colored liquor in his hand, looking out at the heavy snowfall through the crystal car window.

"The snow is beautiful."

The young man took a sip of wine, a hint of intoxication appearing on his handsome, somewhat effeminate face.

"Every inch of snow is a magic crystal, a gold coin!"

"This is not a disaster, but a gift from the gods."

The man in black sitting opposite him had his head bowed low, his voice hoarse:

"Sir, we just received news. That exiled illegitimate son is incredibly lucky; he's still alive in that wretched place, the White Wolf Outpost."

"Oh?"

The young man raised an eyebrow, seemingly unsurprised, but rather finding it amusing. "I know Lorraine is tough. After all, he does have the blood of Earl Frostwolf, even if it's a bit tainted."

"According to the information in the Book of Consecration from the Earl's Mansion, Lorraine's vital signs are still stable."

The man in black continued his report, a hint of confusion in his voice:

"This doesn't make sense. That abandoned outpost doesn't have a witch's tower, no city walls, and not even decent heating equipment. Logically, it should have been frozen into an ice sculpture before the snow season arrived."

"Luck is a hard thing to predict. Perhaps it was something left behind by the previous baron that allowed him to linger on for a while longer."

The young man put down his glass and tapped his fingertips lightly on his knee. "But the snow season starts tomorrow. Without the protection of the Witch's Tower, he'll be nothing more than a piece of meat on a plate in the face of those berserk monsters."

"This time, no amount of luck can save him."

"He will surely die within three days."

He turned his head and looked at his face reflected in the car window.

But the next second, a bizarre scene unfolded.

The muscles in the young man's face began to twitch like melting wax, his cheekbones made a slight shifting sound, his nose bridge rose, and his eye sockets became deep-set.

The sight of flesh being reassembled did not cause him pain; instead, it made him let out a satisfied sigh.

In just a few breaths, the reflection in the car window changed.

If Lorraine, who was exiled, were here, she would be horrified to find that the person in the mirror looks exactly like her.

This is Lorraine's face.

Although Lorraine was just an unwanted bastard, legally he was indeed the first in line to the Frostwolf Count's throne, possessing that damned right of succession.

The bloodline of that noble prince, which was a "secret" brought from the capital by the mistress.

For this seed to take root and sprout in the North, they need a perfect shell.

Lorraine is that shell.

As long as Lorraine dies in that unknown snowfield, he can rightfully take over Frostwolf Territory with that face.

At that time, with the help of shapeshifting magic and the prince's covert support, the Frostwolf Earl, who was sent to the front lines to eat sand, will be nothing more than a puppet in their hands.

"Your Highness's transformation magic is truly a masterpiece."

The young man with the "Lorraine" face touched his cheek, and his voice became exactly the same as Lorraine's.

He laughed, a laugh tinged with a chilling anticipation.

"Go on, slow down the car. We're not in a hurry. We need to give that poor bastard some time to enjoy the last chill of his life."