Chapter 1: Broken Pact on the Snow

The night train pulled into the outskirts of northern Brussels with a shudder. The doors were only open for seventeen seconds before they hissed shut. Dorian grabbed his worn leather suitcase and stepped out, his boots sinking into the fresh snow lining the platform's edge. In the distance, there was no light—only the black silhouette of an abandoned estate crouching against the wind, separated from him by frozen fields. The driver didn't kill the engine; he just watched Dorian through the window glass.

The driver frowned. "You sure about this?"

Dorian: "The family files were clear."

Driver: "That place has no heat. No registered residents, either."

Dorian: "I don't need resident status."

The driver stared at the eviction notice in Dorian's hand and didn't argue anymore. The night train rattled away quickly, its red tail lights swallowed by the falling snow curtain. A blizzard was barreling in from the west, and the temperature plummeted. Dorian walked off the main road and followed a frozen stone wall. The estate belonged to the family's northernmost old holdings, near the Belgian border. The deed was still in the municipal archives, but no one had maintained the property in years.

He walked through the storm for thirty minutes. First the suitcase wheels broke, then the sensation in his right hand faded. The estate's iron gate hung crooked on one side, the brass crest completely covered in frost. When Dorian pushed it open, his shoulder had almost lost all strength. Wind funneled snow into his collar, the grains scratching his skin like fine sand. He looked back at the road; it was just a pale, empty space now.

Matilda’s voice rose from the depths of memory, cold and hard like silver cutlery on a conference table.

Matilda: "Dorian, you are no longer the family heir."

Dorian: "Inheritance is determined by the will, not by your mood."

Matilda: "A will can be changed. The family can expel you."

Dorian: "Then go through legal channels."

Matilda: "The eviction order is effective immediately. Leave Milan tonight. Go rot in your frozen wasteland."

She’d said it while the fireplace roared, the scent of wine hanging in the air at the rim of the glass. Everyone in the room had stayed silent, as if silence itself was a Contract. Dorian remembered the folder she’d slid across the table, the signature on the last page, and Victor standing by the window without saying a single word in his defense.

The main door of the estate had long since collapsed halfway. Dorian dragged his body through the porch and tumbled into the underground wine cellar. The brick arches were cracked, and snow kept falling through the gaps. This place used to store the family winery’s stock; now the wooden racks were rotten, and bottles lay shattered in the mud. Wind blasted through the broken walls, carrying the smell of ice and lime. He huddled in a collapsed corner, holding his suitcase against his chest for warmth.

Dorian fished out his phone. The screen lit up for a second, showing "No Service." The battery was down to nine percent.

He called Matilda. The call didn't connect.

Dorian muttered, "Pick up at least once."

Silence.

He called Victor next. The automated voice cut in and out amidst the howling wind, then faded into quiet. Dorian shoved the phone back in his pocket. His fingers were already stiff. Civil law stipulated that personal property was still protected after eviction, but on this desolate land, paper rights couldn't keep him warm. The family had cut off his credit cards, vehicle access, and bank authorizations, leaving him with only this estate: no heat, no network, no neighbors.

His breathing started to shallow. Frost formed on his eyelashes, and his chest felt like it was trapped in an ice vice. Dorian tried to keep his eyes open, but all he saw was a grayish black. His body heat was leaking out from his limbs, his heartbeat slowing down. The snow piled up, blocking the cellar entrance and covering the hand he had stretched out.

His fingertip touched a hard object.

It was buried in the frozen earth, cold in a way that didn't feel like metal, more like a sleeping fragment of bone. Dorian grasped it instinctively, his thumb brushing over rough carvings. It wasn't the family crest, nor any modern text. A few Runic Scripts on the palm of his hand glowed faintly, blue-white light flowing along the grooves like a fine electric current.

A strange voice bypassed his ears and landed directly in his consciousness.

Contract target confirmed. Life status critical. Do you accept初级 binding?

Dorian’s consciousness was on the verge of snapping. He didn't have the strength to think, or to refuse. His fingers tightened, and the Ancient Talisman bit into his palm.

Dorian: "Accept."

Electricity surged through his bloodstream. His spine arched violently, and his lungs pulled in a sharp intake of cold air. The air felt like a knife, but it didn't tear open his chest. The freezing power spread down his spine, through his shoulders, elbows, and wrists, until it reached his heart. His heartbeat thumped again—heavy, one beat, then another, dull as a distant church bell.

Contract binding complete. Basic ability unlocked: Cold Tolerance. Basic ability unlocked: Sensory Enhancement. Upgrade condition: Form a new Contract. Costs increase with hierarchy.

Dorian opened his eyes. The darkness remained, but the world suddenly had depth. He could hear the snow pellets striking the brick walls, the icicles snapping from the eaves, and the rush of his own blood behind his ears. Outside the cellar, footsteps—light, erratic, crunching on fresh snow. Not human.

He braced himself against the wall to stand. His knees were still shaking, but the numbness was gone. The Ancient Talisman clung to his palm, its glow absorbed by his skin. Mold in the stone cracks, dry mouse droppings under the wooden racks, and the lingering stench of animal fur near the entrance. The wind had changed direction. Seven of them, or eight. They had surrounded the estate.

A wolf howl drifted from the courtyard, low and long. Dorian moved to the broken wall and saw the eyes behind the snow curtain. Two, four, six, eventually linking into a circle of dark light. The pack wasn't charging immediately; they were waiting for him to collapse. It was the most efficient judgment the wilderness could offer.

Dorian picked up a broken iron rod, then set it down. He knew the rod was too heavy to hold steadily, and against a starving pack, posturing would only invite a faster tear. He held the Ancient Talisman in his palm and took a step forward.

The pack's low growls stopped in unison.

Dorian: "Back off."

His voice wasn't loud; the wind scattered it. The lead gray wolf lifted its head, its nose twitching. It smelled the human, but also an unidentified chill. Dorian took another step, the ice cracking under his boot. The Ancient Talisman vibrated lightly in his hand, the Runic Script flaring briefly.

Dorian: "This estate has no food for you."

The gray wolf took half a step back.

Dorian: "And I am not prey."

The pack began to move, but not to attack. They exchanged low whimpers, eyes still fixed on Dorian. The wolf closest to him finally turned its head, followed by the second one retreating into the snow. A moment later, only the wind rushing through the dead grass remained in the courtyard. The wolves didn't flee far; they just paced outside the walls, like a squad with their blades sheathed for the time being.

Dorian stood still, making sure his legs wouldn't buckle again. He understood now. The Ancient Talisman hadn't given him invincibility or a miracle. It had just pushed back death by one step. Cold Tolerance had limits, and Sensory Enhancement drained his stamina. The danger was the clause now embedded in his mind—calm, clear, refusing to let him pretend he hadn't seen it.

Primary binding only maintains the current Contract. Ability upgrades require a new Contract target. Deeper Contracts mean higher costs. Defaulters bear full backlash.

Dorian: "What is the cost?"

The Contract didn't answer. Only a faint current skimmed across his palm, like a silent signatory withdrawing their pen. Dorian stuffed the Ancient Talisman into his inner pocket and tore a strip from his shirt to wrap it. He didn't have time to study the Runic Script, nor did he have time to guess who had buried it in the cellar. The blizzard would seal the roads before dawn. To survive, he needed heat, food, and a windbreak.

He left the cellar and walked through the main building's ruined corridors. Blackened family portraits hung on the walls, their glass shattered, the canvas faces mottled by meltwater. Hollow echoes came from beneath the floor, indicating that part of the underground structure was still intact. Dorian followed a remnant chimney looking for a fireplace and finally found a collapsed pile of bricks in the east hall.

He shoulder-rammed the outermost wooden planks. Dust and cold frost fell together. Behind the fireplace sat an old wooden chest, its iron latches rusted but unpicked. Inside: two blankets, a few sealed packs of dry rations, half a bottle of water, and an unopened letter. The envelope was heavy paper, marked with a dark gray symbol in the corner.

Dorian used his phone’s dying light to read the logo. It was the Victor Consortium crest—geometric lines forming a black seal that narrowed downward. The recipient was his full name, but the address wasn't the estate; it was the family mansion in Milan. The date was three weeks before the eviction order.

Dorian tore open the envelope. There was no greeting inside, just a formal acquisition offer: buy the estate and its associated land for six hundred thousand euros. The deal had to be closed within forty-eight hours. The attachments listed the underground cellar, old water sources, and the northern forest, all valued well above standard abandoned real estate.

He read the last page, his finger stopping at the signature.

Victor: "Accept reality, Dorian."

That was the voice in his memory, calm to the point of politeness.

Dorian: "You know what’s under the estate."

Victor: "I only know the family needs liquid cash."

Dorian: "So you suggested Matilda strip my inheritance."

Victor: "I suggested she sign a document with manageable risk."

Dorian: "Sending me here is also risk management?"

Victor: "This is internal family business. The Consortium doesn't intervene in inheritance disputes."

The letter rustled in his hands. Dorian remembered Victor standing by the window, the unsigned attachment, and how Victor hadn't looked at him when Matilda declared the eviction order immediate. "Internal family business" was just a way to hide the real transaction behind legal formatting.

He shoved the rations and blankets into his suitcase and took the half bottle of water. The wolves were still pacing in the distance, but they weren't getting closer. The residual warmth of the Ancient Talisman faded, leaving only a faint tingle in his palm. Dorian looked down; the Runic Script had dimmed, but a streak of blue light flashed deep within the stone surface.

The light felt like electricity, crawling along the edge of the Ancient Talisman, briefly illuminating the watermark beneath the letter. The geometric lines floated up from the paper fibers—the Victor Consortium’s black crest, identical to the mark on the envelope down to the last line.

Dorian looked up, staring at the snowfield through the broken window. Beyond the estate, there were no roads, only the white ground smoothed by the wind; further out, the wolf pack’s eyes flickered in and out of the blizzard. He folded the letter and tucked it against his body, then gripped the Ancient Talisman tight.

Dorian: "Contracts outlast promises."

He walked deeper into the main building. The darkness behind the door didn’t answer. Only the echo of metal clanging somewhere underground.