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Year: 271 AC (Late Midwinter)
Location: The Wolfswood, north of Winterfell
Snow fell quietly on the trees. The forest breathed cold and slow, like a sleeping giant. But Arthur Snow was awake.
He moved between the pines like a shadow, knees bent, cloak trailing behind him. Every breath came low and steady. His qi pulsed, tuned sharp—refined from weeks of midnight training. He no longer needed to guess where his prey was.
He could smell him.
Vargo.
The bandit chief's blood had soaked Arthur's hidden throwing knife in the ambush near the wall. A cut across Vargo's shoulder—deep enough. Arthur hadn't missed on purpose, but now it worked in his favor. That scent, the bitter iron of wounded flesh, lingered in the forest. The blood's qi signature—chaotic, violent, dying—called to him like smoke to fire.
Arthur closed his eyes.
A faint trail in the wind. South-east. Four bodies. One louder than the rest.
He moved.
The Bandit Camp – Deep in the Wolfswood
Vargo sat by the fire, laughing with cracked lips, clutching his bandaged arm. Three others sat around—dirty, armed, teeth like broken knives. Their horses stood nearby, steaming in the cold.
"You hear what I heard?" one said. "Old witch near Barrowton says the shadows move near Winterfell. Says a ghost's killing our kin."
Vargo spat into the fire. "Ghosts don't bleed. We got cut, not cursed. I want that boy. The one with the knife."
A cold gust swept through the clearing. The fire fluttered.
Then the first man fell.
No scream. No warning. Just a snap of qi-infused bone through windpipe. The second tried to rise—his head turned the wrong way, body twitching.
The third screamed. Steel flashed. A dagger carved through the snow and into his heart before he could raise his axe.
Vargo stood alone.
Arthur stepped into the firelight.
The boy was bareheaded, hair tousled, gray eyes like ash and stone. His cloak drifted behind him, and in one hand he held a blackened chain. His voice came cold.
"You should've stayed hidden."
Vargo snarled and charged, sword up ready to swing on Arthur's Head.
Arthur caught the swing with his chain, wrapped it, yanked. The sword flew.
Palm strike—Wind Serpent Fang.
Vargo staggered, ribs cracked. Arthur slid forward, elbow into throat—then pivoted low, swept his legs, and raised a single finger.
Qi surged through it.
Heaven-Slaying Point.
A strike meant for beasts. It drilled through Vargo's chest like a hot nail through butter.
The bandit gasped once. Then silence.
Arthur stood over the body. The snow around him soaked with blood, turning black under the moonlight.
He took nothing.
He left no trace.
Random POV: Darrin, the Farmer
The morning sun barely touched the Wolfswood. Darrin guided his mule-cart through the frost-bitten trail, heading for Barrow Hall with a sack of barley and a skin of sour mead. He muttered to himself about the cold, the wolves, and his aching back.
Then his mule froze.
Ears back. Eyes wide.
"What now?" Darrin grumbled, stepping forward.
The smell hit first—iron, wet and sharp.
He stepped into a small clearing, and his heart dropped.
Four men lay scattered across the snow. One's neck bent at a wrong angle. Another had a hole in his chest clean as a drill. A third was pinned to a tree by a rusted chain, eyes frozen open. Blood soaked into the earth, melting wide patches of frost. Their weapons lay untouched. Horses gone.
No tracks. No signs of a fight. No noise but the wind in the trees.
The forest felt wrong.
Cursed.
Darrin turned and ran. He left the cart. The mule followed, panicked.
When he reached town, he didn't speak of it—not at first. Not to the guards. Not to his wife. Only late at night, in whispers, he muttered to his ale:
"Something else walks the woods now… not beast, not man."
But no one ever knew who—or what—did it..