A new presence crashed into the battlefield like a winter storm.
From the depths of the camp, a figure emerged—tall, gaunt, wrapped in tattered furs that seemed to shimmer with frost. His skin was pale, almost blue, and his breath misted visibly in the air. Where he walked, frost spread across the ground in crackling patterns, grass blackening and dying beneath his feet.
Adam's eyes narrowed, assessing. The man's aura was dense, cold, and his mana reserves pulsed with icy power. "Hoo. Finally, someone worth fighting."
The ice mage—for that's clearly what he was—stopped in the center of the camp, his pale eyes sweeping over the carnage with detached interest. When he spoke, his voice carried an unnatural chill, as if the words themselves were frozen.
"You've made a grave mistake, attacking our camp." He raised a hand, and ice crystals began swirling around his fingers. "I'll turn you all into slush."
