An Isekai Story

The Frozen Necropolis is a realm where breath mists and sound dies. Here, the sky hangs low and pale, and the sun barely rises, casting only a dim gray light over a world locked in eternal frost. Great necropolises—monuments to forgotten ages—rise like shattered fangs from a landscape of wind-swept bones and ice-crusted ruin. Every step cracks brittle snow over ancient stone, and the wind carries whispers that never quite resolve into words. Time feels suspended, like even the ticking of moments has frozen stiff in the cold. No birds fly here, no fire burns. The dead do not sleep beneath the ground—they patrol it. Citizens are either locked in statuesque stillness or slowly succumb to Aethelred’s will, their souls harvested to fuel the silent song of the Chorus. This place is not merely quiet—it is suppressive, like the world is holding its breath, waiting for a scream that will never come. Those who linger too long find even their thoughts begin to freeze.

Glittering frost covers every surface—cracked stone arches, half-buried ossuaries, and towering mausoleums carved from ice-veined obsidian. Mist coils in the air like ghosts unsure of their path, and pale blue flame flickers in braziers that give no heat. The sky is an endless slate of gray, casting a sterile light over jagged spires and frozen battlements. Undead forms linger in the periphery, barely visible until they move—and by then, it's already too late.