An Isekai Story

The Frozen Wastes sprawl like a graveyard stretched thin across the skin of the world, a lifeless barrier of rime and ruin that rings the Silent Catacombs. Here, wind carries no warmth—only the thin, dry stench of something ancient rotting beneath the snow. Jagged bones pierce the ice like frozen trees, and the ground crunches with frost-cracked marrow. Time feels bent in this place, stretched into something sluggish and breathless. Nothing grows, nothing truly dies. Undead wander the drifts in hollow patterns, trapped in loops of forgotten purpose, their moans swallowed by the endless hush. The sky hangs low, swollen with gray. Travelers say the silence out here is thick enough to choke, and the cold isn't just weather—it’s memory made still. The Wastes don’t just keep the living out of the Necropolis. They remind you what waits when the world is rewritten in stillness and bone.

A stark, colorless plain veined with cracks of icy blue stretches into a dim horizon. Ribcage-like spines of fossilized titans jut from the ground, half-buried in snow. The sky is a curtain of smudged gray, and the sun—when it appears—glows like a dying coal. Frost clings to every surface, from shattered cairns to frozen corpses locked mid-crawl. Wisps of white mist coil low to the ground, parting only when shadowed figures stumble blindly through the snow, silent and relentless.