Another mission ended.

Frost stood where the world had stopped. His eyes traced the frozen ruin without expression. 

White stretched in every direction. Heat had been erased so thoroughly that even death felt redundant.

But then, there was movement.

At the edge of the frozen field, where the cold had thinned just enough to allow something fragile to persist, Greyson knelt.

He held no blades, his posture carrying no measured lethality. He simply looked like an ordinary boy, crouched low with his bare hands.

Between his palms trembled a small creature, a fox kit. It was hardly more than a bundle of rust-colored fur. Its tiny body radiated warmth, fragile yet defiant against the dead land surrounding it.

Greyson moved slowly, carefully. He stroked the animal’s head with his thumb.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re alright now.”

His eyes carried gentleness and something warm… something unmistakably human.

Frost watched, his gaze lingering longer than necessary. He did not understand what he was seeing, but he did not move or interrupt.

Eventually, he turned the other way, ready to leave.

Then…

“Frost.”

The voice was Greyson’s, and it carried weight.

Frost paused and turned his head slightly.

Greyson had set the fox down carefully, ensuring it could move on its own. 

Then, he stood and approached the younger boy. In his hand was a length of white fabric—a scarf, long and unadorned.

Greyson didn’t explain. He just stepped close and wrapped the scarf around Frost’s exposed neck, looping it once, then twice. The ends fell behind the pale boy, twin tails of white trailing down his back, nearly brushing his bare heels. 

The fabric moved gently in the returning air.

Frost blinked slowly.

“What’s this?” he asked. His voice was flat, but it carried a hint of curiosity.

Greyson met his gaze and said simply, “You wear too thin.”

He said nothing more, no lecture or any expectation of gratitude. He just turned and walked away, his footsteps light and unhurried.

Frost stood alone again, staring at the fluttering ends of his new accessory. Then, his hand reached up and touched the fabric, brushing it once.

The cold did not need it.

The cold had never needed anything.

But—

From that day forward, the white scarf never left him.

A few days later…

Another morning arrived as the sun rose quietly. Peace had returned from the dreadful night.

The forest breathed, leaves stirring softly overhead. Animals moved through bushes and shadows without a worry.

Greyson sat with his back against a tree. His hands were scored with fine cuts, thin lines of red marking his palms and fingers, stinging in the quiet aftermath. 

He could have rewound them with his Resonance. It would have taken nothing. 

Yet, he didn’t.

He just watched the forest live.

He saw a squirrel dart across a fallen log. Somewhere nearby, a bird called out, sharp and brief. He breathed it in, steady and slow, letting time pass unaltered.

Then… the air changed. 

Leaves rustled even though there was no wind. The forest noticed his presence.

Greyson didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

Frost emerged from a bush, pale against the green. His white scarf drifted behind him quietly. His presence alone brushed the temperature downward slightly. 

When his gaze fell on the living world before him, the drop slowed, then stopped altogether.

He noticed the animals, and he did not take from them.

Then, Frost’s eyes shifted, and he saw Greyson’s hands, the red cuts and the throbbing heat calling out to him.

Frost approached without a second thought and knelt before Greyson, staring at the older boy’s hands intently.

Greyson blinked, faintly surprised. “It’s no big deal. I’ll rewind them later.”

Frost did not answer. He reached out, pale fingers touching Greyson’s skin. They were cool but in no way cruel. 

The cold spread almost too gently, deliberate and controlled. Blood vessels constricted under the drop in temperature, circulation slowing. Inflammation gradually eased as thermal energy was drawn away.

The wounds did not vanish, but they stopped throbbing.

Greyson exhaled slowly. 

“Thanks,” he said, then added softly, “You didn’t have to do that. I can just rewind them and make them… not exist.”

Frost withdrew his hand, still saying nothing.

Instead, he reached into the fold of his clothing and produced a pair of gloves. They were fingerless, dark silver, and rather well-made. 

He placed them on Greyson’s lap.

The older boy looked down, then up. “For me?”

Frost didn’t explain, already rising. He turned away without a word, scarf ends lifting and fluttering softly as he started walking away. 

Greyson watched him go until his silhouette dissolved into the trees. Only then did he look down again.

He picked up the gloves Frost had left him, sliding them on. 

They fit perfectly. 

The fingerless design gave him freedom of movement while still guarding his palms. It was practical and precise in a way that felt… considered.

Greyson flexed his fingers once, then again.

They were his first gift, and he kept them.

Months passed, and on one fateful night…

The corridor was quiet in Oboros’s headquarters. Two Enforcers walked side by side, their voices low but careless in the confidence that came with rank.

“What? The Grandmaster really sent that silver boy?” one of them scoffed. “To face the Sword Saint? He’s still just a kid.”

The other laughed. “That’s the point. The Sword Saint’s become a liability. Too strong and unpredictable. The Grandmaster wants him gone, and the boy’s Resonance is perfect for it. Time manipulation. Either the Saint disappears, or both of them do.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I heard the Grandmaster used a forbidden technique to dig into the boy’s mind. Forced out his latent potential. Even if he survives, he’ll probably lose everything. His memories and identity. A clean slate.”

The first Enforcer snorted. “Serves him right. That brat’s always walking around like he’s untouchable. Let’s see him come back from that.”

They didn’t notice the cold, yet thermal energy had begun to vanish from their bodies. Their blood slowed, muscles stiffened. Their veins and lungs had already been frozen. 

Before thought could catch up to reality, the two Enforcers had breathed their last breath. The floor and walls around them had glazed over. 

But the frost did not stop there. It raced down the corridor, spilling through open doors.

Outside, a figure ran. White scarf ends streamed behind him, cutting through the frozen air. His bare feet struck the ground, leaving pale icy trails that marked his passage.

His hand came up instinctively to grip the fabric at his neck, urgency plain across his face. His eyes were no longer empty, unmistakably alive and burning with intent.

As he ran, a voice slipped from his lips, soft but firm, utterly certain.

“Grey.”