"My balls are probably blue at this point."
The harsh white wind rustled, carrying ice and snow that beat against the carriage like a rainstorm. Each gust howled through the jagged ridgelines, rattling the wooden frame and threatening to snap the tarpaulin overhead. Snow clung to the corners of the canvas like mold—thick, wet, and mean. The wheels groaned, frozen solid more often than not, and every axle turn sounded like a scream under pressure.
Inside the carriage, breath came out in clouds. Tonya sat nearest the rear flap, back straight, arms crossed, expression unreadable behind a scarf crusted with frost. Her coat was an old military issue, lined with fur stripped from something that bit back. She said nothing, only glanced once at the condensation forming ice along the bolts in the ceiling.
Katarina sighed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "It's romantic," she said dryly, voice like black silk pulled tight. "The biting wind, the smell of frozen piss, the delightful crunch of hypothermia setting into my bones. Truly, I feel alive."
Across from them, Gazei rubbed his hands together, a faint glow emanating from the brass runes tattooed into his knuckles. The warmth wasn't much—it barely took the edge off—but it was better than nothing. His goggles were fogged, snowflakes clinging to his collar, and his boots were soaked clean through."Speak for yourselves. This shit is not meant for a Black man," he muttered, wishing for the hundredth time that he were anywhere else in the world.
He glanced out the frost-slick window at the vast stretch of Niflheim—realm of primordial ice, mist, and cold. Despite the name, the supercontinent wasn't just frozen wasteland. Its geography was bizarrely varied: windswept deserts, fertile plains, endless coasts rich with fish and trade, oil veins thick as serpents, and mountain ranges so mineral-rich you could smell the copper in the air.And still, it was all buried under snow.
People made lives here. Somehow. Gazei didn't want to be one of them.
He looked down at the parchment in his lap—thick vellum stamped with the royal seal, a certificate of lordship written in ornate silver ink. He wanted to tear the damn thing in half and hurl it into the storm. But he knew better. That paper was his noose and his lifeline. Without it, his life was over. Possibly literally.
A year ago, back on Earth, he, Tonya, and Katarina had died. Final Destination style. Truck on the fifth floor. Don't ask.
They'd woken up in new bodies, in a new world, with new headaches—and almost the same names. Gazei D. Wolfe, the same middle initial that had made his college professors suspicious, now bore the name of an old noble house. Apparently, someone decided to reincarnate them as minor aristocracy.
And married, apparently.
Tonya Armstrong and Katarina Reddington. Now Tonya Wolfe and Katarina Wolfe. The former German and Russian women had been downright giddy about marrying him before any of the other "girls" could stake a claim.
"Husband is not that bad," Tonya said cheekily, her accent curling around the word like frost on steel. She knew damn well the former Haitian man hated the cold with a spiritual fury. Gazei had grown up on a tropical island where 'cold' meant a pleasant breeze off the ocean. He'd sworn never to set foot in Germany or Russia again after visiting their homelands once and nearly freezing his ass off. That had been cute then. It was still cute now.
"Da, muzh. You complain too much," Katarina chimed in, her breath fogging the air.
"Oh, fuck off. The both of you," Gazei grumbled. "Damn freaks wearing nothing but skintight outfits. If it wasn't for y'all making my blood rush to the wrong places and spiking my heart rate, I would've abandoned this glacier already. Emperor's decree be damned."
It was true, though. His wives were stunning.
Tonya: short, lean, ex-military posture, skin kissed with ice, long light-blue hair cascading down her back, and those piercing blue eyes that looked like they could kill a man or marry one.
Katarina: no less lethal, a statuesque woman with a sculpted, muscular frame, her long green-purple hair falling over one eye like she was hiding secrets behind her smirk. Her presence was venom in velvet.
The kind of women who didn't just turn heads—they spun them right off. They are very beautiful women.
And both of them? Deadly.Both were Tier 5 Intermediate Knights.
Terra was not a simple world. Civilization had advanced strangely—medieval in architecture and culture, but magically industrialized. Kingdoms, empires, and syndicates spanned the continents, and they weren't only filled with humans. Orcs, elves, beastkin, dragons, demons—all shared this world, usually at each other's throats.
Humans were considered the most dangerous of them all. Not for their strength, but for their bottomless greed. They were despised for their wars, their slavers' hands, and their attempts to rule every damn thing they could walk on.
Mana was everywhere in Terra—an invisible essence like air or blood. Everyone had it. But using it was another story.Two cultivation paths ruled the world: Martial and Arcane.
Martial Combatants used mana as Battle Aura, a raw force enhancing strength, defense, and speed. No flashy fireballs—just power packed into bone and muscle.Arcane practitioners—mages—manipulated the same mana but shaped it into spells, summonings, enchantments. Everything from healing light to storms of elemental fury.
Tonya was an Summoner Knight.
She commanded spirits and beasts, bending them to her will and fusing with their power in combat—each summoning triggering a terrifying wardrobe change, dressing her in themed armor or battle dresses that matched the creature she invoked.
But Tonya was also a barbarous, manipulative sadist. Raised in the brutal Armstrong tribe, where the motto was "The strong survive, the weak die," she internalized that lesson deeply. She killed her own father to take control of the clan. And while she was cruel, she was also strangely fair. She looked after her subordinates with loyalty that bordered on affectionate, as long as they were strong enough to survive her.
Katarina was something else entirely.
A Tier 5 Chemist Knight—an elite martial role combining archery with mad science. She wielded a shapeshifting bow that could pivot into melee mode, backed by a high-speed Crossgun that could unload chemical-soaked bolts like a magical SMG. Every arrow, bolt, or trap she deployed was laced with corrosive compounds, burning through armor and flesh alike.
She was raised not in a tribe, but a syndicate.
The Reddington Crime family were a name spoken in whispers across all nine continents—whispers laced with blood, bribery, and bank notes. Known for their extreme violence, brutal internal power struggles, and unparalleled ability to slither into the political and legal veins of society, they were less a family and more an empire with a thousand faces. When they weren't laundering billions through their global casinos or rigging council votes from behind velvet curtains, they were torching competitors—sometimes literally.
Katarina was forged in that furnace.
She had been just a girl when the orcs came storming out of the northern ranges during the Invasion of '86, an event that reshaped half of Central Terra and wiped Hungary off most functional maps. Orphaned in the chaos, one of thirteen surviving children dragged from the rubble, she was scooped up not by rescuers, but by predators.
The Reddingtons.
Specifically, by a woman known only by her alias: Copperhead. The family patriarch's daughter and one of the syndicate's most ruthless fixers, Copperhead didn't raise orphans—she molded assets. Each girl was a seed of potential power, meant to be cultivated into blades, bombs, and spies.
Katarina was the one who bloomed.
In 17 years, she didn't just survive—she thrived. Where others broke, she adapted. Where others hesitated, she killed. By the time she was old enough to legally drink, she had already poisoned three cartel lieutenants, blackmailed a royal chancellor, and framed a guildmaster for mass treason. She became Copperhead's best student and deadliest shadow.
And then there was Gazei.
His bloodline made the others look downright decent.
The Wolfe Clan. Noble demons in name, but in truth, a mercenary cult of pleasure and slaughter. They raided, pillaged, captured, converted. Every battle, every conquest, was both a job and a ritual. The Wolfe vial—their inheritance—was a hellish concoction that rewired body and soul, transforming its drinkers into hedonistic monsters of war and lust. They lived for combat, for ecstasy, for domination.
Emotions were power. Killing brought strength. The more senseless, the better.
And yet, they had rules—no harming children or elders or any who can't fight back. Those were sold instead, or recruited if useful. A mercy, in a world like this.
To be Wolfe was to follow the Path of Blood—a forbidden style that fed on rage, war, hatred, and honor. Every drop of blood spilled in battle fed their strength. Yet even in this savagery, there was discipline. Martial pride. Combat honor. The Wolfe didn't kill for sport—they killed because it made them feel alive.
Gazei Wolfe sat between two killers who adored him, in a world balanced on violence and desire, and all he wanted was a fireplace and a drink that didn't smell like goat piss.
The Wolfe Clan was still a noble house at the end of the day—landed, titled, and bound by ancient codes written in blood and fire. Their debauchery had structure. Their atrocities had paperwork. Their raids came with a family crest stamped in wax. You could call them monsters, and you'd be right, but you'd better remember to add "Your Grace" at the end.
This year's Northern Expansion wasn't like the last generation's. The 11th Emperor wasn't content with carving out territory. He wanted conquest that could be seen from the moon.
So he picked five names from a gilded scroll like a drunken gambler choosing horses: House Wolfe of Norad, House Blackmoors of Helkarth, House Sunvale Matriarchate, House Crassian, and House Hollowcrown Banking Syndicate.
Five noble families, each a different flavor of morally flexible, violent, or both. Their reward? The title of Pioneering Lords of the Northern Frostmarch. Their mission? Civilize the uncivilizable. Or at least die impressively.
Thus, Gazei D. Wolfe, only son and sole heir of the Wolfe Clan—a tribe of noble demons, mercenaries, and sociopathic war poets—was shipped off to the ass-end of the empire. Not with love. Not with ceremony. But with a letter from his 'father' that simply read: "Make them fear our name or don't come back." Followed by a drawing of a very crude wolf humping a crowned stag.
His old man is an jackass with a captial J.
This year's Northern Expansion wasn't like the last generation's. Back then, the Emperors still played at patience. They'd send diplomats and surveyors, plant flags, whisper promises of peace to savage chieftains before backstabbing them in their sleep.
But the 11th Emperor? He wasn't content with carving out territory. He wanted conquest that could be seen from the moon.
So he picked five names from a gilded scroll like a drunken gambler choosing horses: The Wolfe Clan, the Blackmoors of Helkarth, the Sunvale Matriarchate, the Crassian Legionnaires, and the Hollowcrown Banking Syndicate. Five noble families, each a different flavor of morally flexible, violent, or both. Their reward? The title of Pioneering Lords of the Northern Frostmarch. Their mission? Civilize the uncivilizable. Or at least die impressively.
Founded by the first "High Howler" during the Age of Carnage, the Wolfe Clan is less a noble house and more an empire masquerading as a family. Picture a continent-sized mercenary band with religious overtones, battle doctrine written in scripture, and cultural practices that include mandatory blood duels, pleasure feasts, and mass indoctrination through drug-fueled rites with territory worth millions.
The sheer number of lands that Wolfe owns is absurd, and Gazei just gave up on trying to understand the sheer scope of the world.
It's difficult to say exactly how many people live in the Wolfe Domain and its territories, but estimates range from 3.4 billion to 18.7 billion. Wolfe lands were sparsely populated and wildly overpopulated, a paradox explained by the clan's chaotic conquest habits, brutal re-education policies, and tendency to repopulate areas with the descendants of the very people they'd enslaved, interbred, or genetically reforged.
Most of these people entered the Wolfe bands which are House Wolfe primary military force and first line of defense from the myriad threats against the Empire. The primary combat tactic of the Wolfe Band is the charge. When a unit goes into a full-out charge, it's as frightening as a wave crashing down on you. It's the equivalent of a full-frontal assault, and nothing stops the momentum.
The Wolfe are also famed for their ability to fight while intoxicated. Whether they're drinking, smoking, eating, or snorting, the Wolfe will happily imbibe whatever gets them in the mood. As a result, the Wolfe as also known as the Attack Demon Dogs of the Empire. The sheer amount of force that the Wolfe can bring to bear is terrifying.
They were born in combat, trained in combat, bred in combat. They had no fear, no mercy, and no shame.
The Wolfe were the ones who charged ahead of the imperial legions and broke the backs of the orc tribes in the Great War. The Wolfe were the ones who stormed the walls of the demon king's castle, slaughtered his court, and beheaded the tyrant on his throne. The Wolfe were the ones who carved their names into the hearts of men and beasts, leaving their enemies bleeding, broken, and begging for the release of death.
But they also have the highest morality rate of any other House. Millions of upon millions of Wolfe warriors, mages, and knights die every year, and the majority are from the forces they face every year.
It does not matter the number of casualties it may take to win a battle. The Wolfe Band will devote many thousands of men to overcome a few hundred, but the Wolfe will never stop until the enemy is dead, even if it means sending 10,000 men to kill one man.
The Wolfe are an unstoppable force of nature, a relentless wave of fury and blood.
There are 3 types of members:
Wolfe Warriors, the infantry
Wolfe Mages, the spellcasters
Wolfe Knights, the cavalry and the frontline
Each warrior carries a steel kukri dagger, a short sword, and a long spear. Their main weapon is the curved scimitar, which is used in combination with a round shield and a buckler-shaped metal plate strapped to the arm.
Mages wear light leather armor and carry a staff. Mages can summon magic, but their main weapons are the crossbow and the short sword.
Wolfe Knights are the cavalry of the Wolfe Band, and their main weapon is the war scythe, which has a large blade and a hook attached to the back of the blade. They carry a katana for close combat, but they prefer to kill at range.
The Blackmoors of Helkarth were second, and looked almost civilized by comparison—until you met one. The Blackmoors are a noble bloodline of death-worshippers and crypt-keepers who rule over the fog-shrouded swamplands of Helkarth. Where the Wolfes expand by sword, the Blackmoors expand by curse. Necromancers, plague alchemists, and corpsebinders walk freely through their cities. The aristocracy are all pale, cloaked, and tattooed with runes that whisper when read aloud. Their armies are legions of revenants bound to soul-sigil armor, and their ruling council is comprised of mummified elders animated by forbidden rites. They don't conquer—they corrupt, leech, and outlast.
The Sunvale Matriarchate was third—beautiful, matriarchal, and blindingly deadly. This desert empire is run by a caste of female priest-queens who worship solar entities through a blend of magic, politics, and ancient technology. Think courtesans with particle beam fans and sand chariots pulled by sun-blooded lions. They control water, light, and the breeding rights of their population. Men are prized only for their beauty, bloodline, or ability to bear healthy daughters. The Matriarchate has the second-largest standing army in the world, and it's almost entirely made up of genetically perfected women trained in both diplomacy and war from the age of four. They fight like ballerinas with flamethrowers.
The Crassian Legionnaires were fourth, a republic in name but a military cult in practice. Originating from the mineral-rich, mountainous basin of Crassia, this nation trains its citizens like soldier ants. Every child is conscripted. Every elder is a logistics officer. Politics are decided by wargames. Their nobles are battle-forged generals who earn their titles in gladiatorial trials, not inheritance. Their architecture is brutalist. Their philosophy is brutalist. Their way of life is brutalist. They're famous for one thing: winning wars they have no right to win. Tactics, attrition, steel discipline, and enough artillery to level a country—this is how Crassia conquers.
The Hollowcrown Banking Syndicate was last. No territory. No standing army. Just contracts, assassins, and enough money to make kingdoms bend the knee. The Hollowcrowns don't rule by blood or blade—they rule by debt. An entire economic empire cloaked in silk and smirks, their reach spans the globe. They control trade routes, mint currencies, and own shares in every other noble house's infrastructure. They can raise an army in a week—hired mercenaries, desperate adventurers, and noble bastards deep in debt. Their sigil is a gold crown split in two, and their motto is "All Things Must Be Paid." They've never lost a war, because they've never had to fight one. They simply buy the winner in advance.