บททั้งหมดของ Return of The Rejected Omega : บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The tundra is a liar. It promises nothing but takes everything—your warmth, your voice, your name. By the time the Unbound found me, seven years had hardened into ice inside my chest. Seven years of chewing leather belts until my gums bled, licking frost off jagged rocks just to wet my tongue. Seven years of listening to Vorath’s voice coil around my thoughts like smoke, whispering things that made the cold feel like a lover. I didn’t care if I lived. I didn’t care if I died. But then Mara stepped out of the snow, her scarred lips twisted into a grin, and something inside me cracked. A sliver of curiosity, sharp and cold, like the edge of a blade pressed to a thawing vein.She stood taller than the others, her shoulders draped in a pelt stitched from wolf hides and something darker—bear, maybe, or human. The scar splitting her lips gleamed in the weak light, a pale thread weaving through weathered skin. Her eyes were flint, sharp enough to spark.“Viktor Frostfang,” she said, her voic

The wind clawed at the tent’s remains, shredding smoke and memory into the endless gray. I knelt in the snow, retching until my throat burned raw. Yrsa’s blood had frozen midair, crimson icicles littering the ground like broken glass. The stew pot lay on its side, carrots scattered—tiny, accusing eyes.Pathetic, Vorath snarled. Not in my mind. In my teeth.Mara emerged from the blizzard, her pelt crusted with ice. She didn’t crouch. Didn’t smirk. Just stared, her scarred face a cliffside eroded by storms. “Crying?”I wiped my mouth with a trembling hand. “Frost.”“Frost doesn’t stink of shame.” She kicked the stew pot, sending it clattering into the dark. “You killed her. Now live with it.”Behind her, the Unbound picked Yrsa’s tent clean. A man with a split lip yanked the raven feather from its string, tucked it behind his ear. A woman with frost-rotted fingers hacked off Yrsa’s braid, stuffing it into a leather pouch. No ceremony. No words. Just the wet snick of blades and the creak

The Silver Claw (Viktor Age; 35)The trapper’s blood steamed in the cold, pooling around my boots like molten copper. I crouched over his corpse, fingers buried in his ribcage, prying loose the liver. The forest reeked of iron and pine sap. A twig snapped. I froze, knife slick in my grip. A girl stood at the tree line, her breath fogging the air. Sixteen, maybe. Skinny. Eyes sunken, like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Her parka was patched with wolf fur, her boots caked in mud. Blood Moon colors. “I know what you are,” she said, voice trembling. Not from fear—from hunger. I tossed the liver into the snow. It landed with a wet thud. “Then you know what happens to pups who wander too far.” She didn’t flinch. “They say you turn people into monsters.” I wiped the blade on my sleeve. “They say a lot of things.” “I want you to make me one.” I laughed. The sound startled a raven from the trees. “You don’t want what I am.” She stepped closer. The trapper’s blood soaked into her

The blade bit deeper into my wrist. Blood spilling blood onto the ice with a hiss. The ritual circle flared acid-green. My bones snapping, fingers stretching into talons. Angela slammed against the barrier again with enough force to make it rattle from its foundation, her claws leaving smears of her own blood on the shimmering air.“You think this makes you strong?” she shouted, voice raw. “You’re just its tool now!”I tried to answer, but my jaw cracked, tendons snapping as it unhinged. Venom dripped from fangs that hadn’t been there seconds ago. The taste burned my tongue—rot and iron. Vorath’s laughter vibrated in my chest, louder than my own heartbeat.Angela lunged sideways, hunting for a weak spot in the barrier. Her mutated arm lashed out, talons raking the ice near the edge of the circle. The green light flickered.“Clever,” I rasped, the words slurred around too many teeth. My left eye was gone, replaced by a wet, bulging orb that saw in heat and shadows. “But you’re too late

The road to the city was a graveyard of bones.They littered the frozen mud like broken pottery—shattered ribs, splintered femurs, wolf skulls picked clean by crows. Silas walked ahead, his boots crunching through the debris without slowing. He hadn’t spoken since dawn, his silence as heavy as the rifle slung across his back. I kept my corrupted hand buried in my coat pocket, the skin beneath the fabric raw and hot. The veins had spread past my wrist overnight, black and swollen, throbbing with every heartbeat.The city walls rose in the distance, jagged and uneven. Rusted metal sheets welded to crumbling concrete, patched with splintered wood and coils of barbed wire. Smoke billowed from chimneys, staining the sky charcoal. Even from here, the stench hit me—rotten meat, diesel fumes, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Human and wolf, blended into something sour.Silas stopped abruptly, shoulders stiffening. “Keep your hand hidden.”I curled my fingers into a fist, the movement sti