Fairy Tale: With Sin Of Pride

"This snow is... unusual," Rhodes murmured, rubbing his fingers together as his brows furrowed.

The flakes weren't just cold—they carried a strange, soul-piercing chill, as though they could freeze a person from the inside out. Even someone of his stature—a demigod—could feel it.

Snow that could do that? Definitely not normal.

It had been snowing non-stop for a day now, and the roads were buried beneath thick, stubborn layers of frost.

"This snow seems to contain some sort of magic, and it's not the kind that melts with a casual spell," Yuliya said, her breath visible in the freezing air. She raised a hand, summoning a wave of flame magic. The fire roared to life, burning bright enough to light up the horizon.

But the result? A mere sliver of snow melted, barely leaving a dent in the endless white expanse.

"With a disturbance this massive, it has to be a demigod-level demon causing trouble," she concluded.

Rhodes wasn't convinced. "Snow like this? It's annoying, sure, but it's not apocalyptic. The Church of Gods has a whole army of zealots—they can handle it."

He waved his hand, summoning the blazing image of a miniature sun. The radiant orb hovered above him as he used its heat to carve a path through the frozen wasteland. By the time night fell, the group had covered considerable ground, though the biting cold persisted.

"Doesn't look like there's anywhere to stay nearby," Rhodes said, glancing at the endless stretch of wilderness ahead. He was about to conjure a shelter when a flicker of light appeared in the distance.

A fire.

As they approached, they found a small group of servants escorting a man in a doctor's attire.

Rhodes didn't bother with pleasantries. Instead, he calmly introduced himself as a legendary mage and noble heir. To rural nobility, those titles carried far more weight than divine proclamations or demigod-level power.

Predictably, the butler's attitude shifted instantly. His initial wariness turned to groveling admiration as he confirmed Rhodes' identity. The man's voice trembled with respect, and he bowed so low it seemed his spine might snap.

For someone of his standing—a servant of a mere viscount—encountering a legendary mage was likely the highlight of his insignificant life.

Through bits of conversation, Rhodes learned the group was out in the cold to retrieve the doctor, a renowned healer named Flanders. The viscount of a nearby territory had fallen gravely ill since the snow began.

"The lord was perfectly healthy before the snow started falling," one servant explained with a troubled expression. "But now... it's like his life is slipping away."

Rhodes cast a scrutinizing glance at Flanders. Though the man was dressed in elegant attire, his hands were rough with calluses—clear evidence of a peasant's upbringing. It was unusual for someone from such humble origins to rise to fame as a doctor, but Rhodes didn't pry.

The group arrived at the viscount's manor shortly after. A young man, pale-faced and visibly cold, stood waiting at the gates. The heir, apparently.

"Welcome, Legendary Mage," the heir greeted with a forced smile, his tone as ingratiating as it was hollow.

Rhodes barely acknowledged him. He could see right through the act. The man's father was dying, and his polite exterior couldn't hide the obvious—he was already fantasizing about his imminent inheritance.

The heir looked to be in his forties, yet still hadn't inherited the title. At this point, it was likely he'd already spent years hoping his father would finally keel over. And now that the old man was on his deathbed, the heir must've been giddy with anticipation—until Rhodes showed up to complicate things.

"Lead the way. Let's see your father," Rhodes ordered curtly. The heir stiffened, but he had no choice but to comply. Delaying wasn't an option; offending a legendary mage could end his ambitions permanently.

Still, the cold glint in his eyes made his true intentions clear: once the mage was gone, he wouldn't hesitate to speed up his father's demise.

---

Inside the manor, the scent of herbs filled the air. In the master bedroom, a man lay dying, his frail body shrouded in blankets. Standing nearby was a figure clad in black robes and a crow-shaped mask—a doctor from the Church of Disease.

"Dr. Bird's Beak, huh? A believer of the Goddess of Disease," Rhodes muttered to himself.

The Goddess of Disease was a peculiar deity, holding dominion over both illness and its cure. Her followers had... unconventional methods. For example, a broken leg? Amputate it—problem solved. A serious illness? Axes, hammers, and leeches were their tools of choice.

It was crude, yes, but somehow effective. Their "miracles" were attributed to divine blessings, though most people only turned to them as a last resort.

"Hopeless," Rhodes declared after a single glance at the patient.

The old man wasn't just dying—he was marked. A faint, spectral figure lingered near the bed: the incarnation of the God of Death, holding a scythe as he patiently waited to claim the viscount's soul.

Even a legendary mage couldn't challenge a god over something as trivial as prolonging a mortal's life. Death was absolute, and this viscount had already overstayed his welcome.

The heir's expression darkened further as he realized the inevitable. His father's time was up, and any delay was just postponing the inevitable.

But Rhodes wasn't here to deal with squabbling nobles or futile medical efforts. His eyes narrowed as he turned back to the snowstorm outside.

Something about this snow... felt far from natural.