Thruggin's breath clouded in the frozen air as he climbed higher. The compass pulled him forward, its glow steady through the storm. His rifle rested across his back, ready. The monk had taken his honor five years ago—left him broken and shamed. Now the trail led to another monastery, hidden somewhere in these peaks. Thruggin would find him. He would face him. And when it was done, his name would mean something again. The path ahead narrowed between two cliffs of ice. Thruggin spotted smoke rising in the distance. He followed it until he reached a forge built into the mountainside. The structure stood open to the wind, its anvil crusted with frost. Tools hung from iron hooks, and a fire pit burned low in the center. Thruggin set down his pack and checked his rifle. The metal was cold against his paws. He heated the barrel over the flames and tested the action. The bolt slid smooth. He sharpened his knife on the grindstone until the edge caught the firelight. When he finished, he loaded fresh rounds into the chamber. The monastery was close now. He could feel it. Everything he needed was ready, and so was he. Thruggin pulled the compass from his coat and held it up. The brass surface was warm despite the cold. Blue and yellow light pulsed from its center, pointing northeast toward the mountain's far ridge. This wasn't just any compass—it knew where the temples were, where monks gathered to train and pray. It had led him through three false trails already, but each one brought him closer. The monk's face was burned into his memory. So was the moment everything went dark, when skilled hands struck pressure points Thruggin didn't know existed. He'd woken blind and alone on a stone floor. It took two years to learn to see again, and three more to find this compass. Now the hunt was almost over. He followed the compass for two more hours through drifting snow. The glow grew brighter with each step. Then he saw it—a compound built into the mountainside, fortified against the winter. Thick walls wrapped around several buildings. Smoke rose from a central chimney. This was no monastery. This was a home, built to last through the harshest storms. Thruggin crouched behind a snow-covered boulder and watched. A figure moved past a window, robed and hooded. The compass burned hot in his paw, confirming what he already knew. The monk was inside. Five years of tracking, of healing, of preparing—all of it led here. Thruggin checked his rifle one last time and started down the slope.