Glacivyr sprawled like a frozen wound in the depths of the hells, a realm where a gray sky was streaked with silent storms, and black, razor-sharp snowflakes fell, slicing flesh. Towering black glaciers, massive and jagged, dominated the horizon, their surfaces glinting with a cold, sickly light. Rivers of liquid frost snaked through crevasses, their waters burning despite their crystalline sheen, while howling winds swept the plains, carrying the cries of damned souls trapped in ice. Under the dominion of Cania, the merciless mistress of this realm, Glacivyr was a hell of paradoxes—a cold that consumed, a beauty that killed, a silence that crushed. It was in this frozen chaos that Orak was born, a child of the abyss, sculpted from frost and blood, with no mortal past to claim.
The Origins of Orak: Orak had never known a life before Glacivyr, for he had none. He emerged in a cavern of black ice, deep within a fractured glacier, his first cry echoing against the frozen walls as shards of frost rained around him. His mother, a minor demoness with piercing blue eyes, served in Cania's legions, a warrior armed with lances forged in infernal cold. His father, a wandering specter captured in the storms, was a fleeting shadow, his essence bound to the ice by a forgotten ritual. Orak opened his eyes to a world where warmth was a fable, where blood froze before it could flow, where each breath seared the lungs like icy fire.
His skin, a pale blue almost translucent, bore frost marks from birth—crystalline lines shimmering like veins of ice beneath his flesh. His silver hair, a tangle of wild strands, framed an angular face, and his metallic gray eyes glowed with a cold, distant light. Abandoned at birth after his mother fell in a skirmish against a rival horde, Orak survived alone, crawling through the cavern, his tiny hands shattering ice shards with unnatural strength. The cold didn't kill him—it nourished him, his body absorbing Glacivyr's frozen essence like a starving beast.
In the plains of Glacivyr, survival was a cruel art, and Orak learned it young. At five, he hunted Frost Cubs—beasts with translucent fangs and shrill howls—using lances carved from black ice. His powers emerged early: plunging his hands into the ground, he summoned frost shards that erupted like daggers, impaling prey before they could reach him. The few native children, damned souls born like him, shunned him, whispering that he was a Child of the Cold, an anomaly destined to serve Cania or defy her.
At eight, a black snowstorm trapped him on a desolate plain, its jagged flakes tearing his skin. He didn't cry out—he drove his hands into the ground, and a barrier of ice rose, a shimmering dome that shielded him until the wind relented. When he emerged, Cania stood before him, her frost armor glinting, her glacial scythe catching the cold light. Her blue eyes, sharp as blades, studied him. "You're strong, little one," she murmured, her voice a chilling hiss. "Serve me, and you'll have a destiny." Orak, kneeling in the snow, met her gaze with defiance. "I serve only myself," he replied, his voice rough but steady. Cania smiled, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. "We'll see," she said, leaving a black ice lance planted in the ground before vanishing in a gust.
Orak grew with that lance as an extension of himself, mastering Glacivyr's cold. At thirteen, he faced his first true challenge—a pack of Crystal Wyrms, giant serpents with razor-sharp scales, led by a colossal alpha named Kryovax. The beast, ten meters tall, burst from a glacier, its fangs dripping frozen venom, its blue eyes gleaming like dead stars. Orak, alone with his lance, lured it into a narrow crevasse, using the howling winds to mask his steps. As Kryovax lunged, its fangs aimed at his chest, Orak drove his lance into the ground, summoning a frost storm that surged like a wave. The ice enveloped the wyrm, freezing its blood in its veins, and Orak leapt, plunging his lance into its throat with a sinister crack. Kryovax's venom splashed his arm, burning his flesh like glacial acid, but Orak severed its head, its frozen blood pooling on the ground. Damned souls watching from the shadows murmured a name: Winter's Bite. The moniker was born that day—a swift, cold, lethal strike, like the wyrm's venom frozen in death. Orak's legend began to spread through Glacivyr, a warrior whose chill bit deeper than any blade.
The Formation of the Blue Fangs: At sixteen, Orak crossed paths with other natives rejected by Cania's legions. Frostbite, a wiry archer with gray hair, had been banished for defying a captain with his frost-tipped arrows. Icicle, an agile scout with keen eyes, had survived an ambush that wiped out his unit, his body scarred with frost marks. The two wandered the plains, starving and hunted, when Orak found them facing a horde of Blizzard Specters—shrieking shadows with icy claws. Without a word, he dove into the fray, his lance summoning a storm that froze the specters, while Frostbite fired arrows that shattered them and Icicle sliced through their ranks with frost daggers.
After the battle, Orak planted his lance in the ground, his gray eyes assessing them. "You fight well," he grunted. "Stay with me, and survive." Frostbite smirked, adjusting his bow. "You, Winter's Bite? Why not." Icicle nodded, a cold smile on his lips. "Better than dying alone." They sealed their pact in the snow, forming the Blue Fangs—a trio bound by cold and defiance, their blue uniforms adorned with silver fangs symbolizing their collective bite. Under Orak's command, they became a feared force, raiding rival hordes, freezing foes in icy tombs, and challenging minor lords who dared confront them.
One day, they faced a legion sent by Cania to subdue them. Orak, at the center, summoned a massive storm, his Blue Fangs at his side. Frostbite loosed a volley of frost arrows that froze enemy warriors, while Icicle infiltrated their ranks, shattering their lances with frost shards. Orak lunged at the captain, his lance piercing crystalline armor in a burst of frozen blood. "Tell Cania I won't bend," he murmured, leaving the body in the snow. The Blue Fangs earned their reputation that day—a winter's bite that left no survivors.
At twenty, a rumor reached Glacivyr—a tournament in a distant arena, the Apex Rings, where the hells' mightiest could claim glory and power. Cania had blessed the event, offering a place in her legions to the victor. Orak saw an opportunity—not to serve, but to defy Cania and prove his worth. With Frostbite and Icicle, he crossed the glaciers, braving storms and hordes to reach a portal to Natass Magna XIII's domain. In their final battle before departing, Cania appeared atop a glacier, her icy gaze fixed on Orak.
"You seek the Crown," she said, her voice a whisper on the wind. "Why, Winter's Bite?" Orak drove his lance into the snow, a frost storm crackling around him. "To prove I need no one," he replied, his breath forming white wisps. Cania laughed, a crystalline, cutting sound. "Then prove it. But the cold forgives no failure." She vanished in a frost flare, and Orak stepped through the portal with the Blue Fangs, their fate sealed in ice and defiance.