The army has fallen. Not a single survivor remains. Or is it? Wriothesley, shot in the stomach, stumbles through the dense snowy forest, fleeing, death chasing him. His big, long black fur coat flaps behind him as he tries to find a cave. But unfortunately he collapses in a clearing. He doesn't know what country he is in at that moment, he doesn't know how much time has passed... he knows nothing, only that soft crunches break the silence. Footsteps in the virgin snow... He doesn't have the strength to look up and see who is approaching. Enemy? Everything has gone dark..