The Tundra under the polar night.
It was the last sanctuary forgotten by God, exuding a uniquely stark atmosphere.
Some people loved it.
They loved its raw, primeval beauty.
Since the dawn of time, it had remained in this pure state, largely untouched by the outside world.
Others hated it.
They hated its cold and desolation—an unbearable chill and a monotonous, lifeless expanse of snow.
But whether loved or hated,
the Tundra under the polar night quietly remained, bearing witness to the passage of time in its own unique way, etched with nature's distinctive signature.
At that moment, Feng Mountain was leading the idle members of the camp to Gem Lake. They rode snowmobiles, towing tents and gear behind them.
It was time for the Crown Territory's first-ever ice fishing competition.
The camp was currently in its off-season. Aside from Milyukov and a few others who were busy assembling a mammoth skeleton, everyone else had signed up to participate.
