Home/The Ice Age Came? And I Just Got Married?!/ch 75

Chapter 75.

We stepped outside.

The hotel lobby was silent. Freshly added firewood crackled in the fireplace. A few teacups, still warm, sat nearby.

The staff who had been at the front desk were gone—no sign of the guards on patrol either.

I slowly scanned the lobby.

The staff who had welcomed us, the patrolling soldiers—they'd all vanished.

Even Clare and Leon were gone.

Only our group, who had arrived late the previous night, remained.

Strange.

"Given that even Lieutenant Wayne and Sergeant Faulkner are missing..."

A possibility connected in my mind.

"Could it be that everyone who stayed here for more than a day vanished?"

Marcus nodded at my guess.

"Honestly, we have so few clues that your theory sounds plausible."

We searched the entire hotel—not a single soul.

"Could someone have moved them with a Silverstone?"

Logan shook his head at my guess.

"When you moved the tidal wave, I noticed the Silverstone couldn't pinpoint and move individual people inside the hotel."

He was right—it wasn't that detailed.

Then had everyone inside the hotel moved on their own, all together...?

Suddenly, I remembered the management building.

When we'd returned to the hotel after seeing the orangutan snow monster, I'd noticed lights on in the park's management building and found it odd.

"Let's check the management building."

"The management building?"

Marcus asked in surprise. I explained as I recalled.

"I saw lights on there on our way back from seeing the snow monster. I figured staff were there—but now I think about it, they said all the survivors were staying at the hotel. So why were the lights on there?"

A brief silence fell.

"Let's go."

As we stepped out of the hotel, the dawn air cut into our faces—cold as blades.

Frost immediately formed on our lashes, making them heavy.

We covered everything but our eyes, yet the cold still stung.

But we couldn't turn back. If we didn't find out what happened, we'd be next.

Fresh snow had fallen overnight, adding another layer to the park.

The frozen fountain and carousel, shrouded in mist, looked like long-abandoned ruins.

Even the monkey statues on the carousel were buried under snow, barely visible.

I glanced at the snow monster beside the carousel—it was still firmly in place.

This can't be the snow monster's doing.

Unless it had a new trait we didn't know about.

Each footstep made a crunching sound—the only noise in the silent park.

"Strange."

Logan spoke.

"There are no footprints."

We all looked down.

The path from the hotel to the management building.

Overnight snow had erased all tracks from yesterday—and there were no fresh ones. As if no one had walked this way.

Yet faint light still seeped from the management building's windows.

We soon reached it—a simple, modest building compared to the grand hotel.

It was single-story but seemed fairly large.

Knock, knock.

No answer. Marcus raised his hand to knock again—but Logan kicked the door open.

It seemed frozen shut, but it swung open easily. Fortunately, it didn't break.

"This monster."

Marcus shook his head. His strength really was monstrous.

"Empty here too."

Marcus said, and I looked again.

We had no weapons—upon entering the hotel, we'd been told to surrender them for safety.

I had Winterstone power, and Logan had overwhelming physical strength—but we hadn't anticipated this.

"There's a basement."

Marcus, exploring the building, found a stairway and pointed.

A door waited at the bottom.

Logan led the way down—I followed at the rear, in case of an ambush.

Behind the door, an unexpected sight awaited—armed survivors.

The moment Logan opened it, gunfire erupted.

At the same time, a thick ice wall rose between us—the Bluestone's power, activated instinctively.

Both sides were startled.

The ice—whether from the Bluestone or just its thickness—deflected the bullets without cracking.

The firing stopped.

"Damn Lowell Mercantile bastards!"

At that shout, I tilted my head—they must have mistaken us for Lowell's people.

So they weren't Lowell survivors?

"Identify yourselves and state your purpose."

Marcus, a master negotiator, stepped forward. Logan, who had no intention of negotiating, raised an eyebrow and stepped back.

"You identify yourselves first—are you with Lowell Mercantile?"

Another man spoke. I couldn't see him through the ice, but his voice was familiar.

A voice that didn't belong here.

No way.

Could it be...?

I cautiously stepped beside Marcus and placed a hand on his shoulder.

My heart pounded—my hands trembled.

Swallowing dryly, I spoke as calmly as I could.

"May I ask your name? Your voice sounds a lot like someone I know..."

"Wait—say that again."

A man stepped closer to the ice wall—a faint glimpse of ashy gray hair.

The thick ice blurred his features, but his height and build seemed...

"...Graham?"

"...Eve?"

I swayed—my legs gave out, and Marcus and Logan caught me from both sides.

With trembling hands, I steadied myself and covered my mouth.

"Eve? It's you, isn't it?"

I dispelled the ice wall.

There stood a man among the armed group—a noble-looking man with ashy gray hair at his neck, violet eyes behind sharp-angled glasses.

His aristocratic bearing made even his mismatched winter gear look refined.

Snow lay on his coat, but he stood tall, unbothered.

Five years.

Five years since he'd gone abroad to study, just before Julian went missing.

Honestly, I'd thought there was little chance he was alive—I'd half given up.

"You're alive, Eve."

His usually stern expression wavered visibly.

The face I remembered as always calm now showed relief and disbelief.

He looked at me for a long time without speaking—as if confirming I wouldn't disappear.

"Truly... is it really you, Graham?"

His rigid expression finally softened.

"Our little snow bunny."

He paused, then added quietly,

"...I missed you."

Hearing that embarrassing nickname from childhood—one he'd never used since—a wave of emotion surged.

I finally understood what it meant to feel warmth in your chest.

It was really him—my eldest brother.

The one who'd gone abroad and lost contact.

The feelings I'd locked away, afraid that thinking of family would break me, flooded out.

I ran to him and held him tight—holding on so he wouldn't leave me again.

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