Frostbitten Trial

The air changed the moment Azrael stepped through the archway into Floor 71.

It wasn't just colder. It was emptier.

Gone were the faintly humming rest runes of the previous chamber, the soft cerulean glow that offered a whisper of peace. Here, silence reigned—absolute and ancient. The moment his foot crunched down on the snow-covered stone, the oppressive quiet folded over him like a burial shroud.

There was no sun, no moon, no sky. Just a vast, cathedral-like cavern stretching far into a dim, frozen horizon. The ceiling arched high above, lost in pale mist, hung with hundreds of icicles the size of spears. Each glinted faintly in the pulsing light of monarch crystals embedded in the walls—veins of raw magic that cast eerie reflections across the ice.

It felt like walking into a frozen dream.

Or a grave.

Azrael exhaled slowly, watching his breath crystallize and vanish into the air. The temperature had plummeted—far colder than any previous floor. His bare feet, already numb, sank into patches of dry powder and slick, uneven frost. He hugged himself unconsciously, trying to block out the cold biting at every inch of exposed skin.

His clothes were a joke—ripped slave rags barely holding together at the seams. His caramel skin, already marked by lash scars.

But he clenched his jaw and took another step.

He wasn't here to be comfortable.

He was here to survive.

The only true possession he had was the spear gripped tightly in his hand. Black, jagged obsidian, notched with signs of battle, its shaft cracked but reinforced with wire and bone wrappings. Taken from the first boss he'd killed. Earned.

Everything that mattered, he earned.

A faint groan echoed through the cavern. Deep. Far-off.

Not human.

Azrael froze.

Then came a soft click in his left ear.

Olivia's voice, smooth and calm, whispered through his shadow she'd slipped in earlier.

"I count three."

Azrael's grip tightened on the spear.

"Location?"

"Hard to tell. They're camouflaged under the snow. You'll hear them before you see them. Wait for the sound."

"What sound?"

"You'll know it," she said. "They don't roar. They shiver."

A pause.

Then, casually: "Don't die."

Azrael snorted, despite the ice growing in his lungs. "Still the motivational type, huh?"

"I'm your knight in shining armor, remember?" Her tone danced with amusement. "But I only jump in if your organs are hanging out. You bleed pretty, by the way."

The shadow went silent.

Azrael sighed and scanned the terrain.

The cavern floor rolled in uneven dips and ridges, with jagged boulders and frozen spires scattered like broken teeth. In the stillness, it was easy to mistake movement. The crystals pulsed, casting flickers of light over frost-coated walls, playing tricks on his tired eyes.

But he moved forward anyway. Slowly. Methodically.

Minutes passed.

His muscles burned. His breath came in shorter, sharper puffs.

Too quiet.

Then he heard it.

Shhhhhhh.

Like dry leaves. No, like powdered glass sliding over stone.

Azrael turned.

A section of snow behind him shimmered—not moved—shimmered, as if the air itself bent wrong. And then it split apart.

The beast exploded from the ground in a blur of white and silver. A serpent the size of a wagon, covered in segmented scales like glacier plates, its eyes gleaming with ghost-light. It opened its maw mid-leap, exhaling a blue cloud of freezing mist.

Azrael rolled, barely dodging the breath. The fog touched his left shoulder—and it went instantly numb.

He didn't stop. Spinning low, he drove the spear upward as the beast slammed into the ground, cracking ice beneath its massive weight.

The obsidian blade struck just behind its eye. Tar-black ichor burst forth. But the creature didn't scream. Instead, its entire body began to vibrate, emitting a hollow chime—like icicles grinding together.

A signal.

Azrael's eyes widened.

More movement. Two new ripples in the snow—fast, converging on his position.

He cursed and tore his spear free, stumbling back as another serpent burst from the frozen earth.

Then a third.

He was surrounded.

"Son of a—"

He backed toward a nearby outcropping of rock, forcing one side against his shoulder to cut off a flank. His breathing was shallow now. Controlled. A single mistake here would end him.

Above, Olivia crouched silently on a ledge of frozen stone, watching through a scrying shard. She rested her chin on her knee, lips curling slightly.

"Show me something fun, Azrael."

Below, he lunged.

One serpent struck first, jaw open wide. Azrael slid under it, jabbing into its gills. The spear bit deep—but not enough. The creature retaliated with a tail strike that clipped his ribs and sent him skidding back.

The second serpent spat another freezing breath.

This one hit.

Azrael screamed through clenched teeth as his legs buckled and cold fire raced through his veins. His muscles seized. His vision blurred. The poison was slow—but deadly.

He dropped to a knee.

His mind screamed MOVE, but his body failed to respond.

Get up, he thought. Get up, damn it!

He slammed the butt of the spear into his own thigh—once, twice—jolting his muscles back into motion through pain and force.

The second serpent circled.

Azrael didn't wait.

He threw the spear.

It spun once, twice—and struck clean into the beast's throat.

The serpent thrashed violently and crashed to the ground, blood sizzling as it splattered the ice.

One down.

But Azrael collapsed to his knees, gasping. He could barely feel his hands.

The last serpent hissed.

No weapon.

No backup.

Just bare hands and frostbitten fury.

The creature lunged.

Azrael ran toward it.

He ducked beneath its lunge, reached for the spear still lodged in the second serpent, and ripped it free just as the tail of the third slammed into him.

He flew through the air, hit the wall, and tasted blood.

Not yet.

He rolled. Stood.

Roared.

And charged.

The serpent came down like a mountain. Azrael rammed the spear upward with both hands, bracing the shaft with his body.

The obsidian bit deep.

Cracked bone.

Punctured brain.

The beast gave a final rattle—and died.

Azrael fell backward, landing hard, chest heaving. His vision swam, and every part of him screamed.

But he was alive.

"Azrael?" Olivia's voice returned through the earring. "You breathing?"

He coughed. "Define breathing."

She laughed. "Still dramatic. You'll be fine."

"I win, right?"

"Maybe. Round one."

He groaned, dragging himself to his feet.

Below, Olivia's voice softened.

"You did good."

Azrael blinked at the compliment.

"Don't expect it again," she added quickly. "But yeah. You're not just a survivor anymore."

Azrael looked down at his frozen hands. The spear, now chipped and bloodstained, still sat heavy in his grip.

He wasn't just surviving.

He was changing.

He smiled, bloodied and breathless.

"Bring on round two."