Azriel collapsed backward into the snow, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The cold bit through his armor, but he barely noticed—his body burned with fatigue.
"Hah... that one was tough," he muttered, steam rising with every word.
Olivia dropped beside him, equally breathless. Her long hair clung to her damp forehead, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Tell me about it... I really thought that was the end for us."
As the adrenaline faded, Azriel's eyes caught the glint of something half-buried in the snow. He sat up, brushing aside the powdery layer to reveal a sleek, slender spear. Its crystalline tip shimmered with an inner light, and the shaft—crafted from dark, polished metal—felt cool and perfectly balanced in his hands.
"This feels… solid," Azriel murmured, testing its weight with a slow swing. The spear sliced through the air with a crisp, satisfying whoosh.
Nearby, Olivia knelt beside a scattered set of armor. A breastplate marked with simple, elegant etchings and a pair of flexible handguards made of a shadow-toned alloy. She strapped them on quickly, adjusting the fit with practiced ease.
"At least it's something," she muttered, flexing her fingers. "Better to have protection than none at all."
Azriel glanced at her, arching a brow. "Do you even need protection? You tanked that boss without flinching."
Her expression darkened, her voice dropping. "I've been drinking the beasts' blood to heal."
Azriel blinked, the spear still in hand. "Seriously?"
She nodded slowly. "It's fine now, but… eventually I'll need intelligent blood to keep it up. And I'd rather not go that route unless I have no choice."
Azriel's gaze softened, and he gave a quiet nod. "Then we'll make sure you don't have to."
Curious, Azriel walked over to one of the dead smaller wolves. He spun the spear once in his hand, then drove it down into the beast's carcass. The tip pierced the thick hide and buried deep into muscle with little resistance.
"Not bad," he muttered, pulling it free. Blood steamed against the cold as it sizzled off the crystalline tip. "This'll do."
Azriel turned back toward Olivia. "Why do these rewards even show up after a fight like that?"
She looked up from where she was adjusting her gauntlets. "Dungeon logic. Every ten floors, there's a boss monster. Beat it, you get rewarded."
Azriel nodded slowly, tapping the shaft of the spear against his shoulder. "And the next floor?"
"A rest floor," Olivia said. "One day to recover. You can leave the dungeon if you want, or use the time to prepare for what's ahead."
"Like a checkpoint," Azriel muttered, mostly to himself.
"Exactly," she said with a tired smile. "And I'm close to a breakthrough. I'll be using the rest to push myself to the next stage."
Azriel studied her for a moment, then gave a curt nod. "Then I'll watch over you. Just focus on what you need to do."
The two of them stepped into the next chamber—wider, quieter, eerily still. It should've been peaceful.
But it wasn't.
The cold here was worse. Deeper. Hungrier. Ice clung to the stone walls in jagged patterns. The snow was thicker underfoot, muffling every step. Long icicles dangled like hanging blades from the ceiling.
Azriel's breath misted visibly. His skin prickled beneath his clothes, and he pulled his cloak tighter.
Olivia walked ahead unfazed, her breath even, her posture still. She found a relatively clear corner and knelt down to meditate.
Azriel followed her slowly. His foot caught on a patch of black ice and he nearly fell—but Olivia's hand snapped out, catching his arm and steadying him.
"Careful," she warned, her tone quiet but firm. "No accidents here."
He nodded and muttered, "Thanks," then looked around again.
The silence was unnatural. Not peaceful—haunting.
Azriel moved toward a wall, trying to shake off the chill that seemed to seep into his bones. "Why is it so cold…? It wasn't like this before," he whispered to himself.
No answer came. Olivia was already slipping into a meditative trance.
He paced slowly, eyes scanning the icy corners. A nagging feeling crawled at the back of his neck—like they were being watched. Like something was waiting, just out of sight.
His breath caught in his throat.
"It's not just cold," he muttered. "It's wrong."
His eyes fell back on Olivia. She sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, shadows curling faintly around her fingers.
"We need to talk about this…" he whispered. "This cold, this floor—it's not natural. And I don't think it's going to let us rest for long."