Virgil shivered the instant his boots touched the snow-covered ground of the secret plane.
Before him, a lone, snow‑clad mountain rose like a silent sentinel, its peak hidden in a shroud of swirling white mist.
The surrounding space stretched endlessly, vast and hollow, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Here, the air was heavy with an alien stillness — no hum of life, no whisper of wind — only the oppressive weight of cold.
This was not the chaotic energy he knew.
This was a frigid, deliberate force, sliding under his skin and curling icy tendrils around his mana, locking it in frost.
"Don't absorb this energy to recover," Swan's voice cut through the frozen quiet, sharp and clear.
"I brought recovery potions."
She reached into her space bag and withdrew small crystal vials, their purple liquid glowing faintly like trapped twilight.
One by one, she passed them to the others.
Virgil accepted his… but did not drink.
Instead, he drew a deep breath and let the freezing energy seep inside.
It bit into him, cold enough to numb bone, yet perfectly aligned with the Water Yin Energy described in the Six Pole Technique.
He narrowed his eyes and focused, feeling the technique's patterns guide the frost into order within his meridians.
The power was dangerous… but it felt right.
"What's our next move?" Vincent's voice broke the trance, brittle against the icy air.
Swan pulled a map from her space bag, the parchment cracking slightly in her gloved hands.
Virgil tilted his head, pretending to sip the potion, catching a glimpse of the faint ink markings.
Swan's gaze lifted to the distant mountain.
"Follow me."
She rolled the map shut, sliding it away with quiet finality, and began walking toward a jagged ridge that vanished into shadow.
The crunch of boots on frost echoed unnaturally loud in the stillness.
Virgil matched her pace, eyes drifting to the slope ahead.
Then he saw it — a faint indentation on the mountain's flank, exactly where the map's markings had been.
A tunnel entrance, halfway up, ready to swallow them whole.
According to Swan, it would plunge them deep beneath the ice.
And in its depths waited the prison of Gharix.
Something told Virgil the cold here was only the first welcome.
The climb began in silence, boots crunching against the ice‑fused stone.
Then the snow stirred.
Drifts shifted unnaturally, pulling together in slow, deliberate swirls.
From that swirling mass, shapes emerged — wolves of packed frost, the glint of crystalline talons, and eyeless deer crowned with spears of ice.
They lunged with a blizzard's ferocity, but steel and spell met them head‑on.
Virgil did not lift a finger.
The others fought with ease, blades slicing through brittle bodies, flames hissing as snow‑flesh vaporised.
These were only snow spirits — weak, brittle, and barely aware.
His companions kept him from the fight, unwilling to risk him after his recent recovery.
Virgil accepted it without complaint.
His mind, his senses, were elsewhere — wrapped in the study of the freezing energy that soaked the air.
The Six Pole Technique help his comprehension of the freezing energy, cold too deep to be mere temperature.
No progress in comprehension came, but he could feel his mana harden under its touch, tempered like steel in polar water.
And yet, it did not freeze.
Deep within, the blood chakra pulsed — a furnace heart of crimson power.
Its energy pushed back against the frost, not to repel it, but to keep it in balance.
The opposition between the two made every breath feel like a silent war inside his body.
Halfway up the mountain, the tunnel revealed itself — a black mouth yawning across the slope.
The group halted.
Swan's voice cracked the cold stillness.
"Come out. You're all doing a poor job of hiding."
The snow trembled, then erupted.
Figures dropped from the white‑laden branches, their movements graceful as falling frost.
Others rose from the ground, pale cloaks shedding snow like second skins.
Together, they shaped a wall between the group and the tunnel.
Swan's eyes narrowed, her breath pluming in the cold.
"Ice Crown," she hissed, contempt dripping from her voice. "I thought your frozen heart would disdain allying with cultists."
A dark‑fae woman stood at their head, her skin like shadow against the snow.
Her voice was low, edged with amusement.
"Swan… we don't care if the monster is released."
She stepped forward, frost crunching beneath her boots.
"But we need this secret land."
Her lips curled in a sharp, cold smile.
"And who said the ones releasing Gharix are cultists?"
Swan's brow furrowed, her voice taut with suspicion.
"Who would release a chaotic monster other than the Cult of Chaos… Vilma?"
Vilma — the dark‑fae woman cloaked in shadow and frost — tilted her head, eyes glinting like shards of black ice.
"I don't know them," she said.
Her tone was calm, too calm.
"They are connected to the previous head… but I can guarantee they are not cultists."
Swan fell silent, her gaze locked on Vilma's, the snow hissing around them in the windless air.
Then she shook her head slowly.
"Doesn't matter if they are cultists or not."
Her voice was steel now.
"Our Keeper must keep the monster sealed — and we will see it done."
She stepped forward, boots grinding ice under her heel.
"Make way."
Vilma's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"That, I cannot do."
The air between them tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Steel rang as Swan unsheathed her sword, its crimson‑edged blade erupting in a hungry blaze.
Vilma's hands moved with dancer's grace, producing a spear of pale blue crystal, its surface steaming with cold so sharp it burned.
The two women are charged.
Fire roared.
Ice screamed.
The collision cracked the silence, heat and frost clashing in a burst that churned the snow into boiling mist.
Vincent took a step back, shielding his face from the shockwave.
"What are we going to do?" he asked, his voice tight.
Attack the Ice Crown warriors… or stay still?
Virgil's eyes didn't leave Vilma's unmoving soldiers beyond the battle.
"They're standing still," he said, his tone certain.
"We should do the same. Swan didn't order us to attack."
Vincent hesitated, then gave a curt nod.
The group held position, their breath pluming in the frigid air, watching flame and frost weave their deadly dance.
Virgil's attention drifted inward once more, his senses drinking in the freezing energy around him.
He guided it through his body, keeping perfect pace with the Six Pole Technique.
Then — something changed.
A thread of frost slipped away from the circulation, lancing toward the centre of his being.
It headed for his Sea of Consciousness.
The intrusion was sudden, impossible to block.
And yet… instead of harm, there came awe.
The freezing wisp sank into his spirit, vanishing like snow meeting sunlight… and left behind a force that was sharper, clearer, stronger.
Virgil's eyes widened.
His spirit had strengthened — tangibly, undeniably.
Progress that should have taken two full weeks of arduous meditation had just leapt forward by hours.
And it had happened in mere moments.
So, the next time a tendril of freezing energy broke away from its path within his body, Virgil did not stop it.
He let it slip into his Sea of Consciousness.
Again, the cold merged with his spirit.
Again, strength bloomed within him.
At this pace, within a single day, he could step into the next stage of the Blood Mark Meditation Technique.
His eyes drifted from within… to the battle.
Both Swan and Vilma were down on one knee, their breath fogging in ragged bursts, bodies braced on their weapons.
Steam curled faintly where fire and ice had scorched the snow.
It was over — a draw.
Do we still have to fight? Virgil wondered.
His hand inched toward the spear at his side.
Then, slowly, both women rose to their feet.
They faced each other in a silence far heavier than the windless cold.
"Fellow disciples," Vilma's voice cut through the stillness, low but steady, "make way for them to go."
A murmur of shock ran through the Ice Crown warriors.
One of them stepped forward, frowning beneath a frost‑rimmed hood.
"But Senior Sister — our agreement with them was to block anyone from entering the tunnel."
Vilma's mouth curved in a humourless smile.
"Our agreement," she said, "was to block anyone… without putting our lives in danger."
Another disciple bristled.
"Believe us, Senior Sister — we can defeat them."
"Yes," another added sharply, "our numbers are greater than theirs."
More voices rose in agreement, the cold air trembling faintly with their chorus.
Then, a timid voice broke through the noise.
"There… must be a reason Senior Sister wants us to step aside."
Vilma's eyes softened — only slightly.
"Carol… understand me."
Her gaze slid past Swan… settling directly on Virgil.
"I can feel," she said, her tone like cracking ice, "that he is stronger than Swan."
The disciples followed her gaze.
Their eyes fell on Virgil's pale face, the thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Disbelief rippled through them.
"He… looks injured," Carol's voice wavered, hesitant, uncertain.
But even as she said it, her expression shifted — as though some instinct whispered that injury did not always mean weakness.
Looks like I have to fight.
Let's make it quick so I can return to my comprehension.
Virgil exhaled, stepping forward.
"Send out your second‑strongest, and let's end this discussion," he said.
Vilma's gaze moved to her disciples.
Almost as one, their eyes turned to Carol.
Carol hesitated… then raised her hand.
"I am the second‑strongest," she said softly.
Virgil blinked in surprise.
He had expected the burly dark‑fae male standing at the back.
Instead, before him stood a petite girl, baby‑faced, blue‑eyed, with the innocent look of a child.
But the announcement of her strength killed any thought of underestimation.
Combat was never just a matter of muscle.
She must be a caster, he thought.
And his theory was confirmed the moment she reached into her robe and drew a slender silver‑etched staff tipped with a flawless blue diamond.
Virgil unhooked his spear from his back, the weight settling into his hand with familiar comfort.
Swan and Vilma each stepped back to their sides, creating the space between them.
Virgil's gaze locked on Carol.
"Let's start."
The words had barely left his lips when the snow before Carol shimmered.
Dozens of ice arrows formed in the air, glittering under the pale light.
They fired at once.
Virgil rolled aside, feeling the hiss of frost pass his ear.
The ground where he landed exploded in a spray of ice as an ice spear struck, forcing him to lunge aside again.
A forest of jagged ice spikes erupted from the snow where he had been a heartbeat earlier.
He pushed off the frozen ground in a backwards flip, twisting in mid‑air.
The runes of a Poison Arrow spell ignited along his arm.
He loosed the shot toward her even before his boots met the snow.
Landing light, he immediately surged forward.
Her ice shield bloomed into existence, catching the poison bolt in a hiss of frost and venom.
Then it shattered.
From Virgil's feet, a red aura burst outward — heat rippling, snow melting in small steaming pools.
The sudden flare caught the attention of his teammates.
He was moving faster now — far faster — closing the remaining distance in a blink.
Before the next breath could form fog in the air, his spearpoint hovered at Carol's throat.
From the moment his arrow had left his hand to the spear's resting place, only seconds had passed.
Carol froze, wide‑eyed, unable to react in time.
The fight was over.
Carol stepped back, her staff lowering, her breath coming in quick clouds of white.
Vilma's gaze swept her disciples once, sharp and final.
They parted without another word, the snow crunching under their shifting boots.
Swan led the way, and Virgil's group advanced, passing between the Ice Crown warriors and into the waiting mouth of the ice‑covered tunnel.
The wind died the moment they stepped inside.
Walls of frozen crystal closed in on both sides, their surfaces catching faint reflections of torchlight in glassy blues and silvers.
Their footsteps echoed in a low, muffled rhythm, swallowed quickly by the tunnel's chill silence.
They walked deeper, toward the place where Gharix's unsealing had to be stopped.
Far away — yet watching everything — a rippling oval of water shimmered in the air.
On its surface, the image of Virgil's group moved steadily through the tunnel.
Two figures stood before it — a dark‑fae man and a dark‑fae woman — and beside them, a third watcher: a human male.
The man was broad‑shouldered, his expression calm but unreadable, wearing the sigil of the Keeper Organisation.
The woman's eyes were hard and glacial, the crest of the Ice Crown worked in silver across her robes.
The human man stood out immediately.
He was not like the humans of the Golcard Plane — not dark‑haired or golden‑haired, nor of the sun‑kissed fairness of the locals.
His hair was the colour of pale spring leaves, light green and soft under the crystal lamps' glow.
His skin was pale as frost.
And that green was no mark of Golcard's extraordinary bloodlines.
It spoke instead of something rarer — elven blood, tangled deep in his heritage.
The man's lips curved in mild amusement.
"Maurice, your disciples gave way quickly."
Maurice — the Ice Crown dark‑fae — watched the water screen without turning, her small smile betraying neither irritation nor pride.
"What could they do?" she said, her voice calm as still ice.
"Their second‑strongest drew with my strongest… and their strongest crushed my second‑strongest without breaking a sweat. The agreement was to block if their lives were not in danger."
Her gaze sharpened ever so slightly.
"Inches more, and Carol would have died."
The Keeper, dark‑fae — Valucs — crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes tracking the human boy on the screen.
"That one is interesting," he murmured.
"He has cultivated the blood energy of orcs."
With a flick of his hand, the water image shivered and reversed to the moment Virgil's feet had burned the snow with red energy.
Maurice's brow furrowed in thought.
"Does he have orc blood in him?" she asked softly.
Her gaze lingered on Virgil's image.
"But looking at him… it doesn't seem so."
Virgil was lean, whip‑fast, all sinew and precision — not the heavy‑muscled build of those with true orc blood.
The watery image shifted forward again, flowing into the present.
In the moving picture, Virgil's team emerged from the tunnel into a vast cavern wreathed in swirling mist.
And there, waiting with a voice like a frozen scream, was an Ice Banshee.