Lucas didn't trust the dungeon gate's "Hazard Level: Moderate" tag anymore.
Not after Virefang.
But this request wasn't optional — a collapsing trade route meant desperate merchants were offering triple pay for anyone who could clear the ice tunnels of the Frostveil Rift.
The problem? The Rift wasn't stable.
The moment he stepped through the portal, his breath froze mid-exhale. The air was so cold it burned, but the ground beneath his boots trembled with volcanic heat from deep fissures. Chunks of ice the size of wagons hung overhead, suspended by frozen mist — and dripping steadily from the heat below.
One wrong vibration, and the ceiling would come down.
Lucas didn't get five minutes in before the first threat arrived.
A Scorchmaw Wyrm erupted from a fissure in the floor — its body a grotesque mix of obsidian armor and frost-bitten scales, steam curling from every joint. The heat shimmer distorted its exact size, but the shadows it cast told him enough: it was massive.
The Wyrm didn't roar. It hissed, the sound like magma eating through ice. Then it lunged.
He rolled aside just in time, but the impact shattered the ice wall behind him, sending jagged shards raining down. The ground buckled, nearly throwing him into the fissure.
Lucas tried the Spine Shard — it sank into the Wyrm's flank, but the creature didn't even flinch. The poison froze in its veins before it could spread.
Perfect. My one lethal weapon… useless in this climate.
The Wyrm didn't just attack — it used the environment.
Every strike forced Lucas into unstable terrain, triggering cave-ins and sudden bursts of scalding steam. Twice, he barely avoided being crushed. Once, he hung from a ledge by his fingertips as the floor gave way beneath him.
By the time the fight reached the ice bridge over a boiling crevasse, he was bleeding from three gashes, limping, and running on raw instinct.
He stopped running.
If the terrain wanted to kill him, then it could kill both of them.
Lucas dashed across the bridge, every step making the ice groan. The Wyrm followed, its massive weight cracking the span faster. At the midpoint, Lucas Veil Stepped backward, landing on solid ground just as the bridge gave way beneath the beast.
The Wyrm plunged into the boiling abyss, its screech echoing as steam swallowed it whole.
Lucas collapsed, half from exhaustion, half from the pain. He'd survived again — but barely.
And for the first time, he realized something:
Each time he faced death, it wasn't just his skill that evolved.
He did.