The ascent was gradual.
Step by step, Zain climbed from the damp suffocation of the depths. With each movement upward, the world changed—air growing thinner, colder, laced with the scent of expensive incense and ancient, slumbering power. The mildew of the dungeon faded, replaced by something far more suffocating.
Not rot.
Sanctity.
False sanctity.
By the time he reached the final step, the air tasted of high-altitude ozone and perfumed offerings burned for something that should not be worshipped.
A sensory rebirth.
He emerged into the Main Nave.
And for a moment—
Even his [Cold Logic] faltered.
The Cathedral of the Black Sky rose impossibly high, a monument to arrogance masquerading as faith. The obsidian floor stretched beneath him, polished to a perfect mirror that reflected the violet glow above like a still, endless sea.
Pillars towered upward—carved like the skeletal fingers of some long-dead titan clawing toward the heavens. Above, the vaulted ceiling shimmered with crushed pearls arranged into a suffocating imitation of a sky that held no stars.
Only swirling, empty void.
Zain's lips parted slightly.
"A tomb," he murmured, voice soft and melodic, swallowed whole by the vastness."For those who think themselves alive."
A pause.
"…At least the slums don't pretend to be holy while they're strangling you."
Clank.
Two guards stood before the Great Doors—massive slabs of silver-etched weirwood sealing the far end of the nave. They turned in unison, halberds lowering.
"The Prince?" one barked.
Zain didn't answer.
He moved.
Not fast.
Not powerful.
But precise.
[Fragile Grace] ignited.
His body twisted like flowing silk, the first halberd slicing through empty space where he had been. He stepped in—close, too close—and drove his weirwood spear forward.
A clean strike.
Steel met flesh.
But—
The second guard was faster.
The shaft of the weapon slammed into Zain's chest.
CRACK.
The world lurched.
Air fled his lungs as he crashed onto the obsidian floor. Pain exploded through his ribs—sharp, white, absolute. Something inside him shifted wrong.
Broken.
He gasped, trembling.
"Wait—" he rasped, eyes wide, fragile, doll-like.
Helpless.
The guards hesitated.
Just for a moment.
They looked at him—this pale, broken prince—and saw weakness.
Pathetic.
It was the last mistake they would ever make.
Zain's hand shot forward, gripping the nearest guard's armored shin.
Essence surged.
[Temperature Drop].
The iron screamed.
Metal contracted violently, crushing the bone within like brittle glass. The guard collapsed with a choked scream, leg folding unnaturally beneath him.
Zain rose with a sudden, fluid motion—his expression twisting into something manic, something wrong.
The spear flashed upward.
Straight through the second guard's visor.
Silence followed.
[You have slain 2 Awakened Humans.]
[You have received 2 Frost Shards.]
[Total Frost Shards: 3 / ???]
"Oops…" Zain giggled softly, breath uneven as he wiped blood from his cheek. "I think you dropped something."
A pause.
"…Your dignity, mostly."
He knelt, ignoring the protest of his fractured ribs, and stripped the Dark-Weave mantle from one of the corpses. The silver-threaded fabric settled over his shoulders, cool and heavy—concealing blood, stabilizing his fragile form just enough.
Then—
He turned to the Great Doors.
And kicked.
BOOM.
The massive slabs swung inward.
At the far end of the cathedral, the ritual array burned faintly with golden light.
And there—
Waiting.
The High Inquisitor.
Before him rested a golden chalice.
And within it—
An obsidian bottle.
The Ichor of the Sky Father.
Zain stilled.
For the first time since awakening—
Something primal stirred within him.
Hunger.
His platinum eyes locked onto the bottle.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"Stop."
The Inquisitor's voice ground through the air like stone crushing bone.
"You are the sacrifice, Prince. Not the seeker."
Zain smiled.
Sharp.
Predatory.
"Sacrifice?" he echoed softly. "Inquisitor… look at me."
He spread his arms slightly, silk hanging loosely from his frail frame.
"I am a starving rat. My blood is thin. Weak."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with unsettling clarity.
"Do you truly believe your Goddess will be satisfied with something so… pathetic?"
The Inquisitor's grip tightened on his weapon.
"The ritual is set."
"The ritual is flawed."
Zain's voice softened—silken, persuasive, dangerous.
"The Goddess doesn't want a boy."
A step closer.
"She wants a God."
Silence stretched.
Zain continued, his mind racing, calculations aligning perfectly through [Cold Logic].
"Give me the Ichor. Let it merge with my soul. If I drink it, my essence becomes divine—a feast worthy of her attention."
Another step.
"Kill me then… and you offer her a God's heart wrapped in a Prince's skin."
A whisper now.
"Tell me… do you wish to be remembered as a priest?"
Or—
"The man who fed a Goddess her father's power?"
The Inquisitor hesitated.
Faith wavered.
Ambition took its place.
Slowly—
He stepped aside.
"Drink," he said.
Zain approached the altar.
A quiet, manic giggle bubbled beneath his breath.
His fingers wrapped around the obsidian bottle.
Cold.
Heavy.
Alive.
He uncorked it.
The scent of lightning split the air.
And without hesitation—
He drank.
The Ichor was thick.
Cold beyond cold.
It tasted like the absence of existence itself.
[Warning: Divine Ichor detected.]
[Aspirant Zain is undergoing forced metamorphosis.]
Pain.
Not physical.
Not entirely.
His body fractured from the inside—bones, blood, soul—torn apart and rewritten by something vast and incomprehensible. White fire threaded through his existence, stitching him into something new.
He fell to his knees.
The cathedral darkened.
Shadows stretched.
Something descended.
Ancient.
Feminine.
Endless.
A presence brushed against his soul—
Cold as eternity.
A whisper followed.
"Be my frost."
[Attribute Added: Mark of Divinity]
[The Goddess of the Black Sky has blessed you.]
The High Inquisitor collapsed to his knees, weeping in reverence.
"The Goddess… she wakes…"
He didn't see Zain's eyes open.
Didn't see the divine, predatory light burning within them.
Didn't see him rise.
Zain moved.
No hesitation.
No mercy.
The spear drove forward—
Straight into the gap of the Inquisitor's neck guard.
SHLICK.
The man's eyes widened, devotion turning into betrayal.
"The Goddess…" Zain whispered softly into his ear, voice laced with frost and quiet madness,"…says hello."
A faint smile.
"And she thinks you're a terrible host."
[You have slain a Corrupted Ascended.]
[You have received 12 Frost Shards.]
[Total Frost Shards: 15 / 1000]
Zain exhaled slowly.
A plume of frost left his lips.
"…A thousand?" he murmured. "How excessive."
Behind him—
The cathedral groaned.
Cracks spread across the obsidian floor. Pillars trembled. The great structure began to collapse in on itself—the silent result of stress, damage, and precise, unnoticed destruction.
Zain didn't look back.
He turned.
Ran.
And leapt through a shattered side window.
Cold air rushed to meet him.
The Silver City unfolded below—
A dream of metal, glass, and dying light.
Zain landed lightly despite his broken body, cloak fluttering behind him.
And smiled.
The game had truly begun.