John and Roberta trudged through the snow, their footsteps muted by the thick blanket of white. The biting cold clawed at their faces, but neither spoke.
Roberta carried a few grenades now, handed to her earlier with only the briefest of explanations.
"Stop," John said suddenly, his voice low. He drew his sword in a swift, practiced motion.
Roberta froze, mimicking his readiness. She hadn't sensed anything yet, but her instincts told her to trust his judgment.
"There," John said, pointing eastward.
He already sensed it.
A figure emerged from the swirling snow, a dark shape slowly taking form.
At first, it looked human. A shadow outlined against the storm.
But as it drew closer, Roberta's eyes widened in disbelief.
This wasn't human.
It was a corpse—or something worse. Flesh hung in frostbitten shreds from its gray, lifeless body. Its hollow eyes stared ahead, empty of thought or soul.
John had warned her about this, told her what lay beyond the Wall. But no amount of words could prepare her for seeing it firsthand.
She tightened her grip on her sword, the icy wind biting at her exposed skin. For the first time, something in her gut twisted.
Something was deeply, irreversibly wrong.
"Stay close," John murmured, his voice unnervingly calm.
The wight closed the distance faster than expected, lunging with inhuman speed. John sidestepped, his blade flashing as it cleaved through the creature's arm.
The wight barely faltered.
Ignoring the loss, it moved again, its frozen face showing no pain, no hesitation.
John's next strike was precise, his blade severed its leg, sending it crashing to the ground.
Even on one leg, the creature dragged itself forward, relentless and grotesque.
John cast a glance at Roberta, his expression unreadable. "What do you think?"
"More dangerous than the movies," she said evenly, her gaze locked on the wight.
It was clear—she was adapting quickly, but the reality was still unsettling.
John drew the Caliburn, the blade gleaming faintly in the storm. Fire would work, but this was the true test.
With a single clean stroke, the sword severed the wight's head. Its body crumpled into the snow, lifeless.
"Dead is dead," John muttered, watching the corpse collapse.
He sheathed the sword, exhaling a cloud of breath into the cold air. "So, it works."
"Why did it stop?" Roberta asked, her curiosity piqued as she watched the now-lifeless wight.
John glanced at her, his voice steady but with a hint of something darker beneath. "This sword is called Caliburn. It's a holy sword. Capable of killing creatures of the dark, be it demons or these wights."
He paused for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind before continuing, "Of course, this isn't the only thing that can kill them. Valyrian steel, dragonglass weapons, and fire also do the job."
He wiped the blade clean, his eyes still scanning the snow, ready for anything else to appear.
"Let's go," John said, moving forward with Roberta following.
Twenty days later.
The wights surrounded them.
"Do it," John said, his voice low but calm. His hand gripped a weapon made entirely of fire a sword of flames, flickering and alive in the icy darkness.
This was the result of his practice.
It had been nearly four months since he left the laboratory.
Although he hadn't gained any new powers related to his base ability through the gacha, he never neglected practicing his own powers
He couldn't create flames, but he could manipulate them.
Powers aren't weak it's the people who wield them.
His control over flames had improved significantly, especially after acquiring Jason's template.
Now, he could solidify flames, giving them shape and form.
Like now ,a sword.
Roberta didn't wait for further instructions. She moved, her grip on Caliburn steady, her strikes clean and deliberate. The glowing edge of the holy sword sliced through the wights like paper, each swing dropping another corpse to the frozen ground.
John had given Roberta the Caliburn. He wasn't afraid of the consequences he wanted to see them .
Twenty days. That's how long it had been since they first crossed the Wall. Twenty days of constant attacks, bone-chilling cold, and endless silence, broken only by the crunch of snow and the groans of the dead.
It was enough to harden anyone. And Roberta? She had adapted with surprising ease.
Her breathing stayed steady, her focus unbroken as the wights pressed closer. Swing. Step back. Swing again. She made sure none of them got too close.
John stayed right behind her, handling his side of the horde. His fire sword blazed with every swing, burning through the wights like they were made of dry kindling. The flames didn't just cut , they consumed, leaving only ash where the creatures once stood.
The heat radiating from his weapon melted the snow beneath his feet, exposing patches of blackened earth. For a moment, Roberta glanced back, catching the sharp glow of fire against his face.
"You're enjoying this way too much," she said flatly, though her voice held an edge.
John smirked, decapitating three wights in one fluid swing. "Can't lie , it's kinda fun."
Fun? She wanted to roll her eyes but didn't. Instead, she turned back to the fight, Caliburn flashing as it cut through another wave of undead.
She knows that, beneath his cheerful exterior, he's far more dangerous than he lets on.
His training is relentless, brutal to the point of breaking most people.
Her past experience helps just enough to keep her standing. Without it, someone fresh would have already shattered under the pressure.
She couldn't wrap her head around how someone so young could fight like this.
It wasn't just his strength—it was the way he fought. Precise. Ruthless. Like he'd been doing it for years longer than his age would suggest.
She kept her questions to herself, though. There were too many things she wanted to ask, but she knew the time had to be right.
More wights came, endless and relentless. Their movements were jerky but disturbingly fast, clawed hands reaching, mouths hanging open like they were still capable of screaming.
But nothing could stop the two of them.
"Let's go," John said, his voice steady as he extinguished the flaming sword in his hand closing up the lighter. Without a glance at the destruction behind them, he turned and started walking, his boots crunching against the snow.