The snow stretched on forever, a merciless white expanse that consumed all sense of distance and direction. The biting cold gnawed at Silas with every step, seeping through his clothes and into his bones, his barefeet especially cold. Despite the desolation, he kept his eyes sharp, tracking the faint impressions left behind in the snow. Three sets of bootprints—the unmistakable trail of his prey—cut a jagged path toward the distant tower.
It wasn't long before he saw the signs of something more. The pristine snow was violently disrupted, the landscape marred by chaos. Silas knelt, his sharp gaze sweeping the scene. Blood fanned out in arcs across the ice, frozen into stark crimson streaks against the white. Deep gouges in the snow told of a struggle, where something massive had thrashed and dragged itself in furious defiance. Yet no corpse remained—only the unmistakable bootprints of the trio, weaving through the battlefield before resuming their march.
The tower loomed ever closer now, its smooth, white spire piercing the horizon like a jagged blade. The closer Silas drew, the more he felt the weight of the realm pressing against him, a palpable hostility that clung to the air. He focused on the tracks, their uneven rhythm telling him everything he needed to know. The trio was close.
But the realm wasn't finished testing him. The snow beneath his feet shifted—just enough for his instincts to flare. With a sharp crack, the ground erupted in an explosion of ice shards, and before he could react, a tentacle lashed out from the depths. Its spiked tip sliced through the air, aiming for his chest. Silas twisted away at the last moment, narrowly dodging the strike, only for another tentacle to whip around, catching him across the arm, it burned, the tentacle released an acid like substance onto his arm!
Agony seared through him as the slimy appendage left a burning trail across his skin. The acid worked quickly, spreading like liquid fire, blistering and swelling in angry, jagged patterns. Silas stumbled back, clutching his arm as a sharp gasp escaped his lips.
"Dammit!" he hissed, his voice tight with pain. He barely had a moment to recover as the beast pressed its attack. Its body remained buried beneath the snow, invisible, but its four tentacles moved with terrifying speed. They writhed and whipped through the air like serpents, striking in coordinated, relentless patterns meant to overwhelm.
Silas forced himself upright, gritting his teeth against the pain. His arm throbbed, the acid a cruel reminder of his misstep. "Stay calm," he growled through clenched teeth. "Keep moving. Don't let it pin you."
Drawing on the Dao of Momentum, he shifted his stance, his movements flowing like water. He wove through the assault with practiced ease, letting the tentacles' own speed work against them. Every strike met empty air as Silas ducked, spun, and retaliated with measured precision. His staff became an extension of himself, its movements fluid yet deliberate. He aimed for the base of the thrashing limbs, striking with enough force to crack stone.
Finally, with a well-timed blow, his staff connected with the creature's unseen core beneath the snow. The impact reverberated through the frozen ground, followed by a sickening crunch and an otherworldly shriek. The tentacles thrashed wildly in their death throes before collapsing, sinking back into the snow as the beast retreated into the earth.
For a long moment, Silas stood there, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his breath. His arm burned fiercely, the blistered skin pulsing with each heartbeat. But the tracks remained, still fresh and unmarred by the chaos. His quarry hadn't gotten far.
Adjusting his grip on his staff, Silas straightened. The distant tower seemed to glint mockingly against the gray sky, a beacon of both promise and danger. "One step closer," he muttered, his voice low and resolute, storing the beast in his ring of holding.
The tower loomed ahead, a beacon of unsettling perfection in the endless expanse of frozen desolation. Its surface gleamed faintly, a smooth and seamless white that seemed to repel the gray skies above. There wasn't a single crack or imperfection to suggest craftsmanship—it looked unnatural, as if it had simply been willed into existence. The unease that crept along Silas's spine grew sharper with every step, the weight of the structure's presence pressing down on him like a physical force.
As he neared, his eyes fell on the massive door at its base. It was as flawless as the rest of the tower, with no handles, hinges, or markings to suggest how it functioned. Silas ran his fingers along its surface, feeling its cold, unyielding strength. He leaned into it, giving it a firm shove, but the door didn't budge. "Figures," he muttered under his breath, stepping back and scanning for any sign of how to proceed.
Before he could try again, the door pulsed with light. Silas froze, watching as intricate patterns flared to life across its surface. They spread outward in delicate, glowing threads, forming shapes that danced and twisted with purpose, though their meaning escaped him. A low hum vibrated through the air, and with a soft hiss, the door slid open, revealing a darkened interior faintly illuminated by shifting light.
He hesitated at the threshold, his instincts prickling. The trio's tracks were faint but unmistakable, leading directly into the tower. They had come this way, yet the air beyond felt thick with menace, as if crossing the threshold would seal him inside. Still, Silas tightened his grip on his staff. "Not getting away that easily," he muttered, stepping through.
The warmth inside the tower was immediate, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. It was an unnatural contrast to the biting cold outside, and though it thawed the frost on his clothes, it did little to put him at ease. The entry hall stretched before him, vast and shrouded in a dim, otherworldly glow. The light came from floating orbs high above, their faint luminescence casting dancing shadows across the smooth, polished floor.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his own footsteps. His eyes darted around, taking in every detail, but the space offered no clues, no immediate threats—just an overwhelming sense of stillness that felt alive in its own right.
At the far end of the hall, three staircases spiraled upward into darkness, each distinct and beckoning in its own way.
The leftmost staircase began at an intricate circle etched into the floor. The swirling patterns within it glowed faintly, their shapes shifting in a way that made Silas's head ache if he stared too long. Strange symbols pulsed with a rhythm that felt almost like breathing, though their meaning eluded him entirely. The circle radiated an aura of precision and mystery, as though it were guarding secrets too complex to comprehend.
The middle staircase was simpler in design but no less strange. Its steps were lined with glowing inscriptions that pulsed in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The patterns seemed to shift as he looked at them, always just out of reach, as though mocking his attempts to understand. Silas's brow furrowed. Something about their movement felt alive, aware of his presence.
The rightmost staircase, however, was the most overtly threatening. Swords hovered in the air along its length, their razor-sharp blades glinting even in the dim light. They hung motionless, but their silent promise of violence was palpable. The faint hum of energy around them was oppressive, pressing against Silas's senses with the weight of an unspoken warning.
Silas stood at the center of the room, frowning as his eyes darted between the three paths. Somewhere ahead, the trio was moving deeper into the tower, but which staircase had they taken? Each one exuded its own unique danger, and guessing wrong could cost him precious time—or worse.
"System," he said aloud, his voice cutting through the silence. "Any chance you can point me in the right direction?"
The familiar tone of the system chimed in, brimming with its usual mockery. "Of course! A simple hint for 25 merits or a detailed translation for the low, low price of one million merits."
Silas snorted, rolling his eyes. "A million merits? You've got to be joking."
"I never joke about merits," the system replied smugly.
He let out a sharp breath. "Fine. I'll take the simple hint."
"Excellent choice! Here's your hint: don't die."
Silas stared at the empty air for a long moment, his deadpan expression betraying no emotion. "Why do I even bother?"
"Because I'm delightful company," the system quipped.
Shaking his head, Silas turned his attention back to the staircases. His grip tightened on his staff, his injured arm throbbing with each heartbeat.