We kept moving up through the underground passages, following the winding tunnels until we emerged into another dome, one far different from the industrial nightmare we had just left behind.

  This one was almost peaceful.

  The air felt lighter, the scent of steam and metal replaced by something cleaner, tinged with a faint floral scent. Patches of green spread out before us, manicured parks with towering, frost covered trees stretching toward the dome’s ceiling. The buildings here were old but elegant, constructed from smooth, pale stone and reinforced with metal beams. Shattered storefronts lined the streets, signs hanging askew above doorways leading into abandoned cafes and restaurants. Some still had tables set, plates and cups left behind, now covered in a thin layer of frost.

  If we hadn’t just fought our way through a slaughterhouse, I might’ve thought this was a perfectly normal city.

  As we walked, I turned to Thal. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Why do you think they took Llin?”

  Thal glanced at me, his expression unreadable.

  “Most corrupted creatures are mindless,” he said, running a hand over the shaft of his spear, as if grounding himself. “But some retain pieces of their old selves. Enough to think, to plan to some extent .” His voice dropped lower. “Those are the most dangerous.”

  I frowned. “So you think they knew what they were doing?”

  Thal nodded slowly. “Corruption doesn’t just erase the past, it twists it. Some of them might have believed they were following old laws, traditions from before they were lost to the corruption. Maybe they thought Llin was an outsider, a prisoner, an intruder or maybe they just wanted something alive to consume .”

  Llin scoffed, walking slightly ahead of us. “Well, screw them. Next time I won’t give them the chance to catch me .”

  None of us doubted her.

  We pushed forward, moving through the abandoned cafes and shops, then deeper into the city. The further we went, the more the environment shifted.

  The domes changed, one after the other.

  The first had been a district of leisure, parks, cafes, open plazas meant for gatherings. But the next? A farming dome. Rows upon rows of frozen crops lined the streets, massive glass greenhouses shattered, vines twisting through cracked soil. The remains of farm equipment lay scattered, massive plows, sickles, scythes, all repurposed as weapons against us. The Froskari here had been workers, dressed in heavy coats and worn leather gloves. They fought with their tools, swinging them with desperate strength, their hollow eyes locked onto us with something close to hatred.

  Then came the industrial domes.

  Massive furnaces still smoldered, metal conveyor belts rusted in place, gears frozen mid turn. The air was thick, heavy with steam and oil, the constant hiss of leaking pipes filling the silence between battles. The workers here wielded hammers, wrenches, chains, turning the very tools they once used to build into instruments of war.

  Then the residential domes.

  Houses built from metal and stone, stacked high, narrow alleyways winding between them. Here, the Froskari had been ordinary people, civilians, shopkeepers, craftsmen. They weren’t trained fighters. But that didn’t stop them. They fought with kitchen knives, sewing shears, anything they could get their hands on. And they didn’t stop coming.

  We cut through them all.

  It was brutal. It was exhausting. And it was necessary.

  But we were improving.

  Vael’dargar watched us closely, her sharp eyes catching every mistake, every misstep. She pointed them out without hesitation.

  “Llin,” she said as we moved through the bloodied streets, “you’re still wasting movement when you dodge. Efficiency is survival.”

  Llin huffed but nodded, adjusting her footwork.

  “Bel,” Vael’dargar continued, her voice firm. “You are still hesitating . You stay in one place too long. Keep moving, or you’ll die.”

  Bel gritted his teeth, but I noticed him start to shift more, constantly adjusting his positioning in each fight.

  “Sylvan, you’re too eager with your attacks. You overcommit.”

  Sylvan scowled but didn’t argue. She started pulling back more, keeping herself at range instead of rushing in.

  Then she turned to me.

  “And you,” Vael’dargar said, crossing her arms, “you’re limiting yourself.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  She gestured toward my weapon, my warhammer, the one I had been using almost exclusively.

  “You’re relying on only a few forms. You are fairly proficient at the manifestation skill, and yet you only swap between a spear or a warhammer. You should be adapting to every fight, using the best tool for each situation.”

  I hesitated, then glanced down at my hammer.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  I had the ability to manifest weapons at will, yet I had settled into a rhythm of switching between only two. The warhammer was heavy, devastating, perfect for smashing through armor. The spear was precise, fast, great for keeping distance. But why wasn’t I using swords? Daggers? A bow? I could be shifting between dozens of weapons mid fight, yet I had fallen into the habit of using only what felt comfortable.

  I exhaled.

  Fine.

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  The next fight, I would push myself.

  And so we kept moving, pressing deeper into the city.

  The domes began to change again.

  They grew grander, more elegant. The buildings were taller, their designs intricate, carved with sweeping patterns and curling metalwork. The air, once thick with the scent of industry and death, became cooler, crisper, almost untouched.

  And the Froskari here?

  They were different, too.

  They wore tattered remnants of fine clothing, ornate coats, flowing dresses, embroidered capes, all ruined with time and decay. Their faces, once regal, were sunken and hollow, but their movements were precise, disciplined. Unlike the desperate workers and civilians we had fought before, these Froskari had once been nobility. They moved like warriors, fighting with a grace that sent shivers down my spine.

  And still, we cut them down.

  We had no choice.

  Each battle was a test, each mistake a lesson we paid for in blood. But we were getting better.

  Llin’s dodges became sharper, her movements efficient, wasting no excess energy.

  Bel stopped hesitating, staying on the move, adjusting to the battlefield in real time.

  Sylvan reined in her reckless aggression, attacking with control instead of raw emotion.

  And me?

  I stopped relying on habit.

  When I fought an armored opponent, I manifested a mace, heavy, brutal, made for crushing through plating.

  When I needed speed, I shifted to a simple single edged sword , slicing through gaps in their defenses before vanishing into the fight.

  When I saw an opening from a distance, I used my darts before closing in again with a sword.

  And it felt right.

  Vael’dargar watched us with careful, calculating eyes. But she didn’t comment.

  Because she didn’t need to.

  We were learning.

  We kept pushing forward, through the elegant ruins, through the remnants of a civilization long lost. And then We stopped.

  A massive sealed gate stood before us.

  Towering statues flanked it, regal Froskari figures wearing crowns, their expressions carved into an unreadable mixture of grace and pride. The metal of the gate was smooth, unbroken, as if untouched by time.

  None of us spoke.

  We just stared up at the gate, at the frozen kings and queens that stood silent watch over whatever lay beyond.

  Then, slowly, Vael’dargar stepped forward.

  She placed a hand on the metal.

  And the silence stretched, deep and heavy, before she finally exhaled and spoke.

  Her voice was low, unreadable.

  Then she turned back to us.

  “Ready yourselves.”

  Because whatever lay beyond this gate it would be worse than anything we had faced before.

  The gate groaned as it opened.

  A rush of cold air swept past us, carrying the scent of frost and something deeper, age, decay, a history long buried beneath ice and silence.

  And beyond the gate…

  Something frozen in time.

  The dome was massive, stretching so high that its ceiling was barely visible, shrouded in a dim, ethereal glow. Gardens, once breathtaking, lay in ruins. Cracked stone pathways wound through overgrown hedges, their twisted branches reaching like skeletal hands. Fountains stood frozen mid flow, their sculpted figures coated in ice, locked in an eternal moment of beauty and loss. The remnants of flowerbeds surrounded them, still holding traces of color, hints of what had once been a place of splendor.

  And at the center of it all, a castle.

  Its towering spires stretched toward the ceiling, its faded elegance undeniable. The walls, once pristine, were now worn with time, streaked with frost. Massive stained glass windows lined its exterior, cracked but not broken, their images barely visible beneath layers of frost. The entire structure was a monument to something long gone.

  And in the silence, I felt it.

  A presence.

  A weight pressing against my chest, heavy, oppressive.

  Something still lingered here.

  Something waiting.

  Vael’dargar didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, her boots crunching against frostbitten leaves, her expression unreadable. The rest of us followed, weapons drawn, breath misting in the cold air.

  And then, as if the garden itself breathed, they came.

  The guards emerged from the ruins , hulking, corrupted Froskari, their once polished armor rusted and cracked. Their halberds gleamed under the cold light, jagged edges still sharp.

  They moved with an unnatural grace.

  And they weren’t alone.

  A deep hiss cut through the air, followed by a sharp, piercing whistle.

  I barely had time to react before something shot past my head, embedding itself in the frozen ground beside me. A projectile, metal, steaming with heat.

  I turned and saw them.

  A different kind of Froskari guard, their bodies bulkier, hunched beneath the weight of massive contraptions strapped to their backs. Engines, built from rusted pipes and reinforced metal plates, chugging with an unnatural rhythm, releasing bursts of steam powered energy.

  They lifted strange, cumbersome weapons, not quite muskets, not quite cannons.

  And they fired.

  The first shot slammed into Joro’s shield, sending him skidding back with a grunt. The second went wide, but the third, Bel twisted at the last second, the projectile grazing his side, his leather armor burning where the shot had passed.

  “Spread out!” Vael’dargar barked.

  We moved.

  The battle exploded into motion.

  Joro charged the front line, his shield smashing into the halberdiers, forcing them back. Llin vanished into the shadows, reappearing behind one of the steam gunners, her dagger slicing through a hose on his engine. Steam hissed violently, and the Froskari screamed, clawing at his back as scalding vapor poured from the broken device.

  Bel fired, his arrows striking true, but some of the guards didn’t fall immediately, the corruption twisted them, made them endure wounds that should have killed them.

  Sylvan raised a hand, flames roared to life. She sent a blast of fire toward a cluster of steam gunners. The metal of their contraptions heated instantly and when they tried to fire, the overheated mechanisms exploded, sending them crashing to the ground, smoke rising from their ruined bodies.

  And me?

  I adapted.

  I manifested a glaive, a long, curved blade with reach to match the halberds. I moved through the chaos, cutting through gaps in their defenses, shifting from form to form, a shield to counter a halberd’s reach, a dart to strike a gunner mid reload, a hammer to break through twisted armor.

  The battle raged.

  And we won.

  One by one, the guards fell. The steam gunners collapsed in clouds of burning vapor. The halberdiers slumped to the ground, their corrupted bodies twitching before finally going still.

  Silence settled.

  The only sound left was our breathing, heavy, ragged.

  I wiped sweat and frost from my face.

  Vael’dargar didn’t wait. She stepped over the bodies, toward the castle.

  “We move.”

  No one argued.

  We passed through the massive entrance gates, stepping into faded grandeur.

  The castle’s halls stretched before us, high ceilings lined with intricate carvings, chandeliers hanging overhead, their crystals dulled with age. Torn carpets lined the floors, their once vibrant colors faded into muted shades.

  The walls were adorned with portraits, elegant figures dressed in royal finery, their faces proud, their eyes hollow. Some had been clawed through, torn by something that did not want them remembered.

  And in the silence, I felt it again.

  That presence.

  Stronger now.

  Watching.

  The deeper we went, the more we fought. More guards, twisted remnants of the past, wielding rusted weapons, still clinging to duty long after their kingdom had fallen.

  We cut them down.

  Through the great hall, past spiral staircases leading to ruined balconies, down dim corridors where frost had crept through shattered windows, painting the walls in delicate patterns of ice.

  And then We reached it, the throne room.

  A pair of massive ornate doors stood before us, half rotted but still standing.

  and Beyond them a presence pulsed.

  Heavy. Waiting.

  Vael’dargar’s stopped

  She looked at us, each of us, in turn.

  No words were needed.

  We knew.

  What lay beyond these doors would be worse than anything we had faced before.

  And still we stepped forward.