The venom in his blood had mostly subsided, burned away by his will, his rage, and sheer necessity. Arthur moved like a shadow now—low to the ground, careful with every step, every breath, every twitch of muscle. The spear in his hand had dried serpent blood crusted along the blade, now jagged from overuse, but it remained an extension of him.
Floor 71 wasn't done with him.
The snow whispered.
Arthur dropped to a crouch as the now-familiar shhhhkk rang faintly through the frozen air. The serpents were circling again. These were smaller than the last group—but faster. Smarter. He saw the ripple of disturbed snow and threw a chunk of ice at it.
A beast lunged, misty breath clouding its approach.
Arthur was already moving.
The spear danced—first to block the bite, then to stab. He didn't aim for the head. That was expected. Instead, he angled for the underbelly, slipping the blade through the serpent's cold-softened scales and dragging it upward. A burst of steaming blue blood painted the snow.
Another serpent struck from behind.
He pivoted, letting it graze his shoulder, then turned the pain into momentum—dropping to the ground and letting the beast overextend.
The spear thrust into its chest.
Again.
And again.
He stood over their bodies, panting, shivering, bleeding.
But standing.
"Three more down," Olivia's voice said in his ear, calm and curious. "You're adapting faster than I thought."
"I don't have the luxury of failing," he said, wiping blood from his lips with the back of his arm. "Failure means going back to chains."
"Mm... I don't think chains could hold you now."
Arthur didn't respond.
He turned toward the downward path—a frozen tunnel behind a wall of thin, jagged crystal. Floor 72 awaited.
This time, it wasn't serpents that hunted him.
It was silence itself.
The floor opened into a seemingly tranquil frozen meadow surrounded by ice-stone trees. No leaves, no wind—just absolute stillness. Olivia had warned him:
"This one's different. The beasts here don't breathe. They don't slither. They wait. Buried in the ground. They sense movement, and they strike without warning."
He had no choice but to move.
Barefoot on frozen ground, spear in hand, every part of him ached. His body was growing leaner, harder. His muscles screamed with every motion, but he welcomed the pain.
He crawled across the ice-embedded earth slowly, following the faint pull of mana that led deeper in.
And still—he felt it.
No sound. But presence. Like hundreds of unseen eyes.
He planted his spear in the snow and sat cross-legged.
Waiting.
The bait.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Then—
CRACK.
The ice beneath him split.
A massive fanged maw erupted upward—but Arthur moved before it could close. He snatched his spear and drove it downward, using the creature's momentum against it. The blade pierced an unseen organ, and the ice serpent convulsed violently.
A second one tried to strike from the left.
He didn't flinch.
He let it lunge—then twisted aside and used the first serpent's body as a wall, pinning the second's head between them.
The kill was fast. Brutal.
He stood again, breathing hard.
Blood steamed at his feet.
Two more floors awaited.
This level was different.
Not open. Not buried.
It was tight.
Claustrophobic tunnels of black ice that screamed and groaned with every movement. Reflections of himself danced in the walls—mocking, shifting, distorted.
The serpents here were blind—but they hunted by sound.
And Arthur was a symphony of noise.
He moved barefoot, carefully, deliberately placing his spear to steady himself. He wrapped his tattered shirt tighter around his hands to muffle the sounds of his breathing. Every sound could mean death.
A misstep triggered a beast's attention. It lunged from a wall—literally sliding out of the ice like a shadow.
Arthur struck without hesitation.
A silent battle.
Spear and beast met in a confined dance of death.
The creature snapped its jaws, but Arthur redirected its bite, spun behind, and buried the spear in its spine. Ice cracked. Flesh tore. The cave quaked from the kill.
He didn't celebrate.
He moved forward.
This floor was wide again—but worse.
The cavern sang.
Not beautiful song. No. This was deep, hollow, bone-rattling hums that reverberated in his skull, throwing off his balance and dulling his instincts. Mana crystals here emitted an unnatural light—purple instead of blue—and every shadow felt longer than it should be.
The serpents here didn't strike first.
They waited for him to lose focus.
Olivia's voice was distant now—filtered by the song.
"Arthur, your vitals are spiking. The hum affects your nervous system. You need to anchor yourself. Quickly."
He drove the butt of his spear into the ground, channeled raw mana from within, and focused.
The hum faded—slightly.
And then they came.
All at once.
Four beasts.
He welcomed it.
Spear flashing like lightning, Arthur danced between coils and fangs, letting instinct guide his body through the haze. The fight wasn't clean. He was cut. Bitten. Slashed.
But he won.
Barely.
As the last serpent fell, Arthur collapsed to one knee. His breath was shallow, blood dripping from his chest.
Floor 75 was just ahead.
He dragged himself toward it.
The path opened into a massive domed chamber.
Frozen statues of fallen adventurers and beasts littered the area—preserved in mid-scream, mid-fight, mid-fall. There were no mana crystals here.
Only the throne.
Carved of ancient obsidian, it sat at the far end of the chamber, enshrined in frost, glowing faintly with an internal pulse. Something was watching him from it. Not a beast.
Something worse.
But Arthur stood tall.
Ragged, bleeding, broken.
But not defeated.
He gripped his spear tighter.
And stepped into the final trial.