The ice elves felt it first. A pressure crawling up their spines, a wrongness in the still air. Snow drifted gently until the ground itself darkened, shadows stretching where none should exist.
Then the arrows flew.
"Targets acquired!" an ice elf shouted, excitement sharp in his voice. "Shadows! Do not let them reach the gate!"
Bows snapped taut in unison. Crystal strings hummed, and a storm of icy arrows screamed through the air, each shot moving faster than the eye could follow, trails of frost carving lines through the sky.
They struck.
And kept striking.
Shadows took the volleys head on. Black armor rang like bells struck by winter itself. Some were driven to one knee, others skewered clean through the chest. A few collapsed, bodies shattering into darkness across the snow.
The ice elves laughed.
"They fall!" one cried. "Again! Again!"
The laughter died when the shadows stood back up.
Darkness poured inward, knitting armor and bone alike. Fallen shadows clawed their way back into existence, eyes glowing brighter than before, weapons reforming in their hands.
"What…?" an elf whispered.
Damien stepped forward, daggers spinning once before settling into his grip. His coat made of one of the Ice bears he slaughtered, fluttered against the cold wind, eyes locked on the castle.
"Advance," he said calmly.
The shadows surged.
Ice bears charged from the flanks, massive bodies shaking the ground, riders screaming battle cries as spears and axes came down in brutal arcs. Shadows met them head on. Spears pierced black torsos, claws tore into shadow flesh, yet every kill meant nothing.
A shadow knight leapt onto a bear's back, drove its blade down, then was crushed beneath the falling beast. A heartbeat later, it rose again from the bear's own shadow, dragging the rider screaming into darkness.
"Impossible!" an elf shouted. "They don't stay dead!"
Damien blurred.
He appeared atop a charging bear, blades flashing. One rider fell in pieces. Damien kicked off the collapsing corpse, twisted midair, and landed before another elf. The elf barely had time to gasp before his bow arm hit the snow, followed by the rest of him.
"Hold the line!" an elven commander roared. "Protect the gate!"
Igris answered.
The crimson eyed knight carved through the formation like a living execution. His sword moved in clean, merciless arcs. Shields split. Armor folded. Ice elves fell one after another, expressions frozen in shock as their blood stained the snow black.
Arrows hammered into Igris's chest. He did not slow.
A shadow mage raised its staff, dark energy pulsing, and the ground erupted beneath the defenders. Ice shattered. Bears stumbled. Shadows poured into the opening like a tide.
The gate loomed.
Massive. Reinforced. Glowing with runes meant to repel monsters and men alike.
Damien did not slow.
He crossed his blades and struck.
Once.
Twice.
On the third blow, shadows joined him. A dozen weapons slammed into the gate as one.
The runes screamed.
The doors exploded inward.
The castle interior greeted them with chaos.
Narrow halls turned into killing grounds as ice elves poured from balconies and staircases, blades flashing, magic flaring. Frost spells detonated against shadow shields. Spears thrust from every direction.
Damien moved like a blade slipping between ribs.
He ran along a wall, kicked off a column, spun through the air and landed behind a cluster of elves. Daggers danced. Bodies fell. Shadows filled the gaps, dragging enemies down, overwhelming them in silence.
"Fall back!" an elf cried. "Protect the inner sanctum!"
Igris raised his sword and pointed outward.
"Do not let a single one escape," Damien ordered without turning.
Igris bowed once and vanished back into the slaughter, his presence a crimson storm ripping through the courtyard beyond.
Damien walked deeper.
The air changed.
Cold sharpened into something heavier, denser. Magic pressed against his skin, ancient and powerful. The corridors widened, ice walls carved with symbols older than Orario itself.
He stopped.
Ahead stood a massive door, taller than two men, sealed in layers of frozen magic. Power bled from it, slow and steady, like the breathing of a sleeping beast.
Damien smiled.
"So this is where you're hiding," he murmured.
Shadows gathered behind him, silent, eager.
Damien reached out.
The door trembled.
Ice cracked.
And with a slow, thunderous groan, the gate to the boss arena began to open.
Cold air rolled out like breath from a crypt.
The chamber beyond was enormous, a throne room carved entirely from ice and ancient stone. Pillars shaped like frozen trees held up the ceiling. Blue fire burned in braziers along the walls, their light refracting through the frost so the whole hall shimmered like the inside of a glacier.
Then he stopped.
The scene before him was… wrong.
Dozens of elven women lay scattered across the floor and steps of the throne. Pale skin. Silver hair. Bare and trembling, moving not with dignity but with obedience. They crawled and clung to the figure seated above them like worshippers at the feet of a cruel god, their touches desperate, reverent, degrading.
Not affection.
Submission.
A court of slaves.
Damien's eyes hardened.
"So that's the kind of king you are…"
On the throne sat the Ice Elf King.
At a glance he resembled the others outside. The same sharp ears. The same icy complexion. But everything about him was exaggerated, refined into something monstrous.
Taller.
Broader.
Muscles carved like stone beneath frost kissed skin.
And the mana.
It flooded the room like a blizzard.
It wasn't just strong. It was oppressive. The air itself felt heavy, every breath tasting like snow and metal.
Frost crawled across the floor around his feet without him even casting a spell.
The King's eyes locked onto Damien.
Ancient.
Cold.
Amused.
"…Invader," he said slowly, voice deep and echoing through the hall. "From beyond this world…"
His lips curled.
"A Monarch… not yet crowned."
Damien didn't answer. His daggers were already in his hands.
The King rose lazily from the throne, the women scrambling away like frightened animals.
"I haven't slaughtered one of your kind before," he continued, stretching his neck as ice cracked softly along his shoulders. "How fortunate."
Mana surged.
A weapon formed in his grasp.
At first Damien thought it was a staff, carved from pure ice, long and ornate, runes spiraling along its length. But the tip narrowed into a cruel spike, sharp enough to skewer dragons.
Staff.
Spear.
Both.
The King lifted it and slammed the butt into the floor.
BOOM.
The entire chamber shook.
Ice erupted.
Pillars of frost exploded upward from the ground without warning, jagged and merciless. The enslaved women didn't even have time to scream. The spikes pierced through them in an instant.
Silence followed.
Then blood.
Red spreading across white ice like spilled paint.
The King didn't look back once.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't care.
"Distractions," he said simply.
The corpses slid off the frozen spikes.
He stepped forward, weapon resting on his shoulder, crimson splattered across his face like war paint.
His smile widened.
"Now…"
The temperature dropped sharply. Frost crept up Damien's boots.
"No more interruptions."
The spear pointed straight at Damien's chest.
"Shall we begin, Monarch to be?"
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