Azrael moved like a shadow now. Low to the earth. Every footstep measured. Every twitch of muscle deliberate. The spear in his grip, its blade serrated and blackened with dried serpent blood, had become less a weapon and more a limb.
Floor 71 wasn't done with him.
The snow whispered.
Azrael dropped to a crouch. That thin, familiar shhhkk slid through the air—so faint, only his battle-born instincts caught it. The serpents had returned.
Smaller this time. But quicker. Smarter.
The snow rippled.
He hurled a chunk of ice. It struck nothing.
Then—
A blur. A fanged maw. Misty breath.
He was already in motion.
The spear snapped up, deflecting the lunge, then dove low—not for the head, that was too predictable—but the belly. The serpent's undercarriage was softer in the cold. The blade sank in, dragged upward. A gout of steaming blue blood erupted into the frostbitten air.
Another one hissed behind him.
Azrael didn't turn. He pivoted. Let it graze his shoulder, used the pain, spun low—
Thrust.
The spear punctured flesh.
Again.
Again.
Then silence.
Azrael stood amidst twitching bodies, blood steaming at his feet, breath ragged.
But he stood.
"Three more down," came Olivia's voice, calm and clinical in his ear. "You're evolving. Faster than I projected."
"I don't have the luxury of slowing down," Azrael muttered, wiping blood from his lips. "Failure means going back in chains."
"Chains wouldn't hold you now."
He didn't answer.
He turned to the path ahead—jagged crystal and frost encasing a narrow tunnel. Floor 72 awaited.
This one was different.
The danger wasn't in motion.
It was in stillness.
A silent meadow, glittering white under a deathly calm. Ice-stone trees ringed the open space like statues. No wind. No sound.
Only presence.
Olivia had warned him:
"The beasts here don't breathe. Don't slither. They lie beneath, sensing vibration. Movement. If they strike, you won't hear it until your bones are shattering."
Azrael crept barefoot over the frost-hardened earth. Every nerve screamed from cold. Every joint burned from strain. But he welcomed it. Pain was real. Pain meant he was still alive.
Mana called him deeper.
But something else did, too.
A watching. A waiting.
He planted his spear upright in the snow, then sat cross-legged beside it.
Waiting.
The bait.
Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.
Then—
CRACK.
The ground split. A serpent, massive and fang-ridden, erupted upward. But Azrael was already rising, snatching his spear and plunging it down into the beast's open maw.
It thrashed violently.
Another one lunged from the left.
He didn't dodge.
He redirected. Twisting aside, he slammed the second beast into the first's writhing body. Their coils tangled.
A precise strike ended the second.
He stood again. Breathing harder.
But he stood.
He kept moving.
Floor 73 wasn't a meadow.
It was a grave.
Claustrophobic tunnels of black ice screamed with every step. The walls reflected him—distorted, mocking, blurred by mana-light.
The serpents here were blind. But not helpless.
They hunted sound.
Azrael was a symphony.
Barefoot, bleeding, he moved. The butt of his spear touched the ground with each step, guiding him. His ragged shirt wrapped around his hands, muffling breath, silencing heartbeat.
A whisper. A shift.
One attacked—sliding out of the ice wall like a shadow.
Azrael struck. No hesitation.
The dance was wordless, brutal.
The serpent snapped. Missed.
He ducked, spun behind, drove his blade through its spine. Ice cracked. The scream of death echoed in silence.
No celebration.
Just forward.
Floor 74 opened like a yawning mouth—wide and unnatural.
Here, the cavern sang.
Not melody. Not rhythm.
A bone-deep hum, vibrating through skull and spine.
Purple crystals pulsed along the walls. Shadows stretched longer than they should.
Here, the serpents didn't attack.
They waited for weakness.
Olivia's voice was barely audible, warped by the vibration.
"Azrael… your vitals are spiking. The hum's affecting your nervous system. Anchor yourself. Now."
He jammed the spear into the earth. Focused. Drew mana.
The hum lessened.
But they struck anyway.
Four of them. At once.
Azrael welcomed it.
Steel and instinct took over.
The spear was light in his hands, slicing through scale and shadow. He ducked, bled, screamed. One beast clamped onto his shoulder—he tore it off, jammed the spear into its gut, twisted.
His body was breaking.
But his spirit wasn't.
When it ended, he was on one knee.
Bleeding. Cold.
Alive.
Floor 75 loomed.
He dragged himself to it.
A massive dome.
Frozen statues—adventurers, beasts, caught mid-motion—littered the chamber. Some were screaming. Others praying. All were dead.
No crystals. No light.
Only the throne.
Obsidian. Carved from something ancient.
It pulsed. A faint heartbeat.
Something watched him from atop it.
Not a serpent.
Not a beast.
Something older. Deeper.
Azrael stood tall.
Ragged. Broken.
But undefeated.
He raised his spear.
And stepped onto the next floor