FROST
Chapter 107: Wings of Stone, Eyes of Light

Chapter 107: Wings of Stone, Eyes of Light

The silence that followed was not peace—it was the sound of something absolute. The air hung heavy, thick with ash and remnants of ancient rot.

What was once a narrow dungeon corridor now resembled the ruins of a battlefield scorched by divine wrath.

Charred flesh and fragmented bones lay in grotesque piles, cracked skulls staring blankly at ceilings they would never see again. The stench of death was everywhere, but beneath it lingered something more potent: power.

In the center of that darkness—where no light dared wander, where even the flickering dungeon wisps had dimmed in reverence—two smoldering orbs broke through the shadows.

Purple. Lavender. Ethereal.

Caspian’s eyes glowed with a restrained brilliance, cold and sharp like the edge of a cursed blade. The glow wasn’t blinding, but it commanded the darkness, demanded its submission. It wasn’t just light—it was declaration. Domination.

He stood there, bathed in nothing but the dim glimmer of his gaze, atop a mound of shattered bone and dismembered limbs. His blade hung loosely at his side, its steel humming faintly with the remnants of violence. His chest heaved—each breath a controlled inferno, fogging the air with smoke-like wisps that spilled from his lips like a dragon exhaling in restraint.

His long purple hair clung damply to his face, matted against his temples, streaked with specks of dust and dried blood.

The dead had been weak individually, yes, but relentless in their resurrection. Each time he sliced one down, another pulled itself from the cracks beneath his feet. Crumbling jawbones gnawed at his boots. Skeletal claws reached for his legs with desperation.

So, he had left with no choice and did what needs to be done. He can’t waste too much time. He has a son, a wife, and a kingdom waiting for him.

With that, he calculated the dungeon’s weight, the mana web beneath it, the brittle density of the bones that refused to stay buried. Then, with only fifty percent of his stamina—and not a drop of magic—he unleashed a singular, vicious technique.

One devastating strike, cleaving not just the bodies, but the very curse that raised them. The shockwave had shattered the walls. Bones turned to powder. Ash spiraled upward like a storm devouring its own fury.

Caspian’s eyes narrowed slightly, the glow dimming just enough to let the darkness creep back in—but it came cautiously now, like a wounded animal afraid to provoke the predator standing at its heart.

With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed aside the severed head of the imp he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. It landed with a dull, wet thud atop the smoldering remains, steam rising from where the blood met the hot bone dust. He looked down at his hand.

It was trembling.

Not from fear. Never fear.

But exhaustion.

He flexed his fingers, watching the faint tremor ripple through the tendons. Unleashing fifty percent of his stamina in one decisive blow had done the job—nothing moved, nothing crawled. The undead wouldn’t rise again. But now, with the silence thick and his body cooling from the surge, the consequences began to settle in.

"Reckless," he muttered under his breath, frowning at his own carelessness. His tone wasn’t regretful, just sharply aware.

Yami was still ahead.

A monster far beyond the undead, far beyond this dungeon’s tricks. A force that wouldn’t go down with brute force alone. Caspian needed precision. Control. And above all—he needed to be whole.

But now, he was halfway burned.

Caspian heaved a long, theatrical sigh—the kind that said "Yes, I just slaughtered a battalion of undead, but at what cost?" He stepped off the pile of shattered bones, each crunch underfoot sounding more like a personal insult than battlefield debris. With zero care, he tossed the dead knight’s blade to the side like it had personally offended his lineage.

His real weapon lay a few paces ahead, discarded during the chaos, half-buried in gooey remains and what looked suspiciously like ogre spleen.

He crouched, fingers about to reclaim it, when he froze mid-reach.

Right. He had just been holding an imp’s head. With that hand.

Caspian recoiled like he’d just touched week-old swamp stew. "Nope. Nope-nope-nope."

He looked down at himself—topless, glistening with sweat and monster blood, bruises blossoming along his ribs like war medals he didn’t want. His trousers were soaked with who-knew-what fluids, and his hands—oh gods, his hands—were covered in a medley of undead gunk, imp goo, and probably a curse or two.

"I really should’ve brought disinfectant," he muttered, wiping his hand furiously on his already-ruined pants. The sound it made was wet. That alone made his skin crawl.

He held his hand out like it belonged to someone else. "This is how plagues start."

Despite growing up in brutal war camps and being trained by a man who believed rinsing your face in blood counted as washing, Caspian had one absurd, unshakable weakness: a raging case of germophobia.

Not the casual kind. The noble-born-who-will-kill-a-hydra-barehanded-but-cries-at-dirty-doorknobs kind.

He sniffed. Regretted it instantly. "I smell like a troll’s bathwater."

Muttering under his breath, Caspian finally grabbed his blade using only two fingers, as if hoping that limited contact would save his soul. "If I die," he muttered, "it’s not going to be from Yami—it’ll be from whatever was in that imp’s ear."

Muttering curses in several ancient languages—some of which he wasn’t entirely sure weren’t just creative insults passed down by mercenaries—Caspian averted his gaze from his own hands as though pretending they didn’t belong to him would somehow spare him from further contamination.

He snatched up his blade, shivering in disgust, and wiped it on his already ruined trousers. The fabric squelched unpleasantly. Tears stung his eyes, not from pain, but from sheer, soul-deep revulsion.

"I need a bath," he whispered, voice cracking. "I deserve a bath. With herbs. And soap. And an entire church of priests chanting purity hymns."

Sliding the blade back into its sheath like he was laying a corpse to rest, Caspian straightened his spine, inhaled the stench of undead and failure, and trudged forward.

For a split second, he truly considered it—turning around, backtracking all the way to where he left Seravine. There was a lake back there. Cold, perhaps full of leeches, but still water. He could scrub himself until his skin peeled and still feel it wasn’t enough. A lake would make all the difference right now.

But time—time was the one luxury he couldn’t afford.

"Ugh... stupid sense of duty," he muttered bitterly, kicking a stray bone.

His boots echoed with each step as the tunnel widened, revealing an ancient hall swallowed by time and shadow. Crumbling stone murals lined the walls, depicting a war no one remembered. And there—at the end of it—loomed a sight that made Caspian halt in his tracks and sigh so heavily it nearly blew his hair back.

Two towering sculptures, each well over thirty feet tall, stood sentinel before a pair of enormous, sealed door-gates.

They were shaped like demonic warriors, carved in the likeness of divine judgment—impossibly muscular, black wings arched like the blades of executioners, and stone eyes hollowed out as though to judge every soul that passed beneath them. One held a spear longer than Caspian’s entire body; the other, a war hammer that looked like it could flatten a wyvern.

Each statue’s expression was calm and pitiless. Noble. Righteous. But Caspian knew better.

He had encountered statues like these before. They weren’t just ornamentation. They were door keepers. Sentient constructs, programmed by ancient magic to guard whatever lay beyond. They looked peaceful now, but the moment a hand touched that gate, they would wake with the fury of a thousand sermons and the strength of mountains.

"They always give me trouble," Caspian grumbled, dragging a hand down his face—and then immediately regretting it. "Ugh, gods, what did I just touch? Was that ogre brain? Was that still warm?!"

He flailed slightly, wiped his face furiously on his already-bloodied pants, and turned his attention back to the statues.

Teleportation would’ve solved everything. One flick of his fingers and he’d be past those doors, avoiding the whole mess.

But of course, there was a catch.

Teleportation magic only worked if the caster had seen the destination before—or at the very least, had a clear memory or drawing of it. Caspian had neither. This dungeon was unfamiliar territory, an uncharted wreck of divine relics and demonic curses. Which meant...

He eyed the door. Then the statues. Then the door again.

"I have to use the damned doors," he muttered flatly.

He dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if hoping the heavens might take pity on him.

They did not.

One of the statues shifted slightly—just a breath, like stone remembering how to move.

Caspian didn’t move. He merely closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and whispered under his breath:

"I swear, if one of you cracks my last clean fingernail, I’m burning this entire ruin to the ground."

Caspian stood still for a moment longer, staring at the door like a man about to commit a crime he knew he’d regret.

The statues loomed on either side, silent and unmoving now—but that was part of their charm. They lulled you into thinking maybe, just maybe, this time would be different. Maybe they were just decorative. Maybe today, the ancient magic would glitch. Maybe the gods were on his side.

Caspian rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and muttered to himself.

"Alright, let’s get this over with."

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