FROST
Chapter 108: Who Ordered the Drama?!

Chapter 108: Who Ordered the Drama?!

Caspian approached with deliberate slowness, each step echoing like a death knell in the hollow chamber.

As he drew closer, his eyes swept over the towering gates—etched with celestial sigils and demon-warding runes. Gold filigree trailed like veins of divinity down the surface, dulled by time and war. Beautiful in a cruel, foreboding way. Like the entrance to a sanctified hell.

He stopped just short, exhaling the kind of sigh that suggested he’d much rather be anywhere else.

With a reluctant hand, he reached for the door.

The moment his fingertips brushed the cold, ancient surface—click.

The silence shattered.

Air shifted. Pressure tightened like a noose.

Stone groaned.

Behind him, the twin sculptures trembled as if waking from a nightmare. Dust poured from their wings like ancient ash. Their features—once noble—now warped by demonic corruption. No longer angelic, but twisted mockeries of warriors long gone. One clutched a spear still stained by old blood. The other raised a massive war hammer, carved from brimstone and bone.

Caspian didn’t flinch. He didn’t turn. He just stared at the door with resigned contempt.

"There it is," he muttered.

He gave the door a slow, almost affectionate pat—like someone tapping an old, cursed dog—and finally turned around. His sword was already in his hand, drawn with a clean whisper that cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

The statues were alive now—eyes glowing with corrupted crimson light. Not holy sentries, but guardians born of a fallen realm. Their wings, once carved to look divine, now looked skeletal, stretched too wide, too thin—like things built to fly through fire.

"Demon-forged watchdogs," Caspian muttered as he stepped into the center of the hall, blade angled low. "Because doors aren’t scary enough."

The spear-bearer moved first—lightning-fast despite its mass, lunging with a shriek of grinding stone. Caspian twisted aside, the spear skimming his trousers and slamming into the ground. Shards of stone exploded like shrapnel.

A second later, the hammer came down—full force.

Caspian rolled beneath it, landing in a crouch. "Subtle," he said dryly.

He slashed at the leg of the spear-wielder—his blade skidding over enchanted stone, drawing a shallow gash but nothing fatal. The statue kicked at him, missing by inches. Caspian ducked and spun beneath the blow, springing behind the second construct just as it swung again.

He was all motion now—silent, precise. A blur of muscle, blood, and calculation.

"No pressure," he muttered, dodging another strike. "Just two ancient demonic war-golems designed by lunatics with no concept of weak points."

The hammer-wielder brought down its weapon again—this time with a scream that sounded more human than stone. Caspian met the swing—not with brute force, but with leverage. His blade danced along the haft, redirecting the blow and using the impact to launch himself upward.

In the air, he struck twice—targeting the glowing eye sockets, trying to reach whatever twisted soul powered the thing. The first hit cracked the stone. The second sent spiderweb fractures through the surface—but still, it held.

The statue staggered. Caspian landed on its shoulder and launched off it mid-fall, hitting the ground with a low, feline crouch.

He panted, wiping sweat and monster fluid off his brow with the back of his filthy, bare arm.

"Okay," he gasped. "Plan B."

The two statues moved in sync now, attacking in tandem—one sweeping low, the other crushing from above. Caspian wove between them, body twisting like a flame in wind. He was running on instinct, speed, and pure spite.

He ducked. Rolled. Parried. Moved like a man who hated cardio but loved survival.

"Just once," he hissed, sidestepping another crushing blow, "just once I want to open a door without fighting a pair of infernal angels."

Then—a memory. His eyes flicked toward the door. Back to the statues.

And then he smiled. That reckless, aggravating, Caspian kind of smile.

"Maybe I don’t need to beat them."

He pivoted mid-dodge, darting straight between the two giants, blade close to his body. The hammer slammed down behind him. The spear stabbed beside him.

He didn’t stop. He ran—and at the last second, he leapt. Not upward, but forward, slamming his hand against the center of the door.

Nothing happened.

For a heartbeat, he thought he was wrong. That the door wouldn’t open this time. That maybe it had never been his blood that worked before—just luck, timing, desperation.

But then the runes flared. The door shuddered, as if sensing something buried in him. Something old. Regal. A trace of a lineage he barely acknowledged.

The statues lunged, but they’re too late. The door reacted all at once—wrenched open as though compelled by a command it couldn’t disobey.

Light exploded outward.

Caspian vanished into it.

The statues halted mid-strike—caught between a command and a mystery. The doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off the light, sealing the silence.

And in the suffocating dark beyond the door, Caspian crashed to his knees like a tragic hero at the end of an overlong opera. His breath came in harsh, uneven gasps, lungs burning, heart pounding like a war drum played by an overenthusiastic toddler. His sword drooped from his fingers, dragging a screeching line across the stone as if it, too, had given up on life.

Sweat clung to his skin in elegant rivers, trailing down his jaw like he was trying out for the role of "Dramatic Fallen King Who Suffers Elegantly." His long, once-glorious hair—silken, brushed, practically sacred—now hung in limp, wet strands, some of which were disgracefully kissing the filthy ground.

Caspian stared down at it with the kind of heartbreak usually reserved for seeing a beloved horse shot in the third act of a war film.

"No," he whispered. "Not the hair."

There was no time for grief. He staggered upright like a wounded peacock trying to regain dignity, spine straightening with a groan, lips thinning into a line of pure royal annoyance. He braced himself for the next horror—more statues, maybe. A pit of venomous snakes. Perhaps a fire-breathing sphinx with riddles and unresolved mother issues.

But instead, there’s nothing.

The chamber before him stretched wide and hollow, echoing the age of forgotten things. It had the ambiance of a ruined cathedral and the budget of a minimalist stage play. Crumbling pillars lined the space like exhausted old men who had seen too much. There were no guards, no flames, no traps.

Just one thing.

A throne.

And on that throne, lounging like he owned every regret Caspian had ever made, was Yami.

He had finally taken form—or rather, the suggestion of a form. He looked like a shadow that had been sketched in haste and given barely enough detail to pass inspection. Wisps of darkness trailed off him like steam from a boiling curse, and his eyes—those gods-damned eyes—burned with a red so intense it could sear the pride off a paladin.

One elbow was perched casually on the throne’s armrest, head tilted, like he’d just woken from a centuries-long nap and was disappointed to find this was what waited for him.

Caspian blinked.

Yami didn’t move.

Just watched.

And somehow, that was worse than being chased by statues or nearly flattened by a hammer the size of a cow.

Caspian opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

Yami’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked mildly amused. Or maybe that was just how his face always looked—vaguely demonic with a touch of theater critic.

Caspian exhaled sharply through his nose and glanced around. "No dramatic fog machine? No cursed choir? Just you, a chair, and this discount apocalypse set?"

Still, despite the sarcasm, Caspian felt something sharp twist inside his chest. The throne was massive, built for a king—or a god—but the figure in it seemed... small. Isolated. Less terrifying, more lonely. That kind of loneliness that dripped from the walls and sank into your bones if you stayed too long.

And damn it, against every instinct he had, Caspian actually felt bad.

Just a little.

But he covered it with a grimace, pointing his sword like a reluctant dinner guest poking a cursed entrée.

"All right," he muttered. "Let’s get this over with. But just so you know... this hair? You’re paying for the damage."

Yami said nothing at first.

He simply rose—slowly, deliberately—as if gravity bowed to his every whim. His movements had the unsettling grace of a nightmare learning ballet. He didn’t walk, didn’t stride, didn’t even float, not really—he just was, suddenly standing a few feet away from his jagged obsidian throne like he had always been there.

The silence stretched long enough for Caspian to wonder if he’d accidentally wandered into a staring contest with an eldritch god.

And then—calm, crisp, like a blade sliding into silk—Yami spoke.

"Why are you shirtless, Lunar King?" His voice echoed, low and smooth, yet somehow laced with the snide glee of a cat knocking something off a shelf. "Your nipples are so pink, it’s hurting my pupils."

Caspian almost choked on his own dignity. With the poise of a man who’d long accepted that the universe had a personal vendetta against his wardrobe, he casually swept a handful of damp hair strands across his chest—subtly, artfully, like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial that also doubled as an act of defiance.

But not before he flexed.

Just a little. Just enough for the muscles to ripple beneath the sweat-slick skin. A silent, petty retaliation, because if he was going to be insulted, he might as well give them something worth criticizing.

It achieved absolutely nothing—except, perhaps, making Yami’s left vanishishing brow twitch. A tiny, involuntary tic. Barely noticeable, because his eyebrows are literally disappearing from time to time so is his entire face. But Caspian saw it.

And so, of course, he smirked like a man who’d just scored a point in a game no one agreed to play.

"Careful," Caspian said coolly, tilting his head. "Your eye’s doing that thing. You know, where it betrays your soul."

Yami’s lips pressed into a tight, unimpressed line. "My soul is already damned, thank you."

"Great," Caspian replied, the smirk fading into a grim line. "Perhaps we’d better get this over with. I have to be home early, unfortunately."

His voice was calm, but it carried that razor edge, the kind born of fatigue sharpened by urgency. Every muscle in his body was coiled—not in panic, but in readiness. He couldn’t afford to relax.

Yami didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He didn’t even move, not really—just a subtle tilt of the head, almost dismissive, as if something else had caught his attention. But Caspian noticed. He always noticed. The twitch was slight, to the right—barely more than a flicker—but instinct flared hot and sharp in his gut.

He turned and what he saw made the breath catch in his throat. From the shadows of the cavern, just beyond the worn pillars and fractured stone, a small figure stepped into the dim light.

A child.

No older than nine or ten. Barefoot. Hair disheveled. Face smudged with dirt and wonder. But Caspian didn’t see any of that first.

What he saw—what made his heart hammer and his grip tighten around the hilt—was the mana thread. Faint, but unmistakable. Those budding horns, those void-dark eyes—there was no doubt. This was the child Yami had stolen that night. The one Caspian was supposed to save.

But something was wrong.

Caspian’s jaw clenched.

"H-How in the world did he grow up this fast... in just a few hours—" he muttered, not to Yami, not to anyone, but to the sheer, stomach-turning impossibility of it.

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