FROST
Chapter 87: Breaking Point

Chapter 87: Breaking Point

Professor Cedric stepped through the threshold first, the air humming angrily as the forbidden spell settled behind them. The ancient door crackled with residual resistance, as if aware it had been forced open—resentful and warning.

He adjusted the sleeve of his robe calmly, masking the tension in his jaw. Around him, the other professors fanned out in a semi-circle, eyes locked onto the ice-sealed chamber.

They didn’t speak—not yet. Not while the mana in this place still trembled from the intrusion.

"We’ve crossed a line," murmured Professor Sylphaera, voice barely audible.

Her fingers traced a nervous rune into the palm of her hand, a habitual tick she’d picked up during the Great War. "If the Lunar King finds out—"

"He won’t," Professor Cedric cut in sharply. "Not until this is over."

Professor Alwen glanced at him, frowning. "Over? You mean contained?"

"I mean controlled," said Professor Cedric, his eyes glinting with something unreadable.

The ice surrounding Frost’s chamber pulsed faintly—once, twice—like a heartbeat struggling beneath a frozen tomb. A trickle of mana leaked from a jagged crack near the base, spiraling toward the direction Silvermist had last stood, as though seeking her out, drawn by instinct.

Professor Oliver stepped closer, brows furrowed in wariness. "You saw the readings," he said. "His soul is split, his essence is unstable, and that girl—Miss Evermore—amplifies it. Their synchronization is dangerous. If they fuse again in this condition..."

"They won’t," Professor Cedric interrupted, too quickly. "That’s why we’re here."

There was silence then. Heavy and uncertain.

Somewhere beneath their feet, a low hum stirred the ground. Not sound—but pressure. Like the foundation of the chamber itself was reacting to their presence.

Professor Aelith, who had remained quiet until now, finally stepped forward, her voice low and tired. "We could be wrong. What if separating them does more harm than good?"

"We won’t know until we test it," Professor Cedric replied coldly. "Emotion has no place in this. The Winter Guardian was one a demon. We can’t just turn a blind eye to this."

But even as he spoke, his own pulse betrayed him. This wasn’t just about emotion. It was about control. About fear. About keeping the Academy—and the world beyond it—from the chaos that a fully awakened Frost and Silvermist might bring.

Professor Alaric frowned again. "You speak as if they’re weapons."

"They are," Cedric muttered under his breath. "Have you ever thought of why the moon had chosen them despite being spawns of demons?"

A sudden crack split the ice wall—not wide, but enough to make all of them freeze.

Professor Verena stepped back instinctively. "That wasn’t from us..."

"No," Cedric whispered, his eyes narrowing. "That was from inside."

Frost was waking up and he knew they were here an in the depths of his mindscape—an abyss of endless cold—something shifted.

Frost’s body still hung in the dark, suspended like a forgotten relic beneath the weight of silence. Silver strands of his former hair had all but vanished, swallowed by inky black. His eyes, dull and empty, twitched as if remembering what it meant to feel.

And then suddenly, his eyes wobbled when he felt her mana disappear. His fingers twitched as though searching for her, but then surges of unknown and uninvited mana appearing one after another, covering the presence of the only person he wanted to see this very moment.

But then, she was gone.

Her presence.

Her warmth.

Her mana.

Like a thread snapped mid-stitch, the tether between them vanished, swallowed by the rising interference.

Frost’s eyes wobbled, no longer dull, but glistening with flickers of panic. His chest tightened.

No... where?

He could no longer feel her. His fingers twitched faintly—subtle at first, as if stirring from a long winter. But the motion grew, almost desperate, like they were reaching through the abyss, seeking the light that had just been there moments ago.

Her scent, her magic, the memory of her voice—it was all being smothered. Flooded. One by one, foreign pulses began to enter into his consciousness.

Unfamiliar, foreign. They prickled at his senses, each presence like cold needles scraping along the edge of his domain.

His sanctuary.

His prison.

He snarled in his thoughts, mana bristling, coiling tighter around his core.

"Why not just stay in deep sleep, Frost..." A whisper.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Frost’s eyes shot open fully, the dim blue sheen brightening like a distant glacier cracking under pressure.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he turned his head to the side. A presence loomed beside him—not one of the intruders. Not them.

No, this was worse.

From the velvet darkness, a thick crimson smoke bled upward like spilled ink in water. It spiraled lazily at first, patient—then pulsed outward with malicious intent.

Sparks of shadow-red lightning flickered across it. The fog thickened, twisted, and finally began to form.

A shape. No—a figure. A man... and not just any man.

Him.

The very person Frost had buried long ago. The very being he had locked away when he has been purified and became a Guardian.

The curse.

The monster.

His other self. Now as tall as he is, lean, with hair blacker than shadow and eyes that gleamed with amused cruelty, the figure stepped forward with a smirk as cold and cutting as a blade of obsidian.

"You really thought you could bury me forever? Foolish. But I’ll give you credit. You almost made me forget how good it feels to breathe again."

Frost couldn’t speak—but inside, everything screamed. His magic trembled, colliding with the darkness still held back by the last threads of his shattered seal.

Slowly, the man stepped forward—his boots making no sound, and yet each motion felt deafening to Frost’s senses.

The shadows parted like loyal subjects before their king. Frost could only watch, powerless in his suspended prison of magic and thought, as the figure approached.

The man—the other him—stopped just before Frost’s body, cocking his head with an unsettling calm. His smile spread like oil across his face, lazy and cruel. A predator savoring the taste of the moment.

"I never thought I’d see you in such a helpless state, Chosen One."

The words slithered with mockery, twisting the title into something meaningless. As he spoke, his black hair shifted with a subtle breeze, brushing across Frost’s cheek—a mock intimacy that made Frost’s skin crawl. The strands were silky, cool... and unmistakably his own, twisted and turned dark.

He couldn’t move. Not a twitch. Not a breath. His mind screamed inside this frozen stasis, but the scream had nowhere to go—bouncing in the hollow corridors of his soul.

"Isn’t it tragic?" the man purred, voice now thick with derision. "You built all these walls. All this ice. Locked me away. And yet here we are again. Face to face. Such a heartfelt reunion, don’t you think?"

The figure leaned in closer, his breath cool, sickly sweet with mana that stank of decay and temptation. Frost tried to recoil—tried to will even the slightest shift in his muscles—but his limbs stayed limp, bound by his own magic and yet, he was the only one sealed.

"Soon..." the figure whispered, brushing a finger against Frost’s jaw. "I’ll have her as well. The soul trapped inside your apprentice... the apprentice of my own."

Frost’s throat compressed so tightly it felt like chains were coiled inside him. His pupils shrank. A pulse surged through his sealed core, but it was muffled, distorted—as if screaming underwater.

No.

No, not her.

Anyone but her.

But no sound came.

The man laughed. A low, cold chuckle that cracked like ice splitting at its center.

Then the man reached out—slow, savoring it—and gently ran his pale fingers through Frost’s hair. And in that moment, time seemed to fracture.

Frost felt it. Not just the touch—but the change. It wasn’t physical alone—it was metaphysical, soul-deep. Like ink dropped into a sacred spring, his remaining silver strands bled black, the color of corruption spreading like a poison once more.

The transformation wasn’t violent—it was quiet, intimate, like a lie whispered just loud enough to be believed.

"There," the man murmured. "Much better."

Frost’s eyes glistened with panic. His silver... gone. The last color that tethered him to her, to the life he swore to protect. It was more than hair—it was the symbol of his promise, his control, his chosen path.

He felt it unravel. Piece by piece. Strand by strand.

The man—his shadow, his curse, his truth—smiled again, softer now, like a lullaby sung to a child being dragged into darkness.

"You really thought you could bury me forever, didn’t you?" He giggled. "I am your origin. The original. The source of your purified magic. You could never seal me forever."

The word rang hollow now, heavy with scorn.

"And yet you forget. I’m not a curse. I’m not your enemy. I’m what you’re made of."

And then, as Frost stared—his breath shallow, his magic flickering like a dying star—the man placed a hand gently on his chest. Right over his core.

"Let’s not pretend anymore," he whispered. "You were never meant to be here."

--

"S–Sil..."

The voice broke through the quiet like a crack in glass. Everyone’s head snapped toward Sebastian, whose eyes were wide—staring at Silvermist as though she’d just grown wings or horns.

There was a moment of disbelieving silence.

And then, like a ripple through still water, realization hit them all.

They turned to Silvermist in sync—Cloud, East, Ezekiel, West—all with the same growing look of horror dawning across their faces.

"What?" Silvermist blinked, completely unaware of the cause of their expressions. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Ezekiel took a hesitant step forward, his brows drawn in alarm. "Y-Your hair..." he said, voice cracking slightly. "It’s... it’s turning all silver."

Her hands flew up at once.

She yanked a handful of her long brown hair forward, only to watch in stunned silence as the inky strands faded before her eyes—white creeping in like frost spreading over glass completely. Shimmering, ethereal, and terrifyingly familiar.

"N-No..." she whispered, holding the hair tighter.

And then it hit. A single, thunderous beat struck her chest from within. Not her heart—but something beneath it. It pulsed like a drum made of ice and magic. Her breath hitched.

A cold wave swept through her—so sudden and intense it knocked her balance. West lunged and caught her just in time.

"Sil!" he almost shouted, voice shaken.

Her body, pressed against his, was rapidly growing colder. Not just chilled—but freezing, as if her blood had turned to sleet.

"S-She’s freezing..." West muttered, his breath fogging, and turned to East. "W-What’s happening to her?!"

East’s jaw clenched, his gaze flicking from Silvermist’s paling form to the distant chamber where Frost lay buried.

"She must reacting to Frost," East said grimly. Turning to the sealed chamber and it looks like professors didn’t feel the shift yet. "Frost seal might be breaking. I don’t know if he’s the one doing it or someone else," he turned sharply to West, not missing the panic creeping into his features.

"Take her to Theo. Now. He’s the only one who might be able to stabilize her."

West nodded without hesitation, his arms tightening protectively around Silvermist. Then he turned to Ezekiel who was already moving, his hands blazing with teleportation runes.

The three of them—Silvermist, pale and barely conscious, West holding her close, and Ezekiel casting the spell—vanished in a crackle of magic.

Left behind in the charged silence, East turned to Cloud. "Well... I think we’re slowly getting fucked."

Cloud sighed solemnly. "Yeah, nice and freakin’ slow."

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