"So none of you knew about these dragons and whatnot?" Damien looked around the room.
Loki shook her head. "No. We did not."
She sighed, frustration evident in her expression—her inability to give him anything useful clearly weighing on her.
"All we know is that there is something under the dungeon. But we know it by a different name than yours." She met his eyes. "Obviously, I cannot say."
Freya leaned back in her chair, her golden eyes troubled. "These dragons are news to me. The only dragon we ever had to worry about was the One-Eyed Black Dragon." She paused. "And you are saying there are others? Much stronger?"
"Yes. Much, much stronger, according to Vritra." Damien glanced at Finn, Ottar, Riveria, and Ais. "She was one of them. She knows. And you have all seen her fight."
Hestia's voice was small. "So what do we do?"
"For now? Nothing." Damien stood. "I am going to head down into the dungeon. Immediately shadow exchange to Floor Fifty-Nine and see what I can see, down to Floor Seventy. I need to find a certain thing." He turned to the leaders of the alliance. "In the meantime, you focus on honing our alliance's power. Make sure the other gods we have had problems with are taken care of quickly. Focus on increasing our defenses." His voice hardened. "Our adventurers are trained to face monsters. It is time we train them to face monsters beyond reason."
Ais stepped forward. "I will go with you."
"Hmm? To the dungeon?" Damien shook his head. "No. Do not bother. It will be a quick scouting mission."
"What if you find him?" Ais's eyes burned with spite and hatred. "You said he might be there."
Damien saw the darkness in her gaze. He sighed.
"I see what this is about. No. I will not face him alone. Ever." He placed his hand on her cheek. "And yes. Whenever I face him, you will be the first to know. THE first. Do you understand?" His voice softened. "And if I can... the kill shall be yours. So trust me."
Ais's expression softened. She nodded. "Okay."
Damien turned back to the others.
"Keep an eye on Vritra. You all have a shadow connected to me, so if anything happens, I will be there. I do not think she will be a problem, but in case she is... I am watching. I will be there if anything arises."
Hestia's eyes widened. "Wait, you are going now?"
"Yes. We do not have time to waste." He smiled at her. "But I am alone this time. I will be coming back soon. So please do not worry."
He turned to the others, nodded once, and disappeared into the shadows.
...
On Floor Fifty-Nine, Damien slowly walked down toward the ruins he had left behind.
What he found was a completely empty floor.
"Healing... is that it?"
He looked at the massive entrance to Floor Sixty, where he had fought the Corrupted Spirit. It was completely different now. Barren. Empty. Clear. As if it was still in the process of remaking itself.
"That saves me the trouble, eh?"
He crossed the empty, barren floor and descended to Floor Sixty-One.
It was here that Damien finally understood why Floors Fifty-Nine through Sixty-Five were known as the Glacier Territory.
Instantly, he was hit by a wave of cold energy. The influence of the Corrupted Spirit had stopped this before, but now that she was gone, the place had returned to its original form. Glacial lake streams. Fierce cold. Ice covering every surface.
The first monsters Damien encountered were gray ice wolves—Fenrir Shards. Fast, vicious, and numerous. They were not much of a problem. His daggers cut through them like they were made of the ice they crawled upon.
The real problem was the Cryo-Colossus.
Ice golems. Massive. Ancient. They rested deep on the floor's ice, unmoving and unwavering. The problem was that there were hundreds of them. Not all were active...only one rose every once in a while—but Damien had to navigate the floor without knowing which of the hundreds around him would ambush him first.
He moved carefully. Quietly. A frozen giant stirred to his left. He froze. It settled back into slumber.
He kept walking.
Floor Sixty-Two was more of the same. More Fenrir Shards. More Cryo-Colossus. More careful navigation between sleeping giants.
But Floor Sixty-Three was worse.
Frost Wyrms.
They used the high ceilings of the glacial caverns to dive-bomb their prey, using the ambient blinding snowstorms as camouflage. Damien could hear them before he could see them—the rush of wind, the crackle of ice, the shadow that passed over him too fast to track.
He dodged the first dive. Rolled under the second. Caught the third with his dagger as it passed, ripping a gash along its belly. The Frost Wyrm crashed into a glacier and did not rise.
But there were more.
Always more.
Finally, Floors Sixty-Four and Sixty-Five presented a different challenge.
Rime Chargers.
Armored, multi-legged centaurs that treated the slick ice as a highway. They accelerated to speeds that made them look like blurs. Their strategy was pure shock-and-awe—hit hard, hit fast, and be gone before the prey could react.
Damien stood in the center of an icy plain. Three Rime Chargers circled him, their hooves kicking up clouds of frost.
The first charged. He sidestepped and slashed its flank. The second came from behind—he ducked under its spear-like arm and stabbed upward into its chest. The third hesitated.
Damien did not.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat and drove both daggers into its skull.
The Rime Charger collapsed.
Damien wiped the ice from his blades and kept moving.
He crossed them all without trouble. His nature made the dungeon treat him as a solo adventurer, so it never created a wave of monsters to destroy him.
Or so he thought.
He crossed into Floor Sixty-Six.
The dungeon had prepared something special. Something specific.
Not for the solo adventurer.
Rather... for the man who had destroyed Floor Sixty.
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