As the Feral escaped, its body continued to morph—its skin cracking apart, sloughing off in jagged, glacial chunks.
Its once-humanoid frame began to twist and expand, bones realigning with sickening pops, limbs elongating unnaturally.
Claws thickened. Muscles bulged. Its back arched as a rigid, ice-coated spine tore through the remains of its clothes.
The final vestiges of its humanity were gone, turning into a complete Cold Beast.
Monica's breath caught in her throat as she watched the transformation from high above.
Thick, freezing mist rolled off the creature's body, coiling into the air like smoke from dry ice.
Its fur—if you could call it that—was like pale, frosted glass. Its eyes had gone from gleaming blue to a deep, empty silver, like frozen moonlight.
She recognized the shape. The snout. The claws. The bony armor plates shifting over its shoulders.
Frost Night Cat—mature form. She'd read about them in the bestiary archive.
Sylvia, still recovering a few paces away, cursed under her breath and stumbled toward her sword.
But the completely transformed Feral beast didn't give her any chance.
It pounced, slamming its monstrous body down on top of Sylvia, claws ripping through what remained of her armor.
Metal shrieked under the pressure. Snow burst in every direction as the two figures tumbled violently across the forest floor.
Sylvia roared, arms raised in a desperate defense, blocking with forearms already dented and bleeding beneath her gauntlets.
But without her sword—without any leverage—she was barely holding on.
The Feral thrashed wildly. Claws scraped deep, drawing fresh blood as it drove its jagged limbs again and again into Sylvia's body.
Her armor—already battered—was falling apart, chunks torn away and scattered in the snow.
But every blow came with a price.
Sylvia fought back with her bare fists, slamming elbows and knees into the creature's exposed ribs.
At one point, she caught it across the jaw with a brutal punch, cracking its bone mask and making it reel back—but only for a second.
Monica could only watch.
High in the tree, hidden among the branches, her hands trembled slightly against the bark.
'Damn it,' She bit the inside of her cheek, hard, resisting the impulse to move.
She couldn't help. There's nothing she can do. Not without dying herself.
And she knew—she knew, these injuries wouldn't slow the Feral down for long.
Because now, it was no longer a humanoid corruption. It was a true Cold Beast.
And Cold Beasts regenerate. Rapidly.
Given time and access to frost energy from the environment, or even absorbing the powerful cold energy contained in the sunlight, this monster could heal completely in a matter of days.
Down below, Sylvia tried to rise again—arms shaking, legs unstable—but her strength was draining..
Her sword was still buried several meters away, lodged in the frozen earth.
And without it, without any high-rank weapon to pierce a cold-hardened hide, her raw strength and D-rank energy weren't enough.
Not against a fully morphed Frost Night Cat.
The Feral bled too, but didn't falter. It circled her, low to the ground, tail lashing like a whip, exhaling plumes of icy vapor.
It was preparing to finish the job.
But then, it stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-breath. Its nostrils flared. Its body tensed.
Sniffing.
Its head turned sharply—unnaturally—like a compass needle pulled by a magnetic force.
And its eyes locked directly on Monica's tree.
Right where she was crouched. Hidden. Watching.
"Fuck." Her pulse froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even dare to exhale.
But it was already too late.
This wasn't a beast that hunted with sight or sound alone.
It had inherited the cold-sense—a dangerous, instinctive trait passed down from ancient cold predators.
A passive ability that tracked residual body heat like sonar.
And Monica—no matter how still she sat—was still warm.
The Cold Beast snarled.
The guttural sound rattled through the trees like an echo from the underworld. A chilling vibration that shook her ribs.
"Shit…" she muttered, barely audible.
Then, it moved.
A blur of pale muscle and glassy claws, it launched itself toward her position.
Straight at the tree.
Snow exploded behind it from the raw power of its jump. Its claws dug into bark, shredding it with every lunge. Branches splintered under its weight as it ascended with unnatural speed.
Monica's fingers gripped the handle of her axe as she backed away slowly across the branch.
It was climbing fast. Too fast.
The creature's eyes glowed silver in the shadows, narrowing in focus, its growl growing sharper, closer.
She had seconds.
And there was no running from this.
'I can only fight…'
Facing the oncoming Feral, Monica stopped in her tracks—dead still on the branch, her breath fogging in sharp puffs.
The Cold Beast was just meters below now, claws gouging bark, those silver eyes gleaming with killing intent. One more leap, and it would be on her.
But Monica wasn't panicking. Adrenaline surged through her veins, hot and electric, sharpening every nerve. Her breath slowed. Her heartbeat steadied.
Her pupils narrowed.
She analyzed everything in a split second—the spacing of the branches, the weight of the creature, its speed, and rhythm.
Her [Appraisal] power kicked in subconsciously, mapping the beast's timing from its earlier patterns and predicting its movement to the millisecond.
The moment it was just about to leap as its claws reaching to tear through the branch she stood on.
She moved.
With a flick of her wrist, from her inventory, she selected the heaviest thing in it.
A massive shadow suddenly materialized above the tree.
WHAM!!
A monstrous Red Frost Tree—the same one she'd chopped earlier and stored away—exploded into reality.
Twenty meters high. Three hundred metric tons.
It came crashing down directly onto the Cold Beast, slamming it with enough force to make the earth shudder beneath the snow.
BOOOOOM!
Everything happened in the blink of an eye.
The beast, sensing the massive shift in pressure, looked up too late.
CRASH!!
The impact echoed like a cannon blast across the forest. Branches snapped. Bark exploded. A crater formed in the frozen ground.
The sound was like a mountain collapsing. The entire tree—nearly three hundred metric tons of ironwood-heavy, frost-hardened trunk—came down with terminal velocity.
The Cold Beast had no time to evade. Its claws scraped once in the air.
And then it vanished beneath an avalanche of red-tinged bark and crushing weight.
The impact split the snowy ground open. A shockwave burst outward, flattening nearby saplings and throwing Monica slightly backward along her branch.
A thick cloud of frost and powdery snow exploded into the air.
Then… silence.
The forest went deathly still.
Not even the wind dared to move.
Monica didn't breathe for a second. Her eyes stayed locked on the ground below.
The Red Frost tree now lay embedded deep in the earth, splinters and roots shattered across the crater it had formed. From beneath it, nothing moved.
No growl. No hiss. No sound at all.
And then, a twitch.
A single claw, black and cracked, pushed up from the snow. Broken. Weak.
But still alive.
"Asshole," Monica muttered, gripping her axe. "You stubborn son of a bitch."
The Cold Beast wasn't dead yet.