The storm had finally settled.
Lightning faded into a dull hum around Ashura's halo, and the frost that once reached for his feet melted into mist. The Frosthorn Domain—once trembling under divine fury—now stood eerily quiet, its shattered spires reflecting the pale blue glow of the eternal ice.
Vynara knelt upon the cracked marble, her breath steady but visible in the cold air. The light of divinity still shimmered faintly across her skin, though dimmer now—like a candle fighting the dark.
Ashura lowered his sword, the black and amethyst lightning dying down in thin threads. He wasn't panting, but his arms still trembled faintly from the recoil of power.
She looked up at him. Not as a goddess above man—but as one survivor to another.
"You have surpassed every mortal who's ever stepped into my domain," Vynara said, her tone steady, almost reverent. "And perhaps even some gods."
Ashura wiped a drop of blood from the edge of his jaw with the back of his hand. His eyes glowed faintly under the stormlight.
"I didn't come here to prove anything. I came because it was in my way."
For a brief moment, her lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close.
"Arrogant, yet honest. You remind me of him… the Nameless One. Always forward, never looking back."
She rose, brushing the frost off her dress. From her palm, an ancient sigil appeared—a snowflake wrapped around a spiral of lightning. When she raised it toward the northern sky, the clouds stirred, revealing a faint aurora curling above them.
"Then hear this, mortal storm," she said softly. "Beyond this land of ice, past the peaks of Aethernal Vale, there lies a place untouched by sun or star. A god sleeps there—a remnant of what was once divine. His slumber stirs with every shift in your lightning."
Ashura tilted his head. "A sleeping god, huh? Sounds like more trouble than I need."
Vynara's eyes shimmered faintly, like moonlight over glass.
"You may ignore it, but fate won't ignore you. When that god awakens, the heavens will remember the storm they tried to erase."
Ashura slid his blade back into its sheath, lightning fading completely now. "Then let them remember."
He turned to leave, but paused at the edge of the cracked hall. His gaze drifted upward, past the frozen towers and aurora.
"I'll be staying here for a while," he said. "Your frost lands are quiet. I need that."
She frowned lightly. "You wish to remain here?"
"A year," Ashura replied, his tone firm. "When that's done, I'll head beyond the north and see this 'sleeping god' myself."
The moment those words left his lips, the air around him flickered blue.
A translucent interface unfolded before his eyes—his system, pulsing like a living flame.
[SYSTEM QUEST: YEAR OF FROST]
Objective: Train within the Frosthorn Domain for one year.
Restrictions: Combat practice, mana synchronization, and divine adaptation required.
Reward: ??? (Hidden)
Penalty for failure: Loss of current Authority synchronization.
System support: 100% (active).
Ashura exhaled quietly through his nose, half amused. "Guess that settles it."
He opened the messaging interface and began to record a short transmission.
His voice was calm, but underneath it lingered that faint weight—the tone of someone who'd already decided.
"Mother. Gina. Guild. Plans have changed," he said, standing at the edge of the frost cliffs. "I won't be coming back in three months after all. I'll return after a year… maybe a few days more. Don't worry. I'll be fine."
He hesitated for a heartbeat, his expression softening at the thought of them.
"Take care of each other until then."
The message sent, dissolving into blue light that vanished into the horizon.
Ashura then looked down at his hands—scars from lightning and frost still faintly etched along his skin. The wind howled faintly through the peaks, carrying the chill of solitude.
"A year in the cold, huh?" he muttered with a faint grin. "Let's see if the ice can keep up with the storm."
From behind, Vynara's voice echoed softly, almost approving.
"You may find the cold less forgiving than you think."
Ashura's smirk deepened. "Good. I hate it when things go easy."
He stepped off the ledge—lightning flaring faintly beneath his feet—descending toward the glacial plains below. The frost cracked beneath each footstep, and his shadow stretched long against the pale light.
Above him, the aurora burned faintly brighter, as though the sky itself was watching.
And deep beyond the northern horizon, something stirred.
A faint pulse—ancient, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat—echoed through the world's coldest winds.
The sleeping god had heard the storm's arrival.