The air outside the instant dungeon was crisp, but the chill of the northern winds carried a new weight. Ashura stepped onto the frozen plains, his black and purple lightning aura faintly flickering around him as residual energy from the trial pulsed through his body. The world looked ordinary, yet the power he now radiated made it anything but mundane.
Two days remained until the year would officially end, though time had flowed differently within the dungeon. To anyone observing, he had been gone a fraction of the expected time, yet Ashura had undergone a year-long crucible of combat, endurance, and growth. His presence alone now distorted the air, and the snow under his feet seemed to shiver in response.
As he approached the frost-bound forests, the Ice Tribe stirred. Wolves, ice elves, and frost bears sensed something different. But more than them, the warriors of the tribe—the hardened descendants of Vynara's people—felt the oppressive weight of Ashura's aura before he was even in sight.
He was coming.
The tribe's hunters and warriors froze in place, their breaths visible as frost in the cold air. Whispers of fear rippled through the ranks.
"It's him…" one of the younger warriors murmured, voice trembling.
"No… that pressure… he's… different," another muttered.
Even seasoned elders, men and women who had weathered the northern storms and fought beasts of ancient power, instinctively dropped to one knee. Their hands instinctively went to the hilts of their weapons—but they hesitated. There was no malice in Ashura, but his presence was a tangible force, heavier than mountains, sharper than the ice winds themselves.
From the heart of the tribe's settlement, a figure emerged. Tall, imposing, yet with the poise of someone who had survived centuries of frost and conflict: Vynara, the chieftain. She raised her hand, halting her warriors.
"Stand down," she commanded, her voice calm but edged with authority. "He is no ordinary human. Let him speak first."
Ashura stopped at a distance, his boots crunching against the frozen ground. His aura flared slightly, faint streaks of purple-black lightning dancing along his arms. He looked around at the tribe—warriors, hunters, and sentries all tense, watching him as if he were both predator and storm.
"I came for answers," Ashura said, voice low but carrying effortlessly across the frozen field. "I want to know about the sleeping god… the one beyond the north."
The word "god" sent ripples through the tribe. Even Vynara stiffened slightly, though she did not betray fear. She stepped forward, meeting Ashura's gaze directly. Her icy eyes narrowed—not in aggression, but in acknowledgment. She could feel the magnitude of the man standing before her, and she could sense the echoes of the Nameless Apostle in his aura.
"You've changed… Ashura Bellet," Vynara said, almost in a whisper, yet the words carried across the frozen clearing. "I can feel it… the power you wield now… it is unlike anything I have ever sensed. You survived the trial?"
"I did," Ashura replied simply, his smirk faint but unmistakable. His hands flexed slightly, letting a single flicker of black lightning arc harmlessly into the snow at his feet. "That matters little now. What I need to know… is about this sleeping god. The one you spoke of before."
Vynara studied him for a long moment. Then, she spoke, her voice firm yet carrying the weight of someone who had witnessed centuries of history:
"The sleeping god is… old beyond reckoning. Even among our kind, whispers tell of its power to reshape the north and its creatures. Few dare speak its name, and fewer still seek it intentionally. To approach it… one must be prepared. And you… you are not just prepared… you are something else entirely."
Ashura tilted his head slightly, absorbing her words. The aura surrounding him pulsed faintly, the purple-black lightning of his Transcendent Wrath flickering in the dim northern sunlight.
"Something else?" he asked, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You mean stronger than mortals, stronger than gods perhaps? Good. I like it."
The warriors behind Vynara shifted uneasily. Even the strongest among them, the old sages and hunters who had been raised to resist divine pressure, could feel the difference. Ashura was no longer a man bound by mortality—he was a storm walking in human form, the very air bending to the presence of his will.
Vynara's gaze softened slightly, though her voice remained steady:
"You have come far, Ashura. But the path you seek… it is not without peril. The sleeping god does not slumber lightly. To reach it, one must endure trials that would unmake lesser beings… perhaps even gods."
"Trials? I've endured worse," Ashura said, his voice calm yet carrying the unmistakable arrogance of a man who had just survived death itself. "I've survived the Nameless One. I've become the Nameless Apostle. No trial can break me now."
A silence followed, the tribe collectively holding their breath. Vynara did not flinch, nor did she offer any challenge—yet the weight of her presence was enough to communicate her respect, even awe.
"Then listen carefully," Vynara continued. "The north holds many secrets… and many dangers. The path to the sleeping god is hidden within the frost-shrouded mountains and the ancient ruins beyond. Only those with sight… and will… can approach. Follow this path at your own risk."
Ashura's eyes narrowed, glancing toward the northern horizon where jagged peaks clawed at the sky. The snow and ice there hid more than just frost—it hid the whispers of gods long forgotten, monsters unchallenged for centuries, and the presence of the sleeping god itself.
"I didn't come here to play games," Ashura said simply. "Point the way, and I'll find it on my own. No interruptions, no delays."
Vynara nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "As you wish. But remember… even your power has limits. The sleeping god is beyond comprehension… it is beyond even my understanding."
Ashura's smirk widened. "Limits… right. I'll find out soon enough."
With that, he stepped forward, the snow crunching under his boots. Purple-black lightning danced along his arms, reacting to his emotions, his focus, his intent. Every step radiated authority, power, and the quiet arrogance of a man who had faced death and lived to claim dominion over it.
Behind him, the Ice Tribe watched in a mixture of awe and fear. Vynara's hand rested lightly on the hilt of her sword, not in challenge, but as a silent acknowledgment: this man… this Nameless Apostle… would reshape the north.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the sleeping god stirred, sensing the approach of a force long prophesied—an unstoppable storm wrapped in flesh, wielding the authority of a god who had once been Nameless.
Ashura's journey north had only begun.