Night fell over the frost-shrouded plains, painting the icy peaks in shades of deep indigo. The northern winds howled across the mountains, carrying a biting chill that could pierce steel if one lingered too long. Ashura stood atop the tallest ridge, the shadows of the jagged terrain stretching like claws into the darkness. His black and purple lightning aura danced faintly around him, casting fragmented reflections across the frozen snow.
He paused for a moment, surveying the path ahead. The faint outlines of the ruins that hid the resting place of the sleeping god shimmered in the moonlight. No ordinary being could survive what awaited beyond those walls, yet Ashura did not hesitate. He did not need hesitation.
With a calm breath, he stepped forward—and the air shifted. A storm cloud, summoned by his own will, roared to life beneath him, lifting him from the ground. Lightning flared across its edges, streaking toward the sky in violent arcs. The cloud responded instantly, carrying him swiftly over the frost plains, leaving a trail of crackling energy behind.
The Ice Tribe watched from below. Even Vynara's experienced eyes widened as she whispered, "He's moving faster than thought… his aura… it's… uncontainable."
Ashura's eyes focused ahead. The ruins loomed like the skeletal remains of some ancient colossus, untouched for millennia. His black and purple lightning flared brighter, dancing along the contours of his arms as he descended toward the heart of the ruins.
Time seemed to bend under his presence. Each step, each motion carried an unspoken weight—a storm in mortal form, a being capable of tearing apart mountains without breaking a sweat.
By dawn, the northern horizon was awash in pinks and golds, but Ashura had already reached the inner sanctum. The sleeping god lay in a frozen slumber, its presence ancient and titanic, a force of divinity older than the Ice Tribe's own history. Its eyes, even closed, seemed to pulse faintly with a latent, dormant energy.
Ashura paused for only a heartbeat, feeling the immense divine pressure emanating from the being. Then, with the fluidity and precision born of countless battles, he moved. In a sequence so fast it blurred perception, Ashura unleashed the full spectrum of his martial and elemental mastery: black lightning arcing in lethal arcs, Amethyst lightning surging along his limbs, and Transcendent Wrath releasing controlled bursts of power that warped the frozen ground.
The sleeping god stirred, sensing an intrusion, but before it could even react, Ashura had struck. Every strike, every motion, was a masterclass in martial arts and divine swordplay. His sword slashed through ethereal barriers and defenses, his fists and kicks delivering precision damage with the destructive force of storms.
In moments that seemed to stretch an eternity, the sleeping god's head fell—not crushed in the traditional sense, but removed with a precision that left no doubt of Ashura's absolute dominance. A thunderclap echoed through the mountains as the divine pressure dissipated, leaving an eerie calm in its wake.
Ashura stood there, chest rising and falling only slightly, untouched and unscarred despite the impossible battle. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if he had merely been taking a morning stroll. The black and purple lightning dimmed slightly, the storm cloud beneath him folding back into nothing as he descended gracefully.
By the time the first rays of sunlight struck the ice plains, he was already approaching the Ice Tribe settlement. The ground quaked faintly under the weight of his presence, and the tribe felt it instantly. A collective gasp rose from the assembled warriors as they saw what he carried: the head of the sleeping god, bound in nothing more than his hands, lifted with effortless ease.
Vynara stepped forward, eyes wide in shock. "Impossible… he… he did it? The sleeping god… its head…!"
Ashura's gaze met hers, unflinching, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Surprised?" His voice carried over the frozen fields, calm yet imbued with a subtle, undeniable authority. "Don't be. It's what happens when someone trains properly. Now, it's time for my return."
The tribe's warriors, still frozen in awe and disbelief, could barely process what they had witnessed. Their chieftain, Vynara, composed herself enough to speak:
"You… you leave without a word, Ashura Bellet? After such power… such a feat… you—"
He cut her off with a single, simple gesture, a hand raised calmly but with authority that brooked no argument. "No need for speeches. I don't linger where my purpose is already clear. I came, I did what was necessary, and now… I return."
Before anyone could respond, Ashura ascended, summoning a storm cloud once more. Lightning arced across the sky as he rose, leaving a trail of black-purple brilliance behind him. The Ice Tribe watched in a mixture of awe, fear, and respect as he vanished into the horizon.
Vynara's voice, barely audible over the fading storm, muttered, "That… that man is no longer human… he is a storm, a living god among mortals…"
And somewhere beyond the horizon, Ashura Bellet's silhouette cut across the dawn-lit sky, carrying with him the spoils of the sleeping god and the certainty that no force—divine, mortal, or otherwise—would challenge him unprepared. His next destination awaited, and nothing, not even the northern winds themselves, could slow the Nameless Apostle now.