The wind screamed across the endless plains of Thryndal, the northern continent of eternal winter.
A continent where gods once slept beneath the glaciers, their remains turning the snow to crystal.
Ashura Bellet walked alone through that desolate beauty—his boots crunching through ice that hadn't melted in ten thousand years. His coat fluttered in the blizzard, streaks of amethyst lightning pulsing faintly beneath its folds.
"Cold," he muttered with a half-smile, exhaling steam. "Not bad."
Every breath felt like swallowing shards of glass. The sky hung low, a bruised gray, the light faintly blue as though the world itself was frozen in sorrow.
Yet beneath all that stillness, Ashura could feel something moving.
Life.
Hidden. Watching.
He didn't bother drawing his blade yet. His aura alone had already been noticed.
He flicked his fingers, calling up his status screen in the shimmer of purple light.
[Status Window]
Name: Ashura Bellet
Level: 81
Race: Human (Evolved)
Class: Godslayer
Titles:
Heir of the Nameless God The Amethyst Sovereign Slayer of the Divine Guardian One Who Walks Against Fate
Authority: Transcendent Wrath (Lv. 1) — Power of the Nameless God. Converts fury and conviction into annihilation. Enhances lightning output and physical capacity beyond system limits.
Core Skill: Amethyst Lightning — Divine hybrid of mortal will and celestial energy. Breaks through divine barriers, ignoring resistance.
He stopped, eyes scanning the horizon.
Godslayer.
The system had chosen that class for one reason — he wasn't just killing gods.
He was defying their existence.
Each time he faced a divine being, his system didn't record them as enemies. It recorded them as "errors in creation."
That's what made him different.
To him, divinity wasn't something to worship. It was something to erase.
"A class that hunts gods," he whispered to himself. "How poetic."
"The heavens should've seen this coming."
The snow ahead shifted.
Figures emerged from the storm—dozens of them—armor carved from living ice, skin pale with faint blue veins. Their eyes burned a cold azure, their voices echoing in the wind like chimes.
The Iceborn, natives of Thryndal.
The one at the front raised his hand—a tall male with short, frozen hair that glistened like crystal. His name, as Ashura would later hear, was Seryn Vhalkar, Captain of the Frostguard.
"Human," Seryn called out, his tone cutting. "You stand in Thryndal's sacred lands. Leave now or be frozen beneath it."
Ashura tilted his head. "You know, I was planning to ask for directions… but then you had to go and sound like an arrogant snowflake."
A ripple of anger went through their ranks. Spears lifted. Mana surged, shimmering with frost magic.
Seryn's expression tightened. "We do not tolerate mortal insolence."
"And I don't tolerate people pointing sticks at me."
For a moment, silence. Only the snow falling between them. Then Ashura sighed and muttered under his breath—half to himself, half to the void:
"Why did I even try reasoning with monsters?"
"Right… I can't forget my goal."
The goal that burned behind his calm eyes—vengeance, power, the weight of every scar that had ever driven him forward.
He smiled thinly. "I'm done talking."
Lightning bloomed.
It wasn't a strike—it was a birth of destruction.
Purple light burst through the blizzard, swallowing the cold. The Iceborn moved as one—frost magic crystallizing into shields, projectiles, blades.
Ashura blurred. His sword, wreathed in amethyst arcs, carved through them like silk.
A dozen went down before the rest could react. The storm turned violet with thunder. He ducked under a spear, slammed his knee into an Iceborn's chest, then twisted his blade backward—cutting through armor and freezing flesh.
They retaliated with coordinated formation magic. A dome of ice rose around him, sealing him in.
The temperature plummeted.
But from inside that dome came the sound of cracking.
Then the hiss of power.
Ashura's voice drifted out, calm—almost amused.
"Cute trick."
The dome exploded.
Black and purple lightning surged outward like wings, scattering the Iceborn like leaves.
Seryn's jaw clenched as his soldiers fell around him, their bodies smoking from heat that had no place in this frozen world.
"Monster…" Seryn spat. "You're no human."
Ashura flicked his sword clean, resting it on his shoulder. "Then maybe we finally have something in common."
Before he could finish the last of them, a powerful chill ran through the air—different from the others. Heavy. Ancient.
The storm paused.
A figure stepped through the mist—a man old enough to have seen centuries, his beard faintly silver, his robes stitched with frozen sigils that shimmered softly.
He leaned on an icy staff, and the air seemed to bow to him.
Elder Narev of the Frostborn, once the Chosen of the Winter Deity. His presence alone made the mana around Ashura hum in discomfort.
"Enough," Narev said, his tone calm yet sharp. "This bloodshed ends here, stranger."
Ashura's lightning faded slightly, though his stance didn't change.
"If you're here to threaten me, old man, you're already late."
"No. I am here because she wishes to speak to you," Narev replied. "Our Matriarch—Lady Vynara, Keeper of the Deep Frost."
Ashura's eyebrow rose slightly. "And why would she want that?"
"Because you are a danger… and perhaps, a sign," the elder said. "Come with me peacefully, and she may allow you to leave with your life."
Ashura chuckled softly, his smirk sharpening.
"Allow me to live?"
He took a slow step forward, the ground beneath his boots hissing as the snow melted. "You're mistaken, elder. I don't go where I'm told."
Narev's eyes narrowed, but he didn't move. There was something in the young man's tone—an authority that felt familiar. Too familiar.
"Then how will you come?" the elder asked carefully.
Ashura glanced up, lightning flickering across his fingers.
"On my own terms."
And with that, he turned his back and started walking toward the Frostborn capital—alone, surrounded by a thousand frozen eyes, his aura crackling like a storm that refused to die.
Narev watched him go, the snow swirling around his ancient figure.
"He carries the storm of another age…" the elder murmured.
"The Nameless One's shadow walks again."