Chapter 365: Breath of the Ice Dragon

The sound of steel filled the forest, relentless, a chorus of blades announcing the end. The Warden Generals had entered the woods, drawn by chaos or summoned to protect the Midnight Lord. The air itself seemed to hum with tension. Every breath carried risk.

Allison’s eyes fixed on the trail leading to the clearing ahead. The maids were holding the line against an endless wave of undead soldiers, at least five generals commanding their advance. Mason fought among them, his blade moving in sync with Evangeline’s spells as they tried to stem the tide.

Pain burned through Allison’s left arm, the skin seared and raw from fire. Jagged bone-like spines were still embedded in her abdomen, a cruel reminder of the wyvern’s ambush from above, its body bristling with blades and serrated bone. The impact had thrown her far, but she didn’t have the luxury of feeling it.

As she sprinted between the trees, more undead burst from the undergrowth, charging straight at her. She raised her katana and met them head-on. Each strike was swift, clean, deliberate, and every time her blade met flesh, the enemy froze mid-motion, solidifying into eerie statues of ice.

[Funerary Ice Sculpture (Ultra-Rare)]: When the Ice Sculptor slays an enemy, they can instantly freeze the corpse, preserving it exactly in the position it fell and transforming it into a macabre ice sculpture. These sculptures remain standing for several hours, radiating an intense cold that gradually lowers the surrounding temperature. This effect creates a frozen terrain that strengthens all ice-based skills cast within its area of influence.

By channeling the power of [Heart of the Ice Dragon], the Sculptor can intensify the effect, causing the sculptures to drain even more heat from the surrounding space, making the environment severely cold and further amplifying the potency of ice arts. However, this additional strength comes at a cost: while sustaining this effect, the sculptures begin to melt, vanishing more quickly.

The ground had already turned to glass beneath her boots, a thin sheet of translucent ice spreading outward. Every step she took left a trail of mist. Her breath came shallow and sharp, each inhale burning her lungs, but her eyes stayed locked forward. There was still more to face.

The roar reached her before the fire did.

The Reanimated Wyvern, sigil of the Midnight Lord, circled above in jagged, uneven arcs, belching fire across the forest. The air seethed with heat; the scent of charred wood mixed with the creeping fog she’d left in her wake.

[Reanimated Wyvern (Midnight Lord) – Lvl 99]

Even crippled, the creature was still deadly. But Allison noticed something: it couldn’t stay airborne for long. Its wings beat out of rhythm, heavy and labored, the flight unstable. Maybe it was the decay of a reanimated corpse, or maybe the cursed winter itself weighed on the air, dragging everything down.

She knew what was coming next. The wyvern tilted forward.

The sound of its wings cutting through the air deepened, its spined body catching the light of its own flames as it descended. Allison slid sideways, activating the enchantment on her boots. Ice formed beneath her instantly, propelling her like a living blade across the frozen ground.

She exhaled, white mist spilling from her lips. The cold answered her call. Behind her, the wyvern barreled through the trees, its massive jaws open, its roar swallowing the world. Trunks splintered as it tore through the forest in a blind, furious dive.

Then came the impact.

A thunderous crack shook the ground, but not the way she expected. The trees around them bent, twisted, and snapped, caught on something unseen. The wyvern thrashed violently, movements stuttering as if snagged.

That was when she saw them. Threads. Dozens, no, hundreds of luminous threads stretching between the trunks, glimmering faintly in the frost. They webbed the canopy, the ground, the air itself. The beast was ensnared.

The monster’s body twisted in agony, ensnared by the shimmering traps that bound its wings tight against its chest. Muscles strained, cords of tension rippling beneath rotted scales. Its roar faltered into a choked growl. Allison followed the glow of the threads until she saw a dark shape leap from a nearby tree.

“Birds… with wings closed… are weak,” said Anne, landing beside her in a fluid spin, snow swirling around her boots.

High above, balanced on a branch as if the wind itself held her there, Erza watched with her scythe poised.

“Good job almost dying, Rhiannon.” She raised her arm and smiled, sharp and cold. “The fly has landed in the spider’s web.”

Both women moved at once. Anne slid down the creature’s flank, sword gleaming in her hand. Erza snapped her wrist, and the threads answered like living steel, tightening around the wyvern’s body. The beast thrashed, wings straining uselessly against its prison.

Allison staggered, pain burning through her limbs, but she didn’t look away. The creature roared and writhed, but its own strength had become its cage.

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