The glaive shattered midair, splintering like glass under the force of Ludger’s compressed blast. For a heartbeat, it seemed over—until one jagged fragment, no longer than a dagger, spun out of the explosion faster than his eyes could follow.

It struck him square in the shoulder.

The impact ripped through muscle and scraped against bone. Ludger’s eyes went wide as the pain bloomed white-hot, his breath catching as blood gushed down his arm, staining the frost beneath his boots crimson. He stumbled, groaning, one knee dipping before he forced himself upright again.

“Damn it—!”

He didn’t think, didn’t allow himself to. Rage Flow ignited automatically, his veins pulsing red with violent heat. The fury drowned out the pain, filling every nerve with raw, blazing strength and anger. His body screamed for restraint, but his instincts overrode everything else.

With a snarl, he gripped the shard’s jagged edge and ripped it out. Blood sprayed across the ice in a dark arc, steaming against the cold. He staggered once, teeth clenched, then pressed his glowing palm over the wound.

“Stay—together,” he hissed through his teeth.

A faint green shimmer spread from his hand, the last scraps of his mana surging to mend what they could. Flesh knit sluggishly, the bleeding slowing from a torrent to a trickle. The ache remained, but the arm would hold.

When his vision steadied, he looked up—ready for the next strike.

But the battlefield was still.

The frost rider swayed where it stood. Cracks spread through its torso, glowing lines of blue splitting wider with every second. His Turtle Shock Wave had torn through the creature’s mount, piercing straight through the horse’s skull and blowing apart the lower half of the rider’s torso.

With a low, hollow groan, the undead pair finally gave way. The rider toppled backward as its steed collapsed beneath it, both breaking into pieces that scattered across the frozen floor like shattered glass.

[Spiritual Core + 500 XP]

[Arcane Focus + 500 XP]

Ludger stood there, panting, blood still dripping from his fingers.

“Guess,” he muttered between breaths, “I win.”

Then he let the Rage Flow subside—slowly, carefully—until only the quiet crackle of settling frost remained.

When Ludger finally stepped out of the labyrinth, the late afternoon air hit him like a wall—warm compared to the frozen depths below, but thick with the copper tang of his own blood. The scent clung to him stubbornly, soaked into the fabric of his shirt.

He’d closed the wound well enough that it no longer bled, but it still throbbed with every heartbeat, a dull, pulsing reminder that he’d pushed too far. Beneath the makeshift healing, the bone and muscle were still damaged—repaired just enough to move, not enough to forget. What really gave him away, though, was the torn hole in his shirt and the faint smear of dried red that ran down his arm.

The northerners nearby quieted as he emerged, most watching him in silence. He looked like he’d crawled out of the labyrinth’s jaws rather than walked from it.

Then a familiar laugh broke through the stillness.

“Took your time down there,” Kharnek said, approaching with his usual swagger, arms crossed over his massive chest. The man’s grin didn’t quite hide the flicker of concern in his eyes. “And looks like you paid the price for it.”

Ludger snorted, tugging at the ruined sleeve. “Could’ve gone worse.”

Kharnek gave a low chuckle, eyeing the hole in Ludger’s shirt. “Aye, could’ve gone better too. That thing bleed you, or did the ice walls finally get tired of you punching them?”

Ludger shrugged. “A little of both.”

The old chieftain laughed again, clapping him lightly on the good shoulder—a touch that still nearly made Ludger flinch. “You’re mad, kid. But I’ll give you this—your kind of madness keeps things interesting.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ludger said dryly, starting toward the campfires. “I’ll try not to die before dinner.”

Kharnek grinned wide. “Do that. Be a shame to waste good froststeel on your grave.”

Ludger didn’t answer, just raised a hand over his shoulder in half a wave, already thinking about bandages, hot water, and how soon he could move that arm again.

Ludger made sure to wash off every trace of the labyrinth before heading home.

He found a well near the market square, scrubbed his arms and neck until the smell of blood gave way to soap and cold air, then burned what was left of the torn shirt in a brazier. The wound beneath the new fabric still pulsed under its weak layer of healing mana, but it was good enough. He stopped by a stall, bought a plain, dark shirt nearly identical to the ruined one, and slipped it on before anyone could notice the difference.

By the time he reached home, dusk was falling—warm light spilling from the windows, the faint sound of his mother humming inside. He stepped through the door quietly, trying to look like someone who’d just gone for a walk instead of someone who’d fought a monster the size of a house.

Arslan glanced up first. His father’s gaze was steady, sharp as a drawn blade. He didn’t say a word, just studied Ludger in silence, eyes narrowing slightly. Years of experience told him when something was wrong, and no amount of clean clothes could hide the subtle stiffness in his son’s movements.

Ludger pretended not to notice, stepping closer when Arslan handed him little Arash. He held the baby carefully, keeping his injured arm low—then flinched when the weight pressed against his shoulder. It was small, quick, but enough. Arslan saw it.

“Something happen?” his father asked, voice low.

Before Ludger could come up with a lie, Elaine’s voice joined in, softer but sharper. “You went too far in the labyrinth again, didn’t you?”

Ludger forced a faint smile, trying to smooth the tension from his voice. “Just… paid a small price for curiosity.”

Elaine frowned, walking closer. “Curiosity shouldn’t bleed, Ludger.”

He shrugged with his good arm. “Depends on what you’re trying to learn.”

Arslan sighed quietly, leaning back in his chair, still watching him like a hawk but saying nothing more. Elaine, on the other hand, brushed his hair aside, the corner of her mouth twitching with worry she didn’t voice.

For a long moment, the house was silent—just the twins cooing, the faint creak of floorboards, and Ludger pretending he wasn’t about to collapse from exhaustion.

Arslan’s gaze stayed fixed on Ludger for a long moment before he finally spoke, his tone low and certain.

“…Skeleton riders?”

Ludger met his father’s eyes and nodded once. That was enough.

Arslan leaned back slowly, exhaling through his nose. “Thought so.” His hand brushed along the armrest, the old scars on his knuckles catching the lantern light. “I’ve faced one of those things before. Back when I was stupid enough to think the labyrinth couldn’t surprise me anymore.”

He gave a humorless chuckle. “If I hadn’t gone down that level already planning to use my secret technique from the start, I’d have been half the man I am now—literally.”

Ludger huffed quietly, half amusement, half fatigue. “Guess that makes two of us who learned the hard way.”

Elaine let out a long, tired sigh from across the room, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Honestly… why do the men in this house enjoy danger so much?”

Arslan grinned faintly, tilting his head toward her. “Enjoy’s the wrong word.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s the right one?”

“Appreciate,” Arslan said simply.

Elaine gave them both a long, exasperated look that said she’d heard that excuse too many times before. “You two will be the death of me,” she muttered, walking off toward the kitchen.

Ludger watched her go, then looked back at his father. “You first,” he said dryly.

Arslan smirked. “We’ll see.”

Ludger sat down carefully, adjusting his shoulder so it wouldn’t ache too much, and glanced at his father. “You’ve faced monsters like that… often?”

Arslan shook his head, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “No. Not often. I wasn’t the type to go picking fights with whatever the labyrinth spat out.” He leaned back in his chair, voice steady, matter-of-fact. “I usually had my party with me. Over the years, I focused more on jobs that kept everyone alive—and paid well—rather than chasing the thrill of danger. Gold builds walls, not scars.”

Ludger absorbed the words in silence, studying his father’s expression. Arslan wasn’t bragging—just stating what experience had taught him. But still, the fact that he’d faced a frost rider and lived to tell about it said enough.

If Arslan had survived one without losing half his body, and without relying on reckless tricks like Ludger just had, that meant something.

Ludger’s jaw tightened slightly. The difference between them hadn’t closed as much as he’d hoped. He’d been working himself raw—training, experimenting, fighting things most grown men avoided—but his father was still ahead. Still the same wall he’d always been.

“Guess I’ve got a ways to go,” Ludger said quietly.

Arslan chuckled, a deep, warm sound that didn’t quite hide his pride. “You’re catching up faster than I’d like. Just try not to do it by bleeding all over the place next time.”

Ludger smirked faintly. “No promises.”

Arslan shook his head, still smiling. “Didn’t think so.”

Ludger leaned back in his chair later that night, as he healed his shoulder throbbing under the bandages. His thoughts drifted back to the labyrinth—the cold, the blood, the sound of his fist hitting armor—and to his father’s words.

If he kept going like this, pushing his melee training, refining his strikes, going down there every day… he could catch up to Arslan. Maybe even surpass him in less than a year. The frost riders wouldn’t feel like brick walls forever.

But strength wasn’t the only problem he had to solve. There were politics, guild logistics, the Empire’s mess, the smugglers threading gold through every shadow of the realm. Being a monster in human skin wouldn’t fix all that.

Still… it would make a lot of it easier.

If his strength reached the point where people hesitated before crossing him—or his guild—then the rest of those problems might start solving themselves. No more noble threats, no more “soft power” games. Just clear cause and effect.

He rubbed his temples, letting out a quiet exhale. Going full uga-buga for power sounds kind of tempting, he admitted to himself. Simpler too.

The thought lingered longer than it should have, sitting heavy in his chest as the night settled in.

Ludger watched the soft glow of a lantern flickering across the piece of froststeel resting in his hand. He’d cleaned it thoroughly—no traces of blood or frost left, only the faint, pulsing light that came from within the thing itself.

Unlike the smaller fragments they usually harvested from the labyrinth, this one was different. Bigger than his open hand, heavier too, and it hummed faintly with mana. The energy trapped inside wasn’t flickering or erratic like the lesser shards—it moved smoothly, almost like it was breathing.

He turned it in his hand, watching the way the blue sheen flowed under the surface. “The others are called froststeel fragments,” he murmured. “But this…”

This was something else.

If the usual fragments were about the size of a finger and worth one and a half silver coins each, this piece would easily outclass them by twentyfold—maybe more. Just by weight and purity, it was worth at least thirty silver coins, maybe closer to forty if he sold it to a Torvares merchant who knew what he was looking at.

He leaned back, tapping the metal lightly with his knuckle. It rang like glass under pressure—high quality, dense with energy.

If the labyrinth’s higher zones spawn more of these…

The thought hung there, dangerous and tempting. Farming the labyrinth for this kind of material would be profitable. Froststeel this pure could forge better armor, maybe even hold runic engravings more efficiently. The guild could double its revenue without relying on contracts or trade deals.

Still, he frowned slightly. The prices had been slipping lately, just a bit. Probably because the shards were becoming more common as more delvers hit the upper zones. A short-term gain could turn into long-term devaluation if too much hit the market.

He set the chunk down, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Worth farming,” he muttered, “but not flooding.”

His hand brushed over the alloy again, feeling the faint pulse beneath his palm. The rider’s core—if that was what this truly was—had been worth the risk.

Next time, he told himself, he’d be ready to take more of them. And next time, he’d walk out of the labyrinth without bleeding for it.

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