CHAPTER 82: [THE PROPERTIES OF YOUR MANA AND QI HAVE BECOME ICY]

The darkness of the cave was a suffocating blanket. The thin air condensed into tiny ice crystals that clung to the walls like broken teeth, reflecting an almost ghostly blue light. Damon’s body lay on the uneven floor, convulsing with spasms that came in waves. His chest rose and fell unevenly, the hot vapor of his breath dissipating into white clouds that quickly froze in the air.

The cold was unbearable. Not just a physical cold, but one that seemed to corrode every cell, every particle of his existence. His veins turned into frozen rivers, his blood struggling in vain to continue its course. His skin, pale and scarred with cracks, gave the impression that he was slowly becoming part of the cave, a brittle statue made of flesh and ice.

And yet, what hurt most wasn’t the physical agony.

It was the silence.

The loneliness.

That feeling of being abandoned by the entire world, of being nothing more than a forgotten speck in the vast desert of creation. Damon tried to scream, but only a hoarse moan escaped, stifled by the ice that was already beginning to take over his throat.

In that void of pain, a memory pierced him like a blade: lonely nights, laughter that was never meant for him, hugs that didn’t belong to him, hopes that died before they were even born. Loneliness wasn’t just a state. It was his eternal shadow.

He closed his eyes, and the cold invaded his mind like a tide. But something unexpected happened.

Amidst the pain, negative feelings began to intensify, as if they were being distilled within him. Fear, sadness, anger, hopelessness—all emerged in a wave that should have destroyed him. But Damon... didn’t break.

Instead, a spark shone.

In his consciousness, something stirred.

The cold that consumed his body merged with the darkness of his mind. And instinctively, he did the unthinkable: he opened the mouth of his soul and devoured. Not the flesh, not the air, but the very bad feelings that suffocated him. Every fear, every pain, every bitter memory—he swallowed them like fire swallows dry wood.

And the more he devoured, the more the cold became a part of him, not an enemy, but nourishment.

His spasms subsided. His body, once on the verge of shattering, stabilized. His skin still cracked, but no longer bled; his muscles trembled, but did not collapse. The cold that should have killed him was being absorbed, transformed into a silent force that coursed through his veins.

His mind, previously a chaos, began to clear.

Damon opened his eyes—not his physical eyes, but those of his consciousness. And he found himself somewhere else.

He was sitting in the lotus position, his body erect, his hands resting on his knees. All around him, an endless field of ice stretched out, like the heart of a glacier that had never melted. The wind blew coldly, but it didn’t bother him. The ice was no longer a prison, but an extension of himself.

And ahead of him, on the crystalline horizon, the sun was rising.

It was a strange, almost contradictory sight. The ice reflected the golden dawn in millions of facets, creating a spectacle of light and shadow. Damon felt, for the first time, a profound serenity. He and the ice were one. His breath mingled with the wind, and his heart beat in the same slow, powerful rhythm as the glacier.

The cold wasn’t the absence of life. It was simply another form of existence.

He closed his eyes and let this revelation envelop him. Each time a bad memory surfaced—the abandonment, the loneliness, the invisible scars—he devoured it. Absorbed it, accepted it, and transformed it into fuel. It was as if he had discovered a hidden underground river within himself, a river made of devoured emotions, flowing beneath the layer of ice.

Damon took a deep breath. The air entered as cold as a blade, but came out as warm as dawn.

Little by little, he understood: he was cultivating.

Not as others did, not following manuals, masters, or dogmas. His path was different. Where others sought spiritual energy in the heavens, he sought it in the abyss of his own pain. Where others cultivated for the pursuit of glory, he cultivated for survival.

He was a devourer of bad feelings.

And in that moment, sitting upon the vastness of the inner glacier, Damon accepted this as his truth.

The cold that had once destroyed him now strengthened him. The loneliness that crushed him became his companion. Despair, once an enemy, transformed into a source of unfathomable power.

His eyes opened again, and the ice before him reflected not only the sun, but his own face—steady, serene, with a determination he had never possessed.

In the depths of his mind, there was still pain. There were still memories. But now he would not run from them. He must swallow them. Transform them.

A soft voice, perhaps from his own consciousness, murmured in the void:

"Cold is not the end. Cold is the foundation. Loneliness is not absence... it is the root."

Damon smiled. For the first time in a long time, he smiled without bitterness.

The sun rose higher, and the golden rays spread across the ice field, reflecting endlessly. He breathed deeply, each inhale bringing more strength, each exhale devouring the shadows within.

Time ceased to have meaning. Minutes, hours, or days could have passed in that inner vision. All that mattered was the silence, the cold, and the quiet flame that now burned within him—a flame that didn’t burn, but froze, crystallizing his will.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the cave.

His body still lay on the ground, but it was no longer the same. The cold still gripped him, but he no longer trembled. His eyes, once cloudy, now shone with a strange light, like golden crystals covered in snow. His breathing was calm, deep.

He rose slowly, each movement accompanied by the sound of ice breaking against his own flesh, but there was no pain. It was like shedding an ancient shell.

[You have created "Icy Qi"]

[The properties of your Mana and Qi have become Icy]

[You have absorbed the essence of Crystal Lotus]

[You have advanced!]

[Name: Damon]

[Age: 19]

[Cultivation: Novice]

[Race: Incubus]

[Talent: Low]

[Level: 15]

[HP: 1000/1000]

[PARA: 56]

[AGL: 52]

[VIT: 56]

[STM: 50]

[INT: 52]

[DEF: 52]

[Blank Points: 10]

[Mana: Cold (Lv. 1)]

[Skills: Asmodeus’ Touch, Emperor’s Impaling Strike (Lv. 1)]

[Traits: Battle Focus, Tamer]

[Martial Skill (Swords): Novice]

[Martial Skill (Spears): Novice]

[Cultivation Technique: Crimson Night Devourer (Lv. 1)]

The glow of the interface hovered before his eyes like sacred inscriptions carved into ice. Every word was clear, crisp, as if etched directly into his mind. Damon blinked slowly, absorbing every line, every detail that unfolded before him.

"...Ice Qi..." he murmured, the words sounding strange yet natural.

His eyes followed the floating window, skimming over the numbers and statistics. There was something different about them. They weren’t just cold values, they were pulses, rhythms he could now feel within his body. Every point of health was like the steady beating of a living glacier. Every fraction of mana was like an undercurrent flowing beneath the ice.

[HP: 1000/1000]

He smiled faintly. Before, his breathing had been a constant struggle against death. Now, the simple act of breathing seemed to carry the freshness of rebirth.

"So... I’ve truly moved forward."

With a measured effort, Damon raised his right arm. The skin was still pale, marked by delicate fissures, like cracked glass. But unlike before, there was no pain. A constant chill ran through his bones, but it wasn’t paralyzing. It was firm, controlled, like the sensation of holding a newly forged blade.

His fingers slowly closed into a fist. The soft sound of cracking ice echoed, but it wasn’t fragility. It was strength.

He opened his hand again, studying his palm carefully. The cold remained there, ingrained, but his body no longer rejected it. His breath came in small, rhythmic, serene white clouds.

"I can... endure," he said quietly, almost as if testing his own assertion.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The silence of the cave no longer felt like a prison. The cold, which had once consumed him, now molded itself to his will. It was strange... as if he had learned a new language, a language spoken only by glaciers and storms.

And at the same time, he felt something else. A subtle pressure on his body, a familiar weight. The blank spots. Ten in all. A flexible, malleable energy, waiting only for his decision to transform into real power.

"The system really expects me to choose..." he thought, frowning. "Where should I take this?"

But instead of rushing to decide, he took a deep breath, absorbing the icy calm that now filled him. There was no rush. Not anymore. Every choice mattered.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed something different in the cave.

The cold no longer felt like an enemy. The air, once biting, now enveloped him like a protective veil. The icy ground beneath him no longer stole his warmth, but sustained his strength. The darkness itself felt less suffocating, as if it had become part of his breath.

Damon braced his hand against the stone wall and slowly rose. His body responded stiffly at first, but soon found its balance. The dry crack of frozen joints rang out, each sound like the breaking of ancient chains.

He stood. For the first time since the avalanche had swallowed him, he was truly steady.

"Oh... shit," he muttered, standing and stretching. "I’m going to have to find a way to go after Ester."