CHAPTER 49: CH 49: THE SUMMIT.

[ ... Congratulations, User.

You have reached the base of Mount Varrin — a feat no other participant has achieved.

At the summit lies the exit gateway.

Activating it will remove you from this realm and conclude the trial.

Be advised: An unidentified entity resides within the mountain.

Its anomaly classification exceeds all recorded thresholds in this domain.

Proceed with caution. ]

• · ─ ·✶· ─ · •

Aegon ignored the message, his eyes completely fixated on the whiteout, curious to see if the riders would return.

Nothing. Not that he could see much out the thick canopy of fog. So after a minute or two, he finally groaned out of the corner of the mountain.

Raised a hand to his back to confirm his suspicion, he was bleeding. He retrieved the med kit in his pack but realized he has no way to treat his back.

’The cold will eat it up anyway.’ He shrugged as he turned back to the mountain. The climbing gear was laid out in front of him till he realized—

There’s no rope.

Of course there isn’t. Which puts things into perspective for him, one slip, one failed step, one loose stone and...

He didn’t need to finish the thought.

Dusted his hands with chalk to get a good grip of the rocks, placed the ice axe in his left, pack strapped behind him— all over his thermal drape and he climbed.

Aegan planted his palm on the first ledge, fingers numbed to chalk, and hauled himself upward.

No rope. No anchor. Nothing but a pair of crampons, an old ice axe, and the kind of desperation that turns smart people into idiots.

He tested every hold like it was lying to him— because it probably was.

The granite was slick with rime ice, and his gloves were long dead, sacrificed to fire earlier. Now it was just skin on cold stone, friction dying a slow death.

He started slow. Deliberate. Left axe placement— solid. Right hand— gripping a narrow crimp.

Right foot— edging on a tiny foothold barely thick as a coin.

He moved with the careful respect of someone who knew gravity was undefeated.

He exhaled, and watched the familiar sight as his breath misted him into the air.

But he kept on moving, as to stop now would only mean death.

Halfway up the first pitch, he heard the wind laugh.

Not blow. Not whisper. Laugh— long and low through the cracks in the cliff like something was leaning in behind him, breathing down his neck.

He didn’t look down, in fact, since his legs moved the rocks his eyes never shifted below. That would mean acknowledging how high he already was. And how fall = splat.

’Come on.’ He shifted his weight, reached for the next handhold, fingertips searching—

His boot slipped.

Just a little. Just enough.

His body swung off the wall for a heartbeat, crampons scraping wildly, the ice axe barely keeping him tethered.

"Sh—!" He bit off the curse as he slammed himself back into the wall with his shoulder. His teeth rattled. The metal axe quivered under his grip.

He hung there, chest heaving, every muscle trembling from that single stupid mistake. And as he readjusted, he felt it—

A sharp sting.

He yanked his hand back and saw a thin gash across his palm, blood already mixing with melting ice.

"Great," he muttered. "Just what I needed."

He wiped it on his pants, only smearing more blood. No point pretending the cold would "eat it up." It hurt. It would keep hurting.

Tearing off a piece of his drape and used it as a wrap for his cut. But stopping wasn’t an option.

He dragged himself upward again, movements now slightly angrier, slightly sloppier. The wind roared harder, like the whole mountain was trying to shake him off.

Snow spiraled around him in blinding swarms, the world reduced to white noise and the rhythmic thunk of his axe finding purchase.

Then something tugged at him.

A weight shift. A sudden pull.

He jerked around in panic— his backpack.

The strap snagged on a rock protrusion but he hadn’t noticed, tearing free in an instant. He swiped for it, fingertips brushing fabric—

Too late.

The pack tumbled. Bounced once. Twice. Then disappeared into the fog, swallowed whole by the abyss.

Rations, gone. Water, gone. Fire starters... gone. Med kit... gone.

"Fuuuuuck," he whispered through gritted teeth, voice shaking with frustration and cold and the kind of disbelief that makes you want to punch a deity.

The urge to slam his head against the rock slightly a bit more tempting. It didn’t take a genius to find out he was going insane.

He slumped against the cliff for a moment. Just breathing. Just thinking.

The wind screamed again, tearing at his jacket. Something out there watched him— he felt it in the static of the air, in the hairs rising across his arms. But the fog hid everything, mocking him with silence.

He kept moving.

Handhold. Pull. Crampon. Kick.

Ice axe. Strike.

Every few meters, the scene pulled inward— zooming tight into the cracked skin of his knuckles, the raw red burn across his fingers, the way pain flickered in his eyes but refused to stay. He blinked it away, jaw clenched, breath ragged.

Then the perspective snapped back out—wide and brutal. The world nothing but a vertical wasteland.

White sky. White ground.

His tiny figure clinging to the wall, a smudge of life in a place built to erase it.

The climb blurred into a cycle of ache and resolve. A slip here.

A scrape there.

The mountain stealing little pieces of him every time he dared to move.

His fingertips grew stiff. His shoulders burned. His lungs felt too small for the thin air clawing its way inside.

But he didn’t stop.

Not when the wind tried to peel him off the cliff. Not when his footing skittered.

Not when his bleeding hand made every grip feel like grabbing broken glass.

He kept going.

Because the alternative was dying at the bottom of this icy bastard— and he’d be damned if he let it all end that way.

His axe slammed into the final ledge.

He grunted, dragged himself up one last time—

And then—

His fingers brushed over flat ground.

Stone. Frosted. Stable.

After all the slips. After all the cuts.

After all the ways the mountain— No. This entire place tried to kill him, he survived.

Aegan’s hand finally grazed the top of the summit.

He heart lept for joy as he dragged himself up to the peak and rolled over. Hands over his eyes, and he thanked God it was finally over.

[ Congratulations on a successful Adept Trial.

The portal in front of you will lead you back to your world.]

He was still sprawled on the mountain’s summit as he read the message.

Finally turning his head to the side to see the portal.

A swirl of ethereal wave like colours, moving like shadows in the wind yet stationary in position.

Aegon groaned as he dragged himself off the ground. "Let’s finally get out of this hellhole."