2026-03-14 09:01:57
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Chapter 52. The Great Harvest
That sound was not a scream. It was the sound of the universe tearing apart. WUUUUUUUUUNG! In Oliver’s hand, The Extractor vibrated violently, like a jet engine forced into reverse gear. Its crystal chamber was no longer clear. Inside, a vortex of neon-blue light spun wildly, the pure essence of Sloth. It felt like he was holding frozen lightning. The cold pierced through his gloves, through his skin, straight into the bones of his fingers. At the same time, there was heat. A strange heat, born from the friction of energy compressed far too densely. “DIE! DIE, YOU BASTARD!” Oliver shouted. His voice was swallowed by the storm of energy. In front of him, the Ice Giant’s face cracked into a thousand fractures. Sloth could not move. The Mithril needle embedded in its forehead locked it in total paralysis. Its eyes, hollow pits of ice, widened. Its vertical mouth gaped open, but no sound came out. Only cold vapor being sucked into the device in Oliver’s hand. [
Chapter 51. Life's Ultimate Gamble
At an altitude of fifty meters, the wind ceased to be mere air. It became a blade. Oliver clung to the Frost Giant’s face like a parasite on the hide of a rhinoceros. His mechanical left hand was driven deep into the glacial layers shielding Sloth’s cheek, his mithril fingers locked in a death grip to prevent the storm from sweeping him into the abyss. Below him lay a vertical drop to certain death. Above him, a sky filled with divine fury. Oliver’s breath crystallized the moment it left his lips. His lungs felt as though they were inhaling shards of broken glass. Every gasp was a desperate struggle against the hypothermia already shutting down his vital organs one by one. Beep... Beep... His artificial heart throbbed weakly. An indicator in his retina flashed a violent red, warning him that his core temperature had plummeted below the threshold of survival. [Core Temperature: 32°C] [Status: Stage 2 Hypothermia] [Advice: Seek immediate heat source]
Chapter 50. The Rampage of Sloth
The white world fell into suspended death.The pile of ice and snow, towering as high as a skyscraper, lay motionless over the place where Sloth had been sleeping moments ago. No movement. No sound of breathing. Even the storm wind seemed afraid to blow near that frozen grave.Oliver lifted his head from behind the protective rock. His face was pale, his lips blue, and his eyebrows had turned into crystals of ice. He stared toward the avalanche with his diamond-like eyes blinking weakly.“Did it hit?” Claire asked beside him. She was brushing snow off the lens of her scope with trembling hands. “That was thousands of tons, Ver. Even a dragon’s neck would snap.”“It should have,” Oliver replied hoarsely. He tried to stand, but his legs cramped violently. “The falling momentum was perfect. The angle was perfect.”They waited.One second. Ten seconds. One minute.No system notification appeared.The display in
Chapter 49. Waking the Giant
The wind on that frozen plain did not just blow. It bit. It felt like thousands of tiny piranhas tearing at any skin left uncovered. Oliver stood behind a mound of snow, his body wrapped only in a thin shirt and a torn suit jacket. His thick winter coat, the only reasonable defense against the minus forty degree temperature, was now on Claire. “You sure this is going to work?” Claire asked. Her voice trembled, white vapor escaping her mouth every time she spoke. She pulled Oliver’s jacket tighter around herself, trying to absorb whatever warmth still lingered in the fabric. “We’re going to kill a Sleeping God with a chunk of ice?” “Not a chunk of ice,” Oliver corrected. His teeth chattered so violently it felt like they might shatter. “We’re using gravity. That ice spike up there weighs thousands of tons. If it falls at the right angle, the momentum will be enough to separate his head from his body.” Oliver pointed at the massive ice cliff hanging directly above Sloth’s sleepi
Chapter 48. The Frozen Field of Apathy
White. As far as the eye can see, there is nothing but white, a brightness painful to the retina. White sky, white ground, white air. The snowstorm in this arena is no ordinary storm. The snowflakes are sharp like powdered glass, and the wind does not just batter the body, it strips away the will to keep standing. The air temperature is minus forty-two degrees Celsius. In the human world, a temperature like this is enough to freeze gasoline. Here, amplified by the magic of Purgatory, the cold pierces through thick jackets, through skin, and clamps directly onto the marrow of the bones. “Step... two thousand... three hundred... forty-one...” Oliver’s voice sounds faint, swallowed by the roaring wind. He walks at the front, head lowered against the gale. His hands are shoved into the pockets of the thick jacket he bought, but his left hand, the Mit
Chapter 47. The Winner's Reward
The silence in the Rest Area felt different this time. After the First Round, the atmosphere had been tense because of overflowing adrenaline. Now the atmosphere was dead. It felt like a rotting corpse had been hidden beneath an expensive carpet, and everyone was pretending they could not smell it. Oliver sat on a red velvet sofa, a glass of whiskey in his right hand. He was not drinking it. He simply watched the ice cubes slowly melt, forming a quiet swirl of water inside the glass. Across the room, Throg was snoring loudly on the floor. The orc was physically exhausted. His new armor looked dented in several places, but he smiled in his sleep. Maybe he was dreaming about Griz. And Claire... Claire was asleep on the long couch near a fake window displaying a digital tropical beach. She was curled up, hugging her tactical waist pouch tightly like a body pillow. Her face looked peaceful. Innocent. There was no trace of the cold killer who had shot a Dark Elf in the head and pun
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