Chapter 18: Progress.

Earth, muscles rigid, hands unable to form fists. Damon, for his part, felt his lungs burn, as if every breath were being forcibly sucked out. His entire body screamed to remain still.

The leader of the Hounds took a step forward. His boot sank into the mud. The scraping sound of metal as he raised the blade was the only sound in the suffocating silence. He looked at Damon with that animal calm—a predator facing defenseless prey.

“I’ll start with you,” he said, as if commenting on the weather.

His arm began to descend.

And then—clack—the carriage door opened.

Three women came in. Two of them, ordinary servants, in simple dresses, their eyes hesitant. The third, however… the third didn’t seem to fit in.

She was a maid—at least, that’s what her uniform suggested. But her bearing said otherwise. She didn’t carry herself like someone accustomed to serving, but rather like someone accustomed to being obeyed. The clean fabric, the erect posture, the soft, calculating gaze.

Her eyes met Damon’s.

And then, before his very sight, something impossible to ignore flashed:

[Progress 45%]

He’s not important. There was no time for this.

The woman shifted her gaze to the leader of the Hounds. She inhaled slowly and let out a cold sigh. A fine mist escaped from her mouth and danced in the air.

The leader laughed.

“And what’s this? A pretty doll to distract me?” he said, looking her up and down. “You’re a real hottie. I’d give anything to have you.”

She didn’t answer. She simply walked toward Damon, her steps soft but imbued with a strange gravity.

She knelt beside him. Damon felt a strange chill, as if the surroundings were different.

“You are weak.” The voice was neutral, almost detached. “Get strong.”

She picked up the spear lying on the ground. The metal still bore dark stains from the last fight.

“I going to show something,” she said, glancing at him before rising. “Pay attention.”

The leader snorted.

“Show? Show me, go on. I want to see…”

She moved to throw.

It was… simple. A single swing. No shout, no exaggeration. Just a fluid, natural spin.

But then… the world flashed.

The moment before, the leader’s men had stood firm, ready to attack or watch. The moment after… they were all dead.

Not just dead.

Their bodies were cut into pieces, and each fragment was frozen solid, like grotesque sculptures of ice and flesh. Frozen blood floated in the air in tiny red shards. There was no scream, no action—only the silence of an instantaneous end.

The cold intensified. Damon saw steam rise from his own mouth. The ground was covered in a thin layer of ice where the shards fell.

Only the leader remained standing.

He blinked, trying to understand, his eyes wide.

“…What was that?” his voice trembled.

Ester swung the spear once, slowly, letting a few frozen shards fall to the ground. “You talk too much.”

The man swung his sword harder. His murderous aura returned, but it no longer held the same weight. Still, he advanced, perhaps more out of pride than courage.

His blade sliced through the air toward her neck.

A dry sound echoed—thud—as the butt of the spear hit the ground.

The cold exploded. Ice crystals erupted from the metal of the man’s sword, running along the edge until, with a sharp crack, the blade snapped in half.

He stared at the broken piece as if it were impossible.

Ester took a step forward. The tip of the spear touched the center of his chest.

“From now on, I will kill you slowly,” Ester said with an icy glare.

The leader tried to maintain his posture. The muscles in his neck tensed, sweat began to freeze on his skin. He tried to take a step back, but the spear tip followed him, unmoving, as if attached to him.

“You’re… bluffing…” his voice trailed off.

Ester didn’t respond. She simply gave the spear a slight twist. The twist was gentle, but enough to cause the temperature around him to plummet. The layer of ice beneath his feet began to crackle, creeping up the soles of his boots, pinning him in place.

He tried to lift the broken sword, but his fingers refused to obey. When I looked, I noticed his skin was turning pale, taking on a bluish hue.

“Do you feel it?” Ester said, stepping a little closer. “It’s the cold… getting into your bones. It’s the beginning.”

She then withdrew her spear and, in an almost eerie movement, sliced the air in front of his face. It didn’t hit him directly—but the effect was immediate. A beam of frozen air passed close to his cheek, and a thin, white line formed on his skin. He tried to scream, but his voice failed.

“Your men… died too quickly,” Ester continued calmly. “You… won’t have that kind.”

Damon, still on the ground, watched everything with wide eyes. This wasn’t a fight. There was no exchange of blows. It was an execution. And worse: Ester was toying with her victim.

The leader tried to fight back again, but as he tried to move his leg, he felt something break. He looked down and saw that his own calf was covered in solid ice. He couldn’t feel his leg anymore.

Ester took another step, her shadow covering his body like a heavy cloak.

“You like to talk… to brag…” She tilted her head, watching him as if he were an experiment. “Let’s see how long your tongue lasts.”

Before he could understand, the spear blade passed in front of his mouth. There was no blood. Only a dry silence. He tried to speak—but felt nothing. The air that escaped his mouth formed a white cloud, and small, translucent shards fell to the ground… along with a frozen chunk of flesh.

Terror finally overcame pride. The leader writhed, trying to pull away, but each movement only spread more ice across his body.

“Do you want me to stop?” Ester said, leaning down so her eyes were level with his. “Then… ask.”

He tried, but all that came out was a muffled, formless sound.

Ester sighed. “Then let’s continue.”

The cold in the air thickened. Damon, even a few feet away, began to shiver. Small flowers of ice formed in the leader’s hair. The man was no longer the predator he’d been minutes ago—just a cornered animal, trapped by his own arrogance.

Extended for the shot.

The tip of Ester’s shot glinted in the gray light of the overcast sky, reflecting a cruel cold that felt like sugar to the last trace of hope in the man trapped in its icy embrace. Her blue eyes, piercing and crossed like knives, fixed on the leader of the Hounds, who trembled like a child before a storm.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Her voice was sweet, almost a suggestion that contrasted sharply with the brutality of her actions. “This cold… it’s not just physical. It’s your soul breaking. Every frozen fragment, every piece you lose, is a piece of your pride, your courage… your humanity.”

The leader swallowed, his trembling lips trying to form words, but all that came out was a frozen breath, his strength failing him as the ice consumed him.

Damon, still fallen, watched with wide eyes, a mixture of horror and fascination growing in his chest. The figure moving before him was no mere ally—it was a torment. A winter goddess who, with a cold smile and an insatiable thirst for suffering, turned every second into a seemingly eternal torture.

He saw Ester’s deadly beauty—her imposing pose, the gaze that seemed capable of freezing not only the body, but the heart and mind—and understood something terrible: she was a mad sadist, someone for whom the pain and suffering of others were not just tools, but a spectacle to be enjoyed.

The leader of the Hounds could barely move as the spear spun toward him once more, the air splitting in a shard of crystals that glittered like black diamonds. The cold crept in, licking at his muscles, freezing his veins, as he felt the weight of a thousand winters pressing down on his chest, stealing his breath.

“I will show you the true meaning of winter,” Ester murmured, almost singing. “Not the one that touches only the skin… but the one that defeats the soul, piece by piece.”

With a slow, cruel movement, the spearhead pierced his shoulder, sinking into the flesh and freezing the wound in a burst of ice. The leader spoke, an agonized sound that turned into a muffled groan as the coldness spread inward like a crystal serpent.

Ester leaned closer, her face close to his, her eyes shining with a glacial light and a sickening satisfaction. “You will feel everything… every bit of it. Because quick death is for the weak. I prefer to see fear growing, hope dying slowly.”

The leader tried to free himself, but each movement only deepened the cold, his muscles contracting and paralyzing in a painful dance of suffering.

Damon tried to get up, but he felt paralyzed by the scene, by the sadistic madness emanating from that woman. His heart pounded, a mixture of relish and a strange fascination. This was no ordinary battle. It was a living nightmare.

“And now…” Ester whispered, with a smile that cut like a blade, “you will watch your own destruction. And I will be here to cherish every moment.”

With a final, slow twist of the spear, a thread of cutting ice slid across the leader’s neck, not enough to kill him outright, but enough to elicit more screams of agony as the ice spread, crystallizing his vocal cords, freezing his expression in an eternal mask of pain.

Damon felt dizzy as he recounted it. The scene before him was a portrait of horror and morbid beauty. Ester was no savior, nor a heroic warrior—she was a cruel spectacle, a winter queen who ruled by fear and suffering.

The leader, trapped in that icy, cruel embrace, finally lost consciousness, his body a cold, broken statue.

Ester turned to Damon, her cold, cruel smile widening. “Get up. Let’s go.”

She walked past Damon and headed toward the carriage…

“That… was beautiful,” Damon mused. That scene was etched in her mind… Ester stopped immediately and turned to see Damon staring at the dead body of the man who had nearly killed him…

“B-beautiful?” Ester stammered to herself.

[You learned more about Ester Deathstriker…]

[Progress 55%]

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