Chapter 126: Underground Vault [2]

…in the game? Too many to count.

Each time, I’d waltz right up to it, thinking this is the run, only to get punted halfway back to the entrance by the Wampa—or worse, cursed into a bug-eyed toad for five minutes straight.

So, yeah. I had beef with that sword.

Alice stepped closer, her eyes fixed on the blade. She didn’t even flinch from the chill in the air—it rolled off her like it had no permission to touch her. Typical.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

It was. The sword had a sleek, slender design—not bulky or brutish, but regal. Elegant. The kind of weapon you’d see in paintings, wielded by kings with tragic fates. Its silver sheen glowed faintly, and frost had formed a perfect circle around its base.

But I wasn’t admiring.

That sword was the trigger. The tripwire. The Hello, you’re dead moment.

Every instinct I had screamed that this was the part where the music would change, the boss bar would appear, and a massive furry hand would punch me into the ceiling.

But nothing happened.

Not yet.

I scanned the surroundings—no hidden glyphs, no magic circles glowing beneath our feet, no angry Wampa dropping from the ceiling like a demonic chandelier.

Still, that weight in the air hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was pressing harder. Like the vault itself was holding its breath.

While I was busy checking for traps—or worse, a Wampa—Alice crept forward, her gaze locked on the sword like she was under some kind of spell.

She slowly reached out toward the blade.

My heart jumped into my throat.

“Alice—wait!” I hissed, already halfway into a flinch, ready to dive behind the nearest pillar.

“It’s a trap! You can’t just pull that damn sword out!”

Her fingers brushed the hilt.

I braced for impact. An explosion. A shockwave. An alarm. A roar. A blast of mana cleaving the room in two.

But…

Nothing.

No noise. No flash of light. Just a heavy, eerie silence.

For a second, I thought maybe we got lucky.

But then—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Footsteps. Heavy ones.

They echoed from the far end of the warehouse—each one deliberate, each one spelling doom.

The Wampa.

Wrapped in thick white fur, the guardian deity of this place stepped into view. Massive. Intimidating. Its frame towered over everything, its presence suffocating.

It stood directly across from Alice, the sword now between them. With a low growl, it raised its right arm and swung it slowly through the air—like a warning. Or a challenge.

“ROAR!”

The noise shook the very floor.

But Alice didn’t flinch.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t even seem to notice.

She was staring at the sword like the rest of the world had gone mute.

“Alice!” I shouted. “That sword’s defective! It won’t budge! Let’s fall back—I’ll hold it off, just—!”

Swish.

A cold, metallic sound cut through my voice like a knife. The sound of steel grinding against stone.

The sword… was moving.

She was pulling it out.

I stood frozen as the blade slid free with a final, echoing ring that seemed to still the air itself.

And then—

“…Prove it.”

The Wampa spoke.

A monster—everyone said it was mute. An instinctual beast.

But it spoke.

Its voice was deep, primal, ancient.

“Prove it. Prove it. Prove it.”

It chanted the phrase like a broken record, over and over, pounding each syllable into the room like drumbeats.

Then, it raised its massive fist—not toward Alice, but toward the sword. Or maybe…

To whatever she had become the moment she touched it.

Alice turned slowly.

Her eyes… weren’t the same.

Gone was the muted exhaustion, the wary gaze of a noble dragged into dungeon-delving politics. What stared back now was something colder, older. Her irises shimmered faintly, flickering like silver flames dancing in a windless void.

She held the sword loosely, almost like it weighed nothing at all.

The Wampa stood across from her, breathing heavily, the ground trembling under each exhale. Its arms were raised in anticipation—but not in rage. Not yet.

This wasn’t an ambush.

This was a trial.

“Prove it,” the Wampa repeated, voice like grinding mountains. “Prove you are the heir.”

Heir?

Oh hell no.

I took a cautious step back, trying to wrap my head around what was happening.

This was not in the game. The Wampa never talked. Never chanted. Never challenged. It just murdered you six ways to Sunday and waited for your respawn.

And Alice?

She wasn’t her anymore. Not just Alice.

She was something else now.

The frost around her feet spiraled outward, drawing intricate patterns in the floor, like ancient seals responding to her presence. Magic curled around her like wisps of silk—elegant and dangerous.

“My Lady?” I asked, voice a little too high-pitched for my liking. “You good?”

She blinked slowly, as if dragging her mind out from under a mountain of memory. Her gaze softened slightly when it found me.

“…I’m fine,” she said.

Then she turned back to the Wampa.

And charged.

“No no no no no—what are you doing?!”

The Wampa roared and stomped forward to meet her, fists clenched like hammers forged for war.

THOOM!

The Wampa’s fist came crashing down, a blur of white fur and raw muscle.

WHOOSH!—

Alice barely ducked in time—the air cracked as the massive blow smashed into the stone floor, sending cracks rippling out like spiderwebs.

She slid backward, boots skidding against frost-covered tiles.

Clang!

Her sword clashed against the Wampa’s forearm as it swiped sideways, the sheer force of the parry throwing her off balance. She gritted her teeth and pivoted mid-air, using the recoil to roll onto her feet—but she wasn’t fast enough.

WHAM!

A backhanded swing sent her flying across the chamber.

“Lady!” I shouted, already scrambling toward her.

She hit the ground with a grunt, her body skidding across the stone before she dug the sword into the floor to slow herself. Sparks flew as metal scraped against ice-hardened rock.

“…I’m fine,” she growled, but her voice was hoarse, tight.

The Wampa didn’t wait.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

It stomped toward her, each step like a drum of war. Its eyes—glowing faintly blue—locked onto her with something that wasn’t just bloodlust.

Judgment.

Alice stood again, slower this time. She twisted her grip on the sword, trying to reset her stance, but her hands were trembling. Not with fear. With strain.

Her mana was flaring, visible now as pale threads of silver streaming around her. But it was unstable—flickering, stuttering.

Too much, too fast.

“I’m not—done,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

The Wampa lunged, and she met it mid-charge.

CLANG! CLANG! WHOOM!

Blow after blow rained down. Alice parried, blocked, twisted her body with a dancer’s precision—but each clash pushed her back. She managed to nick its arm once—shing!—but the creature didn’t even flinch.

Its strength was monstrous. Unnatural.

Alice feinted low, then leapt to the side, trying to create distance, but—

CRACK!

The Wampa’s fist hit the wall instead, sending debris flying. A chunk of marble nearly clocked me in the head.

“Okay,” I muttered, ducking. “So maybe I don’t hold it off. That would’ve been a mistake.”

She was breathing hard now, sweat dripping down her temple despite the cold.

I could see it—her stance faltering, her foot sliding just an inch too far on the frost, her swings getting heavier, slower.

She wasn’t used to this.

Not this version of the sword. Not this kind of trial.

The sword had accepted her, sure—but it hadn’t given her control.

Not yet.

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