Qing turned slowly, his eyes locked on Chillscourge's lifeless form. The dragon's massive, mangled head lay before him, a gruesome testament to the fierce battle they had just waged. Its skull was shattered, shards of bone protruding like jagged peaks from a landscape of charred, blackened flesh. The once-fearsome eyes, now dim and hollow, stared blankly into the icy void. The ground around the dragon was littered with debris—scales, bone fragments, and patches of dark, frozen blood.

Each step sent a shiver through his already exhausted body as Qing approached, the biting cold seeping through his armour and into his bones. He carefully navigated the treacherous terrain, mindful to keep his eyes mostly closed. The air was thick with the lingering scent of burned dragon. Kind of reminded Qing of grilled chorizo sausages mixed with anti-freeze.

Qing circled the beast.

Damn, that is one big bad mother trucker.

Qing traced a hand along the creature's flank, feeling the coldness of its flesh and the rough texture of its armoured hide.

He knew better than to assume victory too soon, especially against such a formidable foe.

As he completed his cautious circuit, Qing's gaze caught a faint glimmer within Chillscourge's gaping maw.

Loot?

He inched closer, still wary of any lingering danger. Putting your hand in a dragon's mouth wasn't exactly the smartest thing to do, but…

The dragon's ruined teeth surrounded a pool of blue-black ichor, and nestled within, something gleamed.

Qing hesitated, then swiftly reached, grabbed it, and snapped his hand back out before hopping back.

The dragon didn't move.

Qing sighed in relief, and then looked down at the pair of pristine boots he'd looted. They appeared to be made of pure magic—a swirling vortex of snow and ice contained within a transparent, crystalline material. The miniature storm raged just beneath the surface, giving the impression of barely contained power.

The boots radiated magic.

Item: [Avalanche Riders, Level 20, Legendary]

Boots made from Chillscourge's command over the winter storms. They appear to be made of swirling snow contained within a transparent, boot-shaped barrier.

+230 Defense

+20 Intelligence

+20 Agility

+25% Cold Resistance

Winter's Gait: Once per hour, summon a localized blizzard that follows your movements for 30 seconds, reducing visibility for enemies and slowing their movement.

(Boots, Feet)

Qing instantly equipped them and stood flexing his toes, marvelling at the immediate comfort they provided.

He sighed contentedly.

The biting cold that had plagued him since entering the Howling Expanse retreated, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread from his feet upwards. He took a few experimental steps, noting how the boots seemed to mould perfectly to his feet, better than any boots asking him to just do it.

Careful of getting trapped in another vision, Qing surveyed the frozen wasteland stretching out before him. he couldn't linger here. Despite the newfound warmth from his boots, the Expanse was still a deadly place. He needed to press on, to find the path beyond this frozen hell and follow it to whatever was fuelling hell's drain on their energy. With a deep breath, he started walking, the Avalanche Riders crunching softly on the ice.

With no visual landmarks, Qing had tried to read the map of the battle to find out where he'd been coming from. Based on where the remains of the first bulwark lay, he'd pieced out what was most likely the right direction, and he set off.

As he trudged forward, letting his mana regenerate, a troubling thought crossed Qing's mind. He pondered the possibility that Chillscourge might have a buddy or two lurking about. Qing couldn't help but do the classic horror movie move of glancing behind him, half-expecting to see the dragon's big brother photobombing the icy skyline. The thought meeting another Chillscourge-esque dragon made him speed up, and he sprinted across the ice. He'd already had his fill of reptilian kaiju for one day.

Qing glanced at his status screen as he set off. He was so close to leveling that he could almost taste it.

As the minutes turned into hours, Qing felt the toll of everything he'd done since entering hell start to weigh on him. He might have the stamina and durability of a superhero, but this was stretching it. He hadn't slept since…the jungle.

He yawned.

The adrenaline from the fight had long since worn off, leaving exhaustion to seep into his bones. With his now warm and cozy toeses, sleep started singing its tempting lulaby, but he knew he couldn't afford to lay down here. He'd never wake.

As he travelled on pure determination, it was only a matter of time before his concentration faltered, and without meaning to, he found himself looking closer at a figure in the ice.

It was an absolutely gorgeous girl. She seemed so out of place amidst the ice, her presence both startling and mesmerizing, and Qing's heart struck twice, making it feel as if it skipped a beat.

He stared a second too long.

It was his wife. Her familiar face a beautiful beacon amid the surreal surroundings. She stood in the doorway of their home, a magnificent French Concession mansion in the heart of Shanghai. Intricate wooden carvings covered the facade, and the delicate flowers and mythical creatures were as captivating as ever. Sunlight reflected off the large, gleaming windows, casting its customary warm, golden glow across the threshold where his wife stood, offering her usual welcoming wave.

He smiled back. She was wearing the red and blue qipao she'd got for her birthday. Stunning.

Somewhere inside, their son would be waiting, perhaps running around the living room, his laughter echoing through the halls.

Today was special—Qing had managed to leave the bank early. No tedious overtime, no obligatory baijiu drinks—just a quiet evening at home with his family, a rare and treasured occurrence.

The familiar scent of jasmine tea wafted through the air, mingling with the aroma of his wife's signature hongshaorou simmering in the kitchen. Qing could almost taste the tender pork belly, its rich flavors promising a comforting meal after a long day at work.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The leather briefcase felt heavy in his hand, but soon he'd put that down.

Qing stepped forward, reaching out, his arms wide, ready to embrace his wife and plant a loving kiss on her lips. But just as he was about to reached her, an inexplicable resistance stopped him. It was as if he had slammed into an invisible glass wall. His hands pressed against the barrier. Like a desperate mime, he hammered against the unseen obstruction that kept him from his family.

Confusion and panic flooded through him as he pushed harder, his palms flattening against the unyielding surface as the temperature dropped.

Inside the house, just beyond his reach, Qing's gaze caught sight of a small foot peeking out from around the corner. It was his son, frozen mid-rush. The boy had been running to greet his father.

Qing's heart clenched at the sight. He could almost hear the phantom echo of his son's laughter, could almost feel the weight of the child leaping into his arms. But the foot remained motionless.

Tears streamed down Qing's face as the harsh reality sank in. The truth crashed over him like a cold wave: none of this was real. He hadn't made the choice to go to China for high school. He hadn't met his wife, hadn't dated her, hadn't gone through those years together at university. This beautiful scene, this idyllic family life—it was all a cruel illusion, a dream of what could have been.

Qing's vision blurred as he stared at that tiny foot, his son's face refusing to come into focus.

The happiness that seemed so tangible just seconds ago evaporated, leaving behind a void that threatened to swallow him whole.

The weight of regret bore down on him, threatening to crush him beneath its immense pressure. This wasn't the first time he'd glimpsed a life of joy only to have it ripped away. Memories of Kaela flooded back, mixing with this new vision of domestic bliss in Shanghai. Two lives, two futures, both denied to him by the choices he'd made—or hadn't made.

Qing's legs gave way, and he sank to his knees on the icy ground. The cold seeped through his clothes, but it was nothing compared to the chill that gripped his heart.

He pressed his forehead against the invisible barrier, tears freezing on his cheeks. On the other side, his wife's welcoming smile remained frozen in time, an eternal reminder of what he'd lost. Qing closed his eyes, allowing himself to be consumed by grief for a life that was never truly his.

Qing's heart clenched as his thoughts shifted to Meimei. The vision of a life in Shanghai dissolved, replaced by the stark reality of what that choice would have meant for his relationship with his sister. He imagined her, alone and scared, facing her cancer diagnosis without him by her side. The thought of being unable to hold her hand during chemotherapy, to make her laugh when the pain became too much, or to simply be there when she needed him most, was almost unbearable.

And he wouldn't have been in Chicago when Quaxinor'ay chose the champions. He would have missed his chance to come to Elrydisan, to grow stronger, to learn magic. And without them, how could he hope to save Meimei?

With a roar that echoed across the frozen wasteland, Qing channeled his anger and frustration into a powerful Arcane Explosion.

Again and again, he cast the spell until he woke to find himself kneeling on the ice, a grey goo all that remained of the maggots that had come forth to feed on him.

Qing's chest heaved as he surveyed the destruction around him. His lips curled into a snarl as he spat out a single word. "Enough."

With renewed resolve, Qing began to Blink across the landscape, slapping himself every now and then to stay awake. And this time, he kept his eyes tightly shut, refusing to let any more visions ensnare him. He took only brief glances to ensure he was still on course, each peek carefully timed and controlled.

* * *

Qing stood at the base of a colossal wall, his neck craned back as he tried to comprehend its sheer magnitude. The mirror-like surface stretched endlessly upwards, its reflective ice capturing and distorting the visions of the Howling Expanse behind him. He forced his gaze away from the seductive illusions, focusing instead on the task at hand.

The wall had looked like a low bank at first, then a massive mountain ridge, before finally revealing its true height. It soared taller than any skyscraper he'd seen.

With a determined grunt, Qing drew his glaive and swung it at the wall. The blade connected with a dull thud, barely chipping the surface. He struck again and again, each blow leaving only the faintest mark.

Instead, he channeled his energy, casting Arcane Explosion. The spell burst against the ice in a brilliant flash of purple light, but when the glow faded, the wall remained unmarred. Undeterred, Qing launched a volley of Magic Missiles. The arcane projectiles struck their target, creating three small dimples in the otherwise smooth surface.

Qing sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that's just great. A few million more of those and I might make a dent."

He glanced upwards, considering the possibility of blinking to the top. The wall seemed to stretch infinitely into the sky, its summit lost in the swirling, icy mists above.

"If I miss, that's one hell of a fall," Qing said. "And without Divine Light... well, let's just say I'm not keen on becoming a Qing-pancake."

He chuckled to himself, the level of his jokes a clear measure of just how tired he'd become.

Qing stared at the imposing barrier, his mind churning with doubt. Had Raphael sent him out here just to die? Maybe there was nothing on the other side, nor any way through.

He shook his head, pushing the negative thoughts aside.

I'm already here. Might as well look for this so-called path.

With a determined set to his jaw, Qing jogged and blinked along the barrier. And just when the journey seemed hopeless, something caught his eye.

Qing skidded to a halt, squinting into the distance. There, barely visible against the stark icy wall, was a tiny black opening. As he approached, his heart sank.

This can't be what Raphael meant, can it?

The hole was minuscule, hardly deserving of being called an entrance. It was more like a chute, a flaw in the otherwise seamless barrier. Qing stood before it and swallowed.

The air around the opening shimmered with an unnatural heat, a stark contrast to the biting cold. Dark tendrils of energy writhed at its edges as if the shadows were alive.

Qing eyed the hole warily, a grim chuckle escaping his lips. "Maybe this is hell's asshole."

The thought of squeezing through such a tight space made his skin crawl. Memories of being trapped in the air channel of Zylphadia's Grand Library came flooding back, and he shuddered.

"Nope. This can't be it. Definitely not," he said and turned away, blinking on, determined to find a more reasonable path. Where there was one 'path', there had to be others.

One blink, then another, and another. But after the third, Qing stopped short. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Reluctantly, he turned back towards the tiny, foreboding hole.

"Who am I kidding? Of course that's the place I need to go. This is hell, and that's the worst possible path I can imagine." He stood, hands on hips, and tipped his head backwards. "Fuck!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the wall.

He head back.

Qing leaned in, his heart pounding as he peered into the dark opening. The hole seemed to pulse with malevolent energy, and his mind raced with terrifying possibilities. Spiders with razor-sharp mandibles, writhing masses of parasitic worms, swarms of hellish bees with stingers dripping venom…

"It can be anything. But I'd bet a hot baozi it won't be nothing." He sighed. "Maybe it'll be a demonic death swarm of chickens?"

He shook his head, trying to dispel the ridiculous thought, but his imagination ran wild, picturing feathered fiends with glowing red eyes and beaks that would strip flesh from bone in seconds.

"Get it together, man. This isn't helping."

He closed his eyes for a moment, centring himself. "The only way is forward," he said. "And as long as I can see out, I can blink back." He clapped his hands together and loosened his shoulders. "I can do this."

With a final steadying breath, Qing pushed his head and shoulders into the opening. The walls seemed to constrict around him, but he pressed on, inching forward into the unknown.

What felt like an eternity later, Qing tumbled out on the other side. His body was a canvas of cuts and bruises, blood trickling from numerous wounds. He shivered violently, as much from shock as from the bone-deep chill that permeated his being.

"Goddamn shit-covered hellspawn!" he roared, wiping blood from his eyes. "Fucking razor-toothed leeches and acid-spitting centipedes!"

Qing's voice echoed in the empty space, raw with fury and pain. "Who the fuck designed this place?"

His mind reeled as he recalled the horrors he'd endured. The passage had been a nightmare made real—pulsating walls of living flesh that threatened to crush him, swarms of creatures with too many eyes and limbs, and whispers that filled his head with visions that would make a Hollywood producer run for pen and paper.

The stench still clung to him, a miasma of decay and corruption that made him gag.

"If I ever get to talk to God," Qing said with a growl, "I'm going to have a serious chat with Him about the design of hell. It fucking sucks!"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. For a moment, he felt tears threatening to spill, but he forced them back, taking deep, steadying breaths.

"I'm through," he said firmly, his voice still shaky but determined. "I walked... I crawled through the shadow of hell's asshole. And now I'm..."

Qing trailed off, finally taking in his surroundings. The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Where the fuck am I?"