The air changed the moment they entered.
It reeked of iron, of old frost, of pain that refused to die.
---
From the frozen depths came a cry.
Not a roar.
Not a threat.
A scream—wet, wounded, maternal.
---
The pale serpent coiled itself tight, body torn, blood spilling down its flank.
It wrapped around its last egg, shaking as though the cold had finally reached its bones.
Its white scales were cracked, brittle like old porcelain.
Its gaze was not hatred.
It was grief.
---
Behind it, the remains of two shattered eggs glistened—crushed under the weight of a horned beast now retreating into shadow.
Its hunger sated.
Its cruelty casual.
---
Lyne stepped forward.
The Odachi rested against her shoulder—taller than she was.
Its edge hummed in the cold.
Her pulse kept time with the blade.
---
She looked into the serpent's eye.
And in that moment—it looked back.
Not a beast. Not a monster.
Just a mother too late to protect what remained.
---
A voice whispered from within her—not divine, not Sightless.
Just her own quiet doubt.
Is this justice… or execution?
---
Her hands tightened on the hilt.
The thought remained, like a thorn beneath the skin.
But the blade fell anyway.
---
Steel whispered. Ice screamed.
The first slash tore through scales.
The second opened muscle.
The third bled silence into snow.
---
The serpent lashed weakly, blindly. It did not flee.
It only curled tighter—around the last egg it could never protect.
---
Lyne kept swinging.
One slash. Then ten. Then a hundred.
Her breath turned to frost. Her arms, to iron.
---
Blood spilled hot over her boots.
Each cut took part of her with it.
500.
1,000.
5,000.
10,000.
Still she moved.
Still the serpent endured.
---
By the 20,000th strike, it had stopped moving.
Its body lay still, coiled eternally around a cracked shell.
Its last gaze—a silent question that would never be answered.
---
A whisper returned:
[20,000 / 20,000 slashes completed]
[You have slain the Pale Serpent]
[You have unlocked the forgotten skill: Forgotten Slash]
---
Lyne lowered the Odachi.
Not in triumph.
In fatigue. In sorrow.
The blade shimmered—cold, alive, hungry.
She did not.
---
Beneath her feet, the serpent's blood began to freeze.
Its warmth gone.
Its memory, already fading into white.
She turned her back to the corpse and walked into the storm.