How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game Chapter 688: Frozen Trials 2

Riley had long realized that faith would play a role sooner or later.

Divinity never thrived in isolation.

It drew strength, expanded, and molded itself through conviction—the shared determination of people who gazed skyward and projected their desires, terrors, and insanity onto a superior entity.

This was a straightforward idea, one that Eris had casually brought up to him ages ago.

Not in caution, but as plain reality.

And even during the game days, despite the mechanics staying vague, Riley grasped it well enough.

Deities could evolve via destiny.

Via conviction.

Via devotees.

Thus, for a risen entity like himself, it was just a question of when that avenue would unlock.

Few paths remained for him to boost his strength—not with Erebil approaching like an unavoidable disaster.

If faith could serve as kindling, then rationally, overlooking it made no sense.

And it carried no evil in its core either.

At least... that's what he'd always assumed.

But this situation?

It was a whole different beast.

Riley remained rooted in place while shadowy, vaporous tendrils lifted from the motionless forms strewn over the iced surface.

The murky essence coiled bizarrely, as though directed by some invisible force, before floating his way—merging with him.

One by one.

System alerts flashed without pause in front of his vision.

His divinity surged upward.

Consistently.

Swiftly.

Far too swiftly.

And then it hit him.

Ten thousand.

The massive influx of divinity weighing on his torso felt burdensome, like an immense and foreign presence had embedded itself in his essence.

It brought no ache—but it rang utterly incorrect.

Riley's brow furrowed, thoughts whirling.

Ten thousand divinity from just a few fallen cultists?

That shattered every bit of knowledge he held.

Even longstanding gods needed whole countries, ages of adoration, and precisely upheld teachings to gather such might.

Even Erebil’s adherents might yield her only one or perhaps ten divine sparks at their end...

And still—

He couldn't fathom how this occurred.

He'd never proclaimed godhood to them.

Never welcomed their supplications.

Never heeded any cry.

He doesn't even recognize them.

So why?

Why did their passing nourish him?

Why did the system count them as his devotees?

His eyes drifted gradually to the elder, who kept cackling wildly, bowed among the cadavers with joyful tears tracing his creased features.

A cold epiphany seeped into Riley’s mind.

These folks weren't revering a deity.

They were revering an irregularity.

Something vague. Something unowned.

And for some reason—be it chance, error, or destiny’s cruel jest—they had fixed on him.

"...This is bad," Riley whispered to himself.

Not due to the strength.

But due to its meaning.

Once bestowed, faith didn't break easily.

And once the cosmos set and validated a faith channel, it didn't just fade.

If conviction got embraced—if providence's rules themselves endorsed it—then Riley would tie himself to it.

That was the scary element.

Faith wasn't mere prayer or loyalty; it formed a pact.

One forged by cause and effect, upheld by the cosmos, and locked when divinity responded.

And given the rituals these individuals followed—the offerings, the torment, the fixation—it wasn't a base he desired involvement in.

Sure, worship styles could shift.

But once rooted, the rules didn't yield fast.

Providence moved deliberately, systematically, and harshly just.

Erasing what had sprouted would demand time... and fallout.

"This is turning way more complicated than I expected..." Riley grumbled.

As he saw it, nothing in his actions warranted divine pleas—least of all as a dark one.

Even amid all the gossip about him, even with the turmoil he trailed like a specter, nothing should have driven anyone to bow in adoration.

Not this intensely. Not to fanatic levels.

His divinity wasn't sacred, but it held no malice either.

It lingered in the middle.

An irregularity.

And yet—

"O–Oh great being!!!"

The cry shattered Riley’s reflections.

The elder—the sole survivor of the faithful—threw himself flat on the frosted ground, his brow slamming the ice repeatedly as his frame shook with wild delight.

Tears flowed down his cheeks, solidifying as they dropped.

"H–How could I be graced with your noble arrival...! This wretched mortal realm doesn't deserve you~!!!"

Riley regarded him with a blank look.

"...Sorry, but I’m not your lord."

The elder stiffened.

"N–Not my l–lord...?"

For a moment, quiet weighed down the chilled chamber.

Then—

"Haha..."

A frail, fractured chuckle slipped from the elder’s lips.

"...Hahahaha..."

The guffaws swelled, piercing, resounding insanely across the labyrinth.

"Yes... yes yes yes yes—that has to be it! Naturally! No chance our lord would appear here in person! Gahahaha!"

His eyes flew wide, veined and sparkling with deranged insight as he fixed on Riley.

"No way that grand drain could stem from a simple mortal... yes, yes, it fits... your immense strength... your aura..."

He bared his teeth in a grin, chattering with glee.

"Ah... you’re just like me!"

Hauling himself up as much as his mangled, bent form allowed, the elder straightened.

His frame wobbled, limbs rigid from frost and zealous strain, yet his gaze—those protruding, veined orbs—stayed riveted on Riley.

They seemed ready to pop free.

Lifting both arms to the iced roof, he bellowed with quivering awe, voice breaking amid piety and frenzy.

"An apostle!!!!! Ah—ahhh—to be favored by a comrade...!"

His breaths rasped, nearly weeping.

"But why is a kindred spirit here...? And why are you hindering our advance for the supreme entity—our great lord...???"

Riley's forehead creased a bit.

"I don’t know what delusion you're holding onto," he replied steadily, "but I’m not your fellow apostle either."

"Hahahaha!"

The elder erupted in mirth again, as if Riley’s rejection only strengthened his conviction.

"Oh brother, is this maybe a route our lord assigned you? A trial?

A fork in the grand scheme?" He bent ahead oddly, eyes blazing with delirious wonder.

"Ahh... yes... that has to be it."

Riley’s tolerance waned.

"...Since you’re claiming apostle status," he stated deliberately, "I figured you might prove helpful. But seeing your condition, I doubt it."

He halted, then his stare intensified.

"Tell me this instead. Where did this creed originate? When did this devotion ignite?"

The elder blinked, truly puzzled.

"What... what are you saying, brother???"

"And how," Riley pressed on, brushing him off, "do you possess a piece of my divinity?"

The chill deepened noticeably.

The elder’s face contorted—adoration twisting into affront, nearly aggression.

"Declaring the divine one’s divinity as yours won't stand," he snarled, "even if you are a fellow apostle, brother!"

Riley breathed out gradually.

"Sigh... I don’t think you can provide genuine answers."

His fingers moved toward his sword.

"Looks like my reliable companion will have more work."

He eyed the elder once more.

"But before you depart—can you at least say when this creed began?"

The elder cocked his head, mouth quivering as his thoughts struggled—and failed—to grasp Riley’s query.

"Huh...? It started... when it emerged, brother—"

The words trailed off unfinished.

A noiseless gleam sliced the frosted atmosphere.

The elder’s sight divided—straight through—as his form parted neatly at the middle.

Both sections drifted away, tumbling onto the frosty ground silently.

From the wreckage, murky vapor billowed skyward.

It coiled, squirmed... and then surged at Riley.

Before he could respond, it merged with him.

[Divinity absorbed.]

Riley remained motionless, gazing at the void left by the zealot.

"...Yeah," he murmured softly, jaw clenching.

"This is really bad."

....

"Uhk...!"

Snow faltered, her respiration catching as the ceaseless gale roared around her.

Her perceptions started to numb—not from wounds, but from persistence.

The dungeon's time twisted oddly, distorted and prolonged, leaving her unsure of her trek's length.

Minutes, hours... maybe more.

If pressed, she'd say hours had passed—but the doubt bit harder than the frost.

No matter her distance, the landscape stayed uniform.

Boundless white.

Boundless gusts.

Boundless hush under the tempest.

"...This isn’t normal," she whispered.

The drifts now hit her knees, compelling her to bolster her stance with mana to press on.

Every stride needed purpose.

Every motion called for vigilance.

Her mana pool was huge—sufficient to shield her frame from the chill for a day or two—but she recognized the limits.

Mana held no infinity.

Concentration had bounds.

And weariness snuck in slyly, steadily, awaiting an error.

Halting here sans cover meant death.

Snow lifted her right arm.

Crackle.

Pale blue radiance flared as rime swiftly spread in the space ahead.

Frost obeyed swiftly, fluidly, like it awaited her order.

With skilled control, she formed it—layer upon layer—arching the barriers inward until a compact dome like an igloo rose before her.

"...That should do."

She breathed out steadily, then slipped within.

The gale's fury muted at once, turned to a far-off, stifled wail. Within the dome, gloom gathered, dense and still.

Just the soft shine of her flowing mana lit the space, throwing faint gleams on the sleek frozen barriers.

Snow settled on a firm snow spot, her posture easing at last.

"...I can’t rush this," she said to herself softly.

She pulled her pale cloak snugger and leaned against the frozen barrier.

Shutting her eyes briefly, Snow regulated her breaths, compelling the swirl of feelings to calm.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Gradually, purposefully, she emptied her mind and sorted her facts.

This is a barren wilderness...

No markers. No shifts in ground. No hints of vitality.

Finding a hamlet, remnant, or natural haven seemed impossible.

The gale devoured all—noise, view, bearing.

Even blind wandering would drain her quicker.

Raw power fails here.

Her mana heeded her still, but she sensed it—gently curbed, as if an invisible force muted its potency over volume.

She could unleash force, but it missed its usual ease. Like weaving spells submerged: doable, yet wasteful.

To endure, escape the gale.

That stood clear.

Yet deeper reflection stirred unease.

This is a challenge.

Ordeals carried aim.

Structure.

Goal.

Her dome granted respite—time to recuperate, regain mana—but no fix.

She remained mortal. She required sustenance, heat, guidance. And still...

No beasts.

No beasts of burden.

No supplies.

Nothing typical in a endurance tale.

"If this aimed to probe stamina alone..." she said lowly, "there would be means to sustain it."

That void troubled her.

On surface, the blizzard seemed the ordeal—like gauging her tolerance for chill, solitude, drain.

But that clashed with supreme beings' usual designs.

Unless a snare.

They avoided injustice.

They invited resolution.

And this offered no survival aids.

Which means endurance isn't the true aim...

Her forehead wrinkled as a fresh idea emerged.

What if the blizzard wasn't foe?

What if it posed the query?

Her eyes parted slowly, shining soft blue in the dark as a recollection rose—Riley’s tone, steady and assured, uttered before dungeon entry.

"You will probably face a bit of trouble inside, but if it’s you, I doubt you’ll fail, Snow... after all, the cold is your ally. And if it ever comes down to it, you can always call for me."

A faint grin pulled at her mouth.

"The cold is my ally, huh...."

She released a gentle sigh, nearly a chuckle. Now, those words rang most paradoxical.

The chill here offered no solace. No kinship. It pressed—antagonistic in an unprecedented manner.

And yet...

That clash ignited a spark.

Snow lifted her right hand gradually, pooling mana in her grasp. It gleamed—faint, blue-white—vibrating softly with the surrounding frost.

The dome reacted right away, barriers shimmering as if greeting her.

Her focus turned to the opening.

Beyond, the tempest churned without end.

Snow mounted taller, poised to bury her completely.

Rather than dread, another feeling swelled in her heart.

Intrigue.

Her blue gaze sharpened vividly.

"Could it be...?"

The notion solidified, tentative first—then firmer.

What if I’m not meant to flee the cold...

Her digits clenched a touch.

...but command it?

As the concept anchored in her thoughts, the outer snow eased—just briefly—like the terrain paused in anticipation.

A response brewed.

And deep in the iced realm, an age-old presence stirred.