No! I don't want to be a Super Necromancer!

The fire was gone.

Damien stood tall on the one hundred ninety-ninth step, arms relaxed at his sides, eyes closed, face lifted faintly toward the glowing void above. Around him, the air simmered with oppressive heat, the last embers of the fire-infused steps crackling faintly as if searching for one final chance to burn him.

But they could not.

His body no longer responded to the flames with caution or resistance. It welcomed them, absorbed them, endured them with the composure of one who had learned fire's dance so intimately that its fury became music, not threat.

[Congratulations]

[Fire Immunity has reached 85%]

The system's message flashed softly in the corner of his consciousness, and for once, Damien allowed himself the quiet satisfaction of a smile. He had earned this. Every step had been savored, studied, internalized.

And now, as he stepped lightly onto the two hundredth stair, he left the fire behind completely, his body bearing no trace of heat or scorch.

The new world that greeted him was silent.

The air did not roar here. It whispered.

The stones of the steps, once glowing red and hot beneath his feet, were now coated in a sheen of white frost that glinted like crushed diamonds under a pale blue sky. Ice coated the surrounding air like a veil of mist, drifting gently, refracting light in a thousand tiny shards.

Each breath Damien drew in here felt sharp and clear, like breathing in clean glass. His muscles tensed involuntarily, and he knew the next hundred steps would not seek to burn him, they would seek to freeze him from the inside out.

But he took the step.

At first, it was manageable.

The cold came not with sudden shock but with creeping stillness. The kind of cold that didn't announce itself with a sting, but with the subtle tightening of skin, the slow dulling of sensation, the whisper that told your body it was safer not to move.

He climbed carefully, his body still relaxed from the fire, warmth still radiating faintly from his core. That inner heat gave him protection for the first few steps, but by the two hundred and fifteenth, it began to fade.

The ice had learned how to sneak past his defenses. It slipped through his skin and into his bones, curling around his lungs and coiling like a serpent around his spine.

Damien exhaled, and the mist from his breath lingered long in the air before fading. He could feel the chill behind his eyes now, the slow ache settling in his joints. The cold had stopped asking for permission. It had begun to claim him.

His fingers trembled slightly. His toes were numb. His breath tasted of metal and snow.

The silence was louder now.

Not the silence of peace, but the kind that creeps through an empty forest after a blizzard. Every sound was muffled. His heartbeat was a drum beneath layers of ice. The stone beneath his feet cracked gently with each step, not from his weight, but from how tightly it held the frost.

By the two hundred and twenty-fifth step, Damien could feel the cold not just physically, but spiritually. It gnawed at his thoughts, lulled him toward stillness, urged him to rest, to sleep, to stop.

But he refused.

And in his refusal, he began to learn.

Cold was not absence. Cold was presence. The presence of silence. Of stillness. Of patience. Fire was motion. Cold was stillness given form.

He adjusted his breathing. He adapted his posture. He lowered the movement of energy within his body, slowing his circulation in specific areas while accelerating it in others. He allowed the cold to teach him its structure, the same way the fire had, and step by step, he walked forward with new understanding.

As Damien moved slowly through the frozen steps, he lifted his gaze toward the drow above.

Nyxara was on the three hundred eighty-fifth step, surrounded by arcs of jagged lightning that danced across her armor, leaving thin trails of smoke as they crackled through the air. Her body moved slowly, in harmony with the strikes, allowing the current to pass through her with minimal damage.

She was using the lightning, not just surviving it, but strengthening her flesh and spirit with every burst.

Vathrian was just behind her, clinging to the three hundred eighty-second step with tightly clenched fists, his breathing harsh. He was gritting his teeth, trying to hold form against the continual strikes, body flickering with dark barriers that shimmered every time a bolt made contact. He was surviving, but barely.

Lyrisa was five steps behind him, knees slightly bent, hair soaked from melted frost and sweat. Lightning danced along her scimitars, grounding some of the charge, but her body bore the strain clearly. She was not faltering, but she was being pushed.

Three others remained in the same range, each one showing signs of wear and exhaustion. Their movements were sharp, their strategy clear, they had realized brute force was not enough and were now learning. The fire had weeded out many, but the lightning would determine who was worthy.

Damien paused at the two hundred and ninety-ninth step.

The frost beneath his feet cracked. His breath no longer stung. His muscles, once stiff, had adapted to the rhythm of the cold. He was ready.

He took the three hundredth step.

The sky flashed.

Thunder cracked directly above him. A white-hot bolt of lightning fell from the heavens, striking the stone just inches from where his foot had landed. The energy coiled up around him like a serpent, alive, aggressive, and hungry.

It lashed him across the chest. Damien staggered, the impact surprising even with his preparation. The jolt burned through his nerves and left a ringing in his ears, but he remained upright. A long breath escaped his lips, and he smiled faintly.

So this was lightning.

He raised his head and saw the six figures above him all turn at once.

Every one of them, the elite of the drow, paused to watch.

Nyxara's silver eyes locked onto him with unreadable intensity. Lyrisa gave him the briefest smile, pride flickering behind her exhaustion. Vathrian scowled, a vein twitching in his temple.

From the bottom of the staircase, the exiled drow had begun gossiping once more.

"He's reached the lightning steps?"

"Impossible. I thought he would give up because of the frost."

"Are we sure he's human?"

"House Umbra is watching him. That means something."

"He might actually be the real threat."

They weren't wrong.

Damien stood on the three hundredth step, his body tingling from the electric residue, his heart calm, his mind clear. Every step had been a teacher. Every trial had offered a lesson.

And he was the only one who had listened from the very beginning.