How to survive in the Romance Fantasy Game - Chapter 688: Frozen Trials 2
Chapter 688: Frozen Trials 2
Riley had always known that faith would eventually become a factor.
Divinity did not exist in a vacuum.
It was sustained, amplified, and shaped by belief—by the collective will of those who looked upward and placed their hopes, fears, and madness onto a higher existence.
It was a factual concept, one even Eris had mentioned to him in passing long ago.
Not as a warning, but as a matter-of-fact truth.
And even back in the game, though the mechanics were never fully expanded upon, Riley had understood it clearly enough.
Gods could grow through fate.
Through belief.
Through followers.
So, for an ascended being like him, it was only a matter of time before that path opened as an option.
He didn’t have many routes left to grow stronger—not with Erebil looming ahead like an inevitable calamity.
If faith could become fuel, then logically, it was not something he could afford to ignore.
And it wasn’t inherently evil either.
At least… that was what he had always believed.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
Riley stood frozen as black, smoke-like wisps rose from the lifeless bodies scattered across the frozen floor.
The dark substance twisted unnaturally, as if guided by an unseen will, before drifting toward him—into him.
One after another.
The system notifications appeared relentlessly before his eyes.
His divinity climbed.
Steadily.
Rapidly.
Too rapidly.
And then he saw it.
Ten thousand.
The sheer amount of divinity pouring into him made his chest feel heavy, as if something vast and alien had settled deep within his core.
It wasn’t painful—but it was unmistakably wrong.
Riley frowned, his mind racing.
Ten thousand divinity from a handful of dead cultists?
That alone defied everything he knew.
Even established gods required entire nations, centuries of worship, and carefully maintained doctrine to amass that kind of power.
Even Erebil’s followers could only probably provide her one or maybe 10 divine energies upon death…
And yet—
He didn’t even know how this happened.
He had never declared himself a god to them.
Never accepted their prayers.
Never answered a single plea.
He doesn’t even know them.
So why?
Why did their deaths feed him?
Why did the system recognize them as his followers?
His gaze shifted slowly to the old man, who was still laughing madly, kneeling amidst the corpses with tears of bliss streaming down his wrinkled face.
A chilling realization crept into Riley’s thoughts.
These people hadn’t been worshipping a god.
They had been worshipping an anomaly.
Something undefined. Something unclaimed.
And somehow—whether through coincidence, misunderstanding, or fate’s twisted sense of humor—they had latched onto him.
“…This is bad,” Riley muttered under his breath.
Not because of the power.
But because of what it implied.
Faith, once given, was not easily severed.
And once the universe established and acknowledged a method of faith, it did not simply disappear.
If belief was accepted—if it was recognized by the laws of providence themselves—then Riley would be bound to it.
That was the terrifying part.
Faith was not just prayer or devotion; it was a contract.
One written by causality, enforced by the universe, and sealed the moment divinity flowed in response.
And judging by the methods these people used—the sacrifices, the suffering, the obsession—it was not a foundation he wanted any part of.
Of course, methods of worship could be changed.
But once established, the laws did not bend quickly.
Providence was slow, methodical, and cruelly fair.
Undoing what had already taken root would take time… and consequences.
“This is getting a lot more troublesome than I thought…” Riley muttered.
As far as he knew, he had done nothing that would justify being prayed to as a god—especially not as an evil one.
Even with all the rumors surrounding him, even with the chaos he dragged along like a shadow, there was nothing that should have pushed anyone to kneel before him in worship.
Not to this extent. Not to the point of fanaticism.
His divinity itself wasn’t holy, but it wasn’t malicious either.
It existed in between.
An anomaly.
And yet—
“O–Oh great being!!!”
The voice snapped Riley’s thoughts apart.
The old man—the last remaining worshipper—prostrated himself on the frozen ground, his forehead striking the ice again and again as his body trembled with unrestrained ecstasy.
Tears streamed down his face, freezing as they fell.
“H–How could I be blessed with your esteemed presence…! This foul mortal world is not worthy of you~!!!”
Riley stared at him, his expression flat.
“…Sorry, but I’m not your lord.”
The old man froze.
“N–Not my l–lord…?”
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy in the frozen hall.
Then—
“Haha…”
A thin, broken laugh escaped the old man’s throat.
“…Hahahaha…”
The laughter grew louder, sharper, echoing madly through the dungeon.
“Yes… yes yes yes yes—that must be it! Of course! There’s no way our lord would descend here personally! Gahahaha!”
His eyes snapped open, bloodshot and gleaming with unhinged revelation as he locked onto Riley.
“There’s no way that majestic siphon could ever come from a mere human… yes, yes, that explains it… your unreasonable power… your presence…”
He grinned, teeth chattering in joy.
“Ah… you’re just like me!”
Standing as best as he could despite his broken, twisted posture, the old man forced himself upright.
His body swayed, joints stiff with cold and fanatic tension, yet his eyes—those bulging, bloodshot eyes—were locked firmly onto Riley.
They looked as if they might burst from their sockets.
Raising both hands toward the frozen ceiling, he shouted with trembling reverence, voice cracking between devotion and hysteria.
“An apostle!!!!! Ah—ahhh—to be blessed by a brother-in-arms…!”
His breath came ragged, almost sobbing.
“But why is a fellow brother here…? And why are you blocking our progress for the greater being—our great lord…???”
Riley frowned slightly.
“I don’t know what kind of misunderstanding you’re clinging to,” he said calmly, “but I’m not your fellow apostle either.”
“Hahahaha!”
The old man burst into laughter once more, as if Riley’s denial only fueled his certainty.
“Oh brother, is this perhaps a passage our lord has given you? A test?
A divergence in the great plan?” He leaned forward unnaturally, eyes shining with feverish awe.
“Ahh… yes… that must be it.”
Riley’s patience thinned.
“…Since you’re implying you’re an apostle,” he said slowly, “I thought you might actually be useful. But looking at your state, I doubt that’s the case.”
He paused, then his gaze sharpened.
“Tell me this instead. Where did this religion start? When did this faith begin?”
The old man blinked, genuinely confused.
“What… what are you talking about, brother???”
“And how,” Riley continued, ignoring him, “do you have a fragment of my divinity?”
The temperature seemed to dip further.
The old man’s expression twisted—reverence warping into something offended, almost hostile.
“Claiming the divine one’s divinity as your own is not tolerable,” he hissed, “even if you are a fellow apostle, brother!”
Riley exhaled slowly.
“Sigh… I don’t think you’re capable of giving me real answers.”
His hand drifted toward his blade.
“Looks like my trusted familiar will be a lot busier.”
He glanced back at the old man one last time.
“But before you go—can you at least tell me when this religion started?”
The old man tilted his head, lips trembling as his mind tried—and failed—to process Riley’s words.
“Huh…? It started… when it came to be, brother—”
The sentence never finished.
A silent flash cut through the frozen air.
The old man’s vision split—literally—as his body was cleaved cleanly down the center.
Both halves slid apart, collapsing to the icy floor without a sound.
From the remains, dark smoke surged upward.
It twisted, writhed… and then rushed toward Riley.
Before he could even react, it was absorbed into him.
[Divinity absorbed.]
Riley stood still, staring at the empty space where the fanatic had been.
“…Yeah,” he muttered quietly, jaw tightening.
“This is really bad.”
….
“Uhk…!”
Snow staggered, her breath hitching as the endless blizzard howled around her.
Her senses were beginning to dull—not from injury, but from duration.
Time inside the dungeon flowed unnaturally, warped and stretched, and she could no longer tell how long she had been walking.
Minutes, hours… perhaps even longer.
If she had to guess, it had been at least a few hours—but the uncertainty gnawed at her more than the cold itself.
No matter how far she walked, the scenery never changed.
Endless white.
Endless wind.
Endless silence beneath the storm.
“…This isn’t normal,” she murmured.
The snow had piled so high that it reached her knees now, forcing her to continuously reinforce her footing with mana just to keep moving.
Each step required intent.
Each movement demanded awareness.
She had a vast reserve of mana—enough to coat her body against the cold for a day, maybe two—but even she knew that wasn’t sustainable.
Mana wasn’t infinite.
Focus wasn’t endless.
And fatigue crept in quietly, patiently, waiting for a mistake.
Stopping here without shelter would be suicide.
Snow raised her right arm.
Crackle.
Bluish-white light surged as frost rapidly bloomed in the air before her.
Ice responded eagerly, smoothly, as if it had been waiting for her command.
With practiced precision, she shaped it—layer by layer—curving the walls inward until a small igloo-like dome formed in front of her.
“…That should do.”
She exhaled slowly, then ducked inside.
The storm’s roar dulled immediately, reduced to a distant, muffled howl. Inside the igloo, darkness settled in, thick and quiet.
Only the faint glow of her circulating mana illuminated the interior, casting pale reflections across the smooth ice walls.
Snow lowered herself onto a small patch of packed snow, her shoulders finally relaxing.
“…I can’t rush this,” she whispered to herself.
She drew her white coat tighter around her body and rested her back against the icy wall.
Closing her eyes for just a moment, Snow steadied her breathing, forcing the chaos of sensation to settle.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Slowly, deliberately, she cleared her thoughts and began to organize what she knew.
This is a desolate wasteland…
No landmarks. No variation in terrain. No sign of life.
The chances of stumbling upon a village, a ruin, or even a natural shelter were practically nonexistent.
The storm itself swallowed everything—sound, sight, direction.
Even if she kept walking blindly, she would only exhaust herself faster.
Using brute force won’t work.
Her mana still responded to her, but she could feel it—subtly restrained, as if something unseen was dampening its quality rather than its quantity.
She could output power, but it lacked the freedom it normally had. It was like casting magic underwater: possible, but inefficient.
To survive, she needed to escape the storm.
That much was obvious.
Yet the more she thought about it, the more something felt… off.
This is a test.
Trials always had intent.
Design.
Purpose.
Her igloo could buy her time—allow her to rest, recover some mana—but it wasn’t a solution.
She was still human. She still needed food, warmth, direction. And yet…
There were no animals.
No monsters.
No resources.
Nothing that would normally exist in a survival scenario.
“If this was meant to test endurance alone…” she murmured quietly, “there would be something to endure with.”
That absence bothered her.
At first glance, the snowstorm itself felt like the trial—as if it was measuring how long she could withstand the cold, the isolation, the exhaustion.
But that didn’t align with how trials created by absolute beings usually worked.
Unless it was a trap.
They weren’t meant to be unfair.
They were meant to be answered.
And this one gave her no tools for survival.
Which means survival isn’t the real objective…
Her brows knit together as a new possibility surfaced.
What if the storm wasn’t the enemy?
What if it was the question?
Her eyes slowly opened, glowing faintly blue in the darkness as a memory surfaced—Riley’s voice, calm and confident, spoken before they ever entered the dungeon.
“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 small smile tugged at her lips.
“The cold is my ally, huh….”
She let out a soft breath, almost a laugh. Right now, those words couldn’t have sounded more ironic.
The cold here wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t familiar. It was oppressive—hostile in a way she had never experienced before.
And yet…
That very contradiction sparked something.
Snow slowly raised her right hand, gathering mana in her palm. It shimmered—pale, bluish-white—resonating faintly with the ice around her.
The igloo responded immediately, its walls faintly glowing as if acknowledging her presence.
Her gaze shifted to the entrance.
Outside, the storm raged endlessly.
Snow piled higher and higher, threatening to seal her inside entirely.
Instead of fear, something else bloomed in her chest.
Curiosity.
Her blue eyes shimmered sharply.
“Could it be…?”
The thought took shape, fragile at first—then stronger.
What if I’m not supposed to escape the cold…
Her fingers tightened slightly.
…but command it?
As the idea rooted itself in her mind, the snow outside seemed to slow—just for an instant—like the land itself was holding its breath.
An answer was forming.
And somewhere deep within the frozen domain, something ancient took notice.
