CHAPTER 462: DUNGEON END II

Outside, the cold bit deeper as Asher stepped back into the mountain air. The sky had dimmed to a steel-gray dusk, the horizon bruised with the last hints of sunlight. He exhaled, the faint mist of his breath trailing behind him as he started down the snow-packed road.

For once, there was no rush. No alarms, no enemies waiting beyond the next ridge. Just silence—and the whisper of wind curling through the peaks.

He stopped near the edge of the valley overlook. Below, the world stretched out in layers of white and shadow, dotted with faint lights from distant towns. He stood there for a while, saying nothing. His mind drifted back—to the abyss, to the beast’s screams, to the moment his blood had nearly boiled him alive. The memory clung to him, heavy and vivid.

Then a low, distant hum rippled through his chest.

Not the system’s usual tone—this was older. Wilder.

A pulse that didn’t come from his mind, but from his blood.

Golden light flared briefly in his eyes, and for a second the world changed.

The snow, the mountains, the wind—all became translucent layers of soul energy, and in between them he saw paths. Threads of primal hunger, instinct, and memory woven through the wild like veins. And within those threads, countless beasts—some near, some buried deep under the ice.

He could see everything they were.

Their desires. Their fears. Their past kills. Their dreams of dominance or freedom.

And as he focused, their voices whispered faintly—soft, fragmented, desperate.

It wasn’t language. It was raw emotion.

He felt it then: the Beast Supreme awakening—not as a tool, but as an extension of himself.

No commands. No structured abilities.

Only a truth carved into his soul: The one who walks above the beasts is the one who understands them completely.

A swirl of golden energy wrapped around his arm, flowing like liquid fire. When it touched the ground, the snow hissed and split open. From the glow rose the faint silhouette of a creature—massive, serpentine, its body shifting between fur, scales, and wings as if it hadn’t decided what it wanted to be.

A chimera of everything he’d sensed around him.

Its form wasn’t stable; it kept changing—serpent jaws, lion claws, dragon wings, all blending together and fading again. It wasn’t just an illusion. It was possibility itself, shaped by every powerful beast’s essence he could sense. The culmination of their instincts and strength in one form.

Asher raised a hand, eyes narrowing. His soul pulsed again—his blood answering the call.

He understood, instinctively, what the ability meant. He could absorb parts of beasts—their instincts, their memories, their strengths—and merge them. Create something greater. Or remove their essence entirely, stripping them of what made them powerful.

A dangerous gift. But one perfectly suited to him.

He closed his hand, and the chimera dispersed into motes of light, scattering like dust.

"Later," he muttered under his breath. His voice was calm but edged with exhaustion. "Not now."

He turned away from the ridge. The golden glow faded, leaving only the mountain silence once again. His steps were slow, deliberate. The air felt clearer, his mind lighter than it had been in weeks.

"First, I need somewhere to stay," he murmured to himself. "Somewhere quiet... where I can bring them home."

The wind carried his words away as he descended the mountain path, the faintest trace of warmth flickering in his tired eyes. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about the next battle or the next realm. He was thinking of his girls—of finding a place that wasn’t built for war.

A home.

And once that was done—then he would see what the Beast Supreme truly meant.

He descended the mountain long after dusk had vanished into night. The snow reflected the moonlight like pale steel, and far below, civilization pulsed faintly—an oasis of gold and warmth beneath the High Realm’s silver sky. He moved with quiet purpose, each step echoing against the frozen path until the wind’s whisper gave way to the hum of distant mana.

By the time he reached the valley floor, the air had thickened with higher-density essence. Ahead, the skyline of Averin, the central city of the High Realm, came into view—a sprawling expanse of radiant bridges, floating citadels, and towers bound by streams of light. This was not the chaos of the frontier or the fading embers of lower realms. This was the seat of order, civilization, and absolute control.

He passed through the city’s outer gates, where warding arrays and spectral sentinels scanned every traveler. Their gaze lingered on him for only a moment before softening—acknowledgment, respect, perhaps even a hint of unease. None stopped him. None dared.

Averin’s streets glowed with restrained brilliance. Mana flowed through crystalline conduits, powering floating trams and gleaming archways. The scent of alchemical steam mingled with the hum of stabilized ley energy. Everywhere he looked, the air shimmered with quiet authority. This was a city of hierarchy, where the powerful ruled and the ancient families owned every inch of the inner sanctum.

And that was the problem.

The core districts—Verdant, Lucent, and Obsidian—were already claimed. Mansions of grand Houses filled them: families whose bloodlines had ruled the High Realm for millennia. Their sigils glowed like branded stars across the skyline, wards locked tight against outsiders. For someone like Asher—an unbound sovereign with no allegiance to their Houses—those gates would never open.

He didn’t mind.

Instead, he kept walking—past the polished avenues, past the shimmering plazas—until the glow of the inner city began to fade behind him. The roads grew quieter, the mana less controlled, more natural. The outer skirts of Averin stretched into wild, elevated ridges where the city’s structured energy thinned, giving way to untamed ley currents that pulsed beneath untouched land.

It was here that he found it.

A solitary structure stood among the frost and moonlight—an old manor half-buried in ice and overgrown with crystal-rooted vines. Its spires were cracked, its walls etched with faded runes that still pulsed faintly with dormant power. No family crest marked it. No barrier defended it. It was abandoned—forgotten—yet the foundation still hummed with the pulse of the High Realm’s ley network.

Perfect.

Asher stopped before the gate, his cloak brushing against the snow. The air here was still and unclaimed. From this vantage, he could see the entire city spread below like a sea of stars—close enough to reach, but far enough to stay untouched by politics or power.

"This one," he said softly. His voice carried no hesitation.