Chapter 41: The door—the door is trying to run away!

Lilith fished a bronze-colored key from the litter of shattered knights, bones strewn like hail after a storm.

Little White Dragon rubbed the green rust off, flakes peeling like moss from a river stone to show the metal beneath.

“How long’s it been since anyone touched this?” Little White Dragon asked, curiosity pricking like frost. “Are the other adventurers just eating for show? Nobody came here?”

“Not fair,” Nidhogg said with a slow shake, calm as a deep lake. “There might be other paths down. I met plenty of adventurers while hunting Abaddon and Litt, like leaves scattered by wind. We’re not the only ones going deeper.”

“Then why didn’t I meet any?” Lilith’s mood soured like a sudden squall before she spoke. She’d nearly cleared two layers without seeing a soul, while Little White Dragon had only seen the adventurer Sakunae Mashiro ages ago—sent down, then defeated, like a lantern blown out in rain. Even Lilith felt speechless at her cursed luck.

“At least your luck finding monsters is always great,” Nidhogg said, dry as cold ash, words falling like snow without heat.

“You’re not wrong.” Lilith tucked the key away, her sigh drifting like steam in winter air. Lately she kept stumbling into oddities others might never meet in a lifetime, like stepping on every hidden thorn on a forest path. Who else gets ambushed by tough monsters every other day?

“Forget it. Let’s keep going,” Lilith said, shaking her head like a branch shedding dew. Little White Dragon didn’t want to dwell on her ghostly luck; she just nodded and fell in beside Nidhogg. They pushed the door and headed for the tower’s depths, like two shadows slipping into fog. “What do you think this next door will be like?”

“No idea,” Nidhogg answered, easy as a breeze through reeds. “Whatever the design, your blood can open it.” With Little White Dragon here, doors weren’t obstacles but frozen ponds to skate—any door that could open, White Dragon blood would unseal, no matter the locks or the one-sided bolts.

“That’s true,” Lilith said, the words sweet and expectant like a plum at first bite. She knew her power better than the Black Dragon did; she’d brought it up hoping for a single word of praise, a spark in the dark. They’d just taken down twelve knights together like scythes through winter grain, yet Nidhogg hadn’t said a thing.

Lilith tried to steer the talk, hinting like a kite tugging its string, but Nidhogg stayed cool, face flat as a still pond.

Heat flashed first, then motion: Lilith puffed her cheeks and glared, eyes bright as flints, stomped the floor with her left foot, and shoved the door, bolting like a startled deer.

“Lilith?” Nidhogg realized she was angry, the name escaping like a drop on hot iron. She hurried after her, black cloak flowing like smoke. Ever since they’d split and met again with Little White Dragon bleeding and nearly dying at her feet, Nidhogg hadn’t dared let her act alone; she needed her within sight like a star kept in frame. She couldn’t let Lilith just run off.

Anger first, then action: Little White Dragon ignored Nidhogg’s call and burst onto the outer spiral stair, breath sharp as mountain air. The ice she’d laid earlier to stall the Undead still glazed the steps, clear and slick like a frozen stream on stone.

She hopped onto the smooth ice and slid, a swan on winter water, streaking down the icy lane toward the tower’s root.

Let that blockhead Nidhogg stay put; I’ll open the doors myself—hmph! Her thought flashed like a spark in dry grass as she wobbled and adjusted, weight balanced like a leaf in a current. The Undead’s spiral staircase was built just right; she only needed to set her center and hold, then glide all the way like a sled chasing moonlight. The only snag was the length—spin after spin could churn a stomach like a boat in whirlpools.

Before she could heave, the ice track ended, abrupt as a cliff. The “end” wasn’t the gate she longed for but a piled tumble of Undead, stacked like driftwood and carrion, a mound of bone helms and rotten flesh.

She remembered they’d come up from the first floor, a tide reversing its course, and the gate for this depth was deeper still, hidden like a door behind fog. To get there, she had to cross the Undead heap.

Solution first, then motion: Lilith bent, light as a willow, and stirred the Star Energy within her, motes of frost rising like fireflies. She gathered an ice board under her feet, clear as a lake at dawn, and, just before slamming into the bone-and-meat hill, kicked back hard and sprang, body lifting like a bird startled from reeds.

The light Little White Dragon sailed over the heap of Undead, shadow skimming like a swallow’s, then landed steady at the mouth of the next downward stair.

She conjured more ice, a pale path laying itself like a ribbon, and slid on. The Undead, drawn by the noise like moths to a cold flame, fell behind as she sped ahead. The stairs to the deeper level weren’t spiral but straight with a gentle tilt, a snow-slope easier than dizzy circles, kind to head and gut alike.

“Whew, that was sweet.” She braked sharp, ice singing like a blade, and stopped at the gate. She hopped off the board and clapped her pale hands, chalk-white against the cold air. “Dropping straight from high up and sliding—still the best.”

“Mm, let’s see what kind of door this is.” Lilith dipped into her pack like a fisher into a net and pulled the key. She wiped off the bronze tint, and a scarlet body showed, red as a fresh seal. It felt wrong, like a plum that looked ripe too early—she’d never seen a key this color. Still, a door’s a door; if it opens, who cares what metal it is?

But when she lifted her head, her thoughts froze, breath caught like a leaf in ice.

What stood before her wasn’t the tight-shut gate she’d dreamed of, but a white wall, clean as new snow, yet seams and dust hinted at age like rings in old wood.

“Where’s my door?” she yelped, voice knocking at stone like a pebble on glass.