Chapter 5: The Messianic Gospel The large dogsled, carrying the zealot and the reluctant shaman, moved swiftly inland toward the frozen territory. Dmitri braced himself against the side of the sled box, the fur lining warm against his coat, though he directed a faint, steady stream of internal cold into the unseen copper kettle still packed in his bag. The small, constant act of dissipation maintained a fragile equilibrium within his body, keeping the super-cold from the crystalline bone stabilized just below hypothermic levels. He allowed his posture to remain slightly slumped. He created the impression of a man recovering from a severe physical crisis, unable to bear the immediate rush of the cold air and the jarring movement. Grigory, standing tall at the rear of the sled to manage the weight distribution, glanced forward occasionally, confirming the state of his ‘valuable tool.’ The speed was brutal. Mikhail, perched on his own small sled ahead, ensured the teams ran hard, pushing the traditional endurance limits of the Chukchi dogs. The landscape blurred into a monotonous, frozen gradient—white ground meeting white sky. The sound was deafening, a complex mix of the teams’ panting, the rhythmic scuff of the runners, the creak of the leather harnesses, and the ceaseless barking of the thirty-six dogs. This relentless assault of the physical world demanded deep focus. Dmitri forced his mind past the noise, using the newly installed obsidian stone to filter the chaos. The stone did not simply grant him understanding; it created an internal chamber of silence, a vacuum where the spiritual realm could assert its presence. The whispers were continuous now, a background hum of intent, advising him on the stresses of the sled, the shifting ice beneath the snow, and the biological states of the exhausted animals. *Adaptation requires quietude. Focus the will.* He needed to move beyond mere physical maintenance. He had established his baseline functionality, but the journey was a finite resource. They were moving toward the island, toward the sealing point, and Dmitri could not afford to arrive there only to discover the spiritual war required resources he had not yet acquired. He needed to understand the enemy. The entity imprisoned beneath the whale bones communicated through Grigory, twisting the Cossack’s intent toward destruction. Grigory, in return, mistook the whispers of cosmic horror for a divine mandate to save Russia. Dmitri recognized the danger of this specific delusion. A fanatic driven by simple ambition was predictable, but one driven by a distorted, messianic vision was infinitely more dangerous. Grigory was not just attempting a metaphysical act of destruction; he was fulfilling a twisted prophecy. The only way to preempt Grigory was to find the flaw in the prophecy, the weakness in the entity’s communication strategy. Dmitri resolved to attempt the forbidden intrusion. He would use the obsidian stone to force a direct, psychic link with Grigory, bypassing the man’s conscious military focus and plunging directly into the core of his spiritual dependency on the entity. He waited for a moment when the sled hit a stretch of smoother ground, reducing the physical strain. He took a preparatory breath, pulling the spiritual energy flowing from the sky vortex (which he perceived as a faint indigo pressure) into the obsidian stone. The surge of energy immediately induced a sharp, piercing pain behind his eyes—the stone’s protest against aggressive deployment. He ignored the physical agony. He focused on Grigory, who was currently shouting encouragement to the teams, blissfully unaware of the psychic breach about to occur. Dmitri reached out through the unseen boundary separating them, a conscious effort of will powered by the celestial energy. The first contact was violent. It was not a gentle brush against a sleeping mind; it was a catastrophic collision with a system already overloaded and running hot. Dmitri did not breach Grigory’s mind; he plunged into a cyclone of pure, distilled zealotry. Grigory’s consciousness was walled off, armored by years of unshakeable faith and hardened conviction, but the spiritual channel to the entity was wide open, running like a raging cosmic river through his core. Dmitri bypassed Grigory’s waking thoughts—the logistics, the impatience, the commands to the dogs. He dove instead into the source of the man’s conviction: the constant broadcast from the entity. He encountered the Gospel of Salvation. The whispers the entity fed Grigory were highly structured, infinitely nuanced, and chillingly effective. This was no simple promise of power or dark magic; this was a complete, compelling theology delivered directly to a mind primed for martyrdom. Dmitri saw with Grigory’s spiritual eyes: Russia was dying, choked by the materialist revolution in St. Petersburg and poisoned by demonic Western influences. The Tsarist regime, the Church, the purity of the Empire—all were failing. The entity presented itself not as a destroyer, but as the ultimate, necessary Restorer. The vision unfolded with sickening clarity: The entity projected an alternative world where it was released. In this reality, the cosmic cold that had covered the world millennia ago did not destroy but purified; it did not freeze flesh but preserved the soul. This frigid apocalypse was salvation, the final, necessary hardening of the world against all internal corruption. *’They sought warmth. They sought comfort. They accepted the poison of softness. Only the True Cold endures. Only the Absolute Zero of existence will arrest the decay.’* The source of the voice was vast, resonant, and impossibly ancient. Dmitri recognized the voice as the spiritual equivalent of absolute geological time—a cosmic being that saw civilizations as brief, ignominious sparks. Its power was in its utter conviction of its own necessity. The entity’s gospel personalized the mission for Grigory. Grigory saw himself as the Divinely Appointed Gatekeeper, the one soldier rugged enough, faithful enough, to understand the true burden of this cosmic sacrifice. The entity showed Grigory the historical forces that had weakened the Thule seal, making the release an inevitable, necessary consequence of the world’s weakness. Dmitri perceived the entity’s sophisticated deception: It did not lie about the external threats; it merely provided the apocalyptic solution. It exploited Grigory’s deep-seated cultural anxieties—the fear of Bolsheviks, the obsession with the Empire's purity, the Cossack’s deep, almost terrifying commitment to sacrificial defense. The contact tightened. Dmitri was not merely observing; the entity, recognizing a second, even more formidable spiritual presence, directed a wave of its own truth toward him, attempting synchronization. The raw horror of the entity’s logic pressed against Dmitri’s soul. *The only way to save humanity from itself is to freeze its capacity for choice.* The message was overwhelming, powerful enough to shatter the carefully constructed boundaries of Dmitri’s spiritual composition. The iron ribs grated painfully, the crystalline bone vibrated with immense, sympathetic cold, and the obsidian stone screamed in silent anguish, struggling to process the sheer volume of millennia of calculated nihilism. The spiritual contact destabilized Dmitri’s physical form. A spasm seized his body instantly. His hands flew instinctively to his head, pressing against the obsidian stone with painful force in an attempt to break the psychic circuit. The sled hit a small, solid obstruction beneath the snow. The jarring impact, combined with the catastrophic spiritual intrusion, was too much. Dmitri doubled over, an audible, choked gasp escaping his lips. He pressed his face down into the wet, cold furs. He felt a profound, physiological rejection of the vision, a physical attempt to vomit the spiritual knowledge he had just ingested. The dogs, reacting to the immediate change in equilibrium and the sudden slowing, began to snarl and twist in their harnesses. Grigory Volkov, reacting instantly to the physical disruption, brought both hands down hard on the rail, shouting a sharp command that cut through the barking. Mikhail, ahead, pulled his teams to a struggling halt. The entire column ground to an unnatural stop on the vast, white plain. Grigory ran along the edge of the sled to check on Dmitri. “Petrov! What is it? A rupture?” Grigory demanded, his voice edged with concern, fearing a physical collapse that would delay his mission. Dmitri could not speak. The imprint of the entity’s consciousness—its perfect, flawless, brutal logic—was still burning through his cognitive mapping. The world was split in pieces. He was seeing the vast, white expanse with new eyes: not as a neutral landscape, but as a future already sterilized and frozen by this cosmic intent. He managed a ragged, choked noise, fighting to reject the entity’s gospel. Grigory, observing the physical collapse, the intense focus of the tremor, and the lack of external physical wound, immediately dismissed the idea of simple material sickness. He dropped to one knee beside the furs, his expression shifting from logistic impatience to awed reverence. “The Voices,” Grigory murmured, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “They intensify as we approach the nexus. They are giving you the Truth as well, Petrov. Tell me! What did the Giver show you? The Path of Frozen Restoration?” Grigory mistook the agonizing, involuntary spastic rejection for the ecstasy of receiving divine revelation. He saw the pain not as proof of incompatibility, but as the necessary crucible of sacred communion. Dmitri pushed himself up, leaning back against the sled box for support. His vision was slightly smeared, and the raw cold radiating from the crystalline leg bone felt overwhelming, a sympathetic response to the entity’s frozen intention. “It is not a path,” Dmitri rasped, his throat dry, his voice almost unrecognizable. He was fighting the internal pressure to repeat the entity’s exact words. “It is a threat. A perfect, blinding delusion.” Grigory beamed. His eyes were wide with a fierce, terrifying joy. “Exactly! A threat to the comfortable, the weak, and the blind. You see the deception in the World’s Eye! They will call it evil, Petrov, because they wish to remain soft, vulnerable to Bolshevik poison and foreign corruption. But you, the chosen initiate, you understand the necessity of the Iron Will.” Grigory placed a heavy hand on Dmitri’s shoulder. The touch was strangely grounding, pulling Dmitri back from the spiritual precipice and anchoring him in the immediate, physical reality of the fanatic. “The spirits were testing you, as I said. Showing you the horror of the world’s collapse, and then the painful, absolute restoration. You passed the test in the dream vision, and now you pass the test of truth.” Dmitri stared at the Cossack. Arguments were useless. Logic was irrelevant. Grigory’s delusion was so complete, so perfectly tailored by the entity to fit his deepest cultural paranoia and military zeal, that any attempt at conventional refutation would be absorbed and repurposed as confirmation. Dmitri’s psychic rejection simply reaffirmed to Grigory that the gospel was difficult, painful, and therefore necessary truth. Dmitri realized the magnitude of the entity’s prison communication. The cosmic horror was not only physically sealed; it was perpetually broadcasting a perfect, customized theology of destruction tailored for anyone desperate enough to seek salvation. Grigory was merely the most effectively groomed receiver. He pulled his shoulder slightly away from Grigory’s grip. “We are not the same, Volkov. We saw different things.” “We saw the same truth through different lenses,” Grigory corrected with supreme confidence. He stood up, scanning the horizon, regaining his logistical focus. The physical discomfort associated with the collapse had passed. “You saw the tools of the spirits; I saw the application of will. No matter. We are moving toward the same result: the ultimate security of the Empire.” He turned back toward the rear of the sled to stabilize the runners. “Mikhail grows impatient. We should continue.” Dmitri watched Grigory move away, the sheer force of the Cossack’s conviction a palpable energy in the frigid air. The psychic contact, though brief, confirmed the absolute peril of their situation. This was not a situation that could be mediated by reason or delayed by academic research. The entity’s influence was already too strong, Grigory’s conviction too absolute. Dmitri knew his new role as guardian commanded him to maintain the seal. That meant Grigory had to be stopped immediately. He could not wait until they reached the island, where the entity’s presence would surely be amplified, and Grigory would be fully absorbed into his messianic role. The confrontation had to happen here, on the mainland, utilizing the weaknesses of the physical journey against the certainty of the spiritual zealot. The revelation from the intrusion was absolute. Dmitri was no longer acting on suspicion; he was acting on forbidden, confirmed knowledge. The weight of his purpose, forged in the spirit fires, settled over him with crushing gravity. Dmitri adjusted his position, subtly pushing the copper kettle deeper into the furs, ensuring its position for continuous cold-venting. He needed more strength, more clarity, less spiritual noise. He used the few moments of preparation before the sled moved again to analyze the surroundings, overlaying the mundane reality of the crossing with the spiritual map revealed by the entity. They were traversing the middle world, the neutral plain between initiation and destination. He had only a limited window of opportunity here. Mikhail barked a command, cracks the whip high above the dogs. The teams surged forward again, pulling the heavy sled across the packed snow. The journey continued with renewed, frantic energy. Dmitri took the physical motion as momentum for his own plan. He began to inventory his assets, both physical and spiritual. Physically: He was compromised, recently recovered, and profoundly weak compared to the hardened reality of Grigory Volkov, a professional killer trained in Siberian conditions. He possessed no weapon save the small knife he used for food preparation, useless against a man carrying a rifle and a severe arsenal. Spiritually: He was a newborn. The iron ribs were reinforcement. The obsidian stone was an interface and knowledge repository. The crystalline bone was his weapon, his tool for environmental manipulation. He had momentarily frozen a spirit wolf, but replicating that expenditure of energy was too risky. He did not yet fully control the process. He needed to buy time to increase his operational efficiency, to stabilize the physical body against the spiritual hardware. He needed to rest and, critically, he needed to observe the environment more closely. The voice of the spirit guides, now distinct from the entity’s compelling gospel, offered concise guidance transmitted through the stone. *Observe the fracture line. Know the terrain.* Dmitri focused his attention on the map Grigory had shown him—the section of treacherous, thin ice near the frozen inlet. Grigory intended to push the team through that section, likely prioritizing speed over safety. That vulnerability, designed to break the expedition, was Dmitri’s target. “Grigory,” Dmitri called out over the roar of the movement, modulating his voice to sound professional yet strained. “I must maintain logs. My mandate from the Society still stands, despite the recent crisis.” Grigory leaned forward slightly, listening. “What logs? We are three days past where any civilized man keeps logs.” “Geophysical data remains critical,” Dmitri insisted, raising his voice. “The sled vibration, the density of the packed snow, the consistency of the runners’ grip—it all relates to the structural integrity of the ice flow we must cross.” He invented scientific purpose for military relevance. “If the field equipment fails here, we cannot achieve the island.” Grigory considered the request. He did value the efficacy of tools, even if he disregarded their purpose. “Fine. You are an academic. What do you require?” “Momentary halting at regular intervals,” Dmitri stated, his voice firming slightly. “I need to dismount and take precise readings of the snow and underlying ice conditions using the probe. My physical strength is returning, but the fine motor control remains unreliable after the fever.” This was a calculated risk. Dismounting was exposure, but it also masked the intentional venting of cold he had planned. He needed short, contained bursts of activity to accelerate his integration. “We cannot halt for long,” Grigory warned, suspicious of any delay. “Five minutes per hour,” Dmitri negotiated, knowing the scientific process required at least that much performance. “At the edge of the next incline, we will start. It is vital for calculating velocity.” Grigory nodded once, accepting the premise without enthusiasm. “Five minutes. You will carry the measuring equipment.” The next hour passed in a cacophony of sound and relentless motion. Dmitri used the time, not to rest, but to prepare the spiritual tools for continuous operation. He focused on the crystalline bone, attempting to establish a constant, low-level flow of the spiritual cold into the copper kettle, turning the passive metal vessel into a continuous emotional heat sink. He made the connection. The kettle chilled immediately, its external surface frosting over heavily inside his bag. Crucially, the internal noise produced by the bone, the constant, scraping sound of cold meeting his tissues, reduced significantly. He had finally engineered a bypass. He was no longer fighting the spiritual hardware; he was employing it productively. The enhanced operation of the crystalline bone had an immediate consequence: Dmitri’s perception of the surrounding environment sharpened dramatically. He focused the cold-sensing property of the crystalline bone outward. He saw the snow not as a flat surface, but as a mosaic of compacted ice, wind slabs, and hidden air pockets. Beneath the snow, he could map the density of the main ice sheet—thick and stable in some areas, alarmingly thin, almost water-saturated, in others. The voices of the spirits, less distracted by the internal crisis, resumed advisory roles. *The iron supports. The crystal maps.* Grigory, true to his word, called for the first stop exactly sixty minutes later, as the team reached the crest of a shallow, snow-covered ridge. “Mikhail! Stop the team! Petrov requires his logs.” The sled teams came to a gradual, struggling halt. The sudden silence, broken only by the panting of the dogs and the wind, felt immense. Dmitri unzipped his coat quickly, retrieving the probe—a long, slender metal rod—and a small journal. He allowed Grigory to assist him to his feet, pretending momentary muscle weakness. “I only need the surface density profile,” Dmitri said, focusing on a patch of packed snow about ten paces away. He moved slowly, deliberately, forcing his still-recovering muscles to obey the neural commands. He reached the spot, pushing the metal probe deep into the snow. As a gesture of academic rigor, he pulled it out and noted some arbitrary numbers in the journal. His real work started the moment he bent over. He pressed his right knee slightly into the snow, focusing the crystalline bone’s energy downward. He intensified the release of cold around the area of contact. The result was a focused environmental change. The snow immediately around his knee and the crystalline-modified leg froze into solid, unforgiving ice, a small, two-foot diameter circle of absolute, inorganic rigidity. The change was silent, instantaneous, and completely contained within the snow’s structure. The spiritual guidance confirmed the efficacy. *The tool is calibrated. It enforces stasis.* Dmitri noted the effect, stood up quickly, and rubbed his knee as if adjusting his joints. He walked back to the sled, the fabricated scientific task completed. “Satisfied, Petrov? The data is conclusive?” Grigory asked, already signaling for the restart. “Acceptable,” Dmitri replied, making a show of packing the probe carefully. The sled started again. Dmitri sat, reviewing the effect. He could now create small, localized fields of extreme cold, perfect for destabilizing foundations, breaking materials, or anchoring himself against powerful external forces. This was the offensive weapon he needed. He spent the next hour preparing for the second stop, pushing the speed and precision of the cold-venting into the copper kettle. The goal was to refine the output, making it less physically taxing. The iron ribs groaned less frequently, and the obsidian stone remained quiescent. Integration was accelerating. At the second hour, Grigory ordered another halt. This stop was more urgent; one of the dogs had a tangle in its trace line. Grigory rushed forward to resolve the logistics. Dmitri seized the opportunity, ignoring the academic pretense entirely. He needed to test the ultimate physical limit of the crystalline bone’s rigidity. He dismounted the sled quickly, moving away from Grigory’s immediate sightline. He walked to the edge of the heavily weighted sled runner. He placed the modified lower leg flat against the side of the wooden runner, taking care to hide the action behind the large packs of supplies. He channeled the full, momentary force of the indigo sky energy into the crystalline bone, not for environmental manipulation, but for internal reinforcement. He made the bone as rigid and unyielding as possible. Then, slowly, he applied his full weight, leveraging the bone against the sled runner. He pushed, trying to bend or shear the bone against the massive inertia of the fully loaded sled. The sled did not move. The bone did not yield. Instead, the wood of the heavy sled runner, meeting the absolute rigidity of the cosmic crystal, groaned audibly. A hairline fracture appeared in the dense larch wood where the crystal component made contact. The effect was brief, brutal, and conclusive. His new component was stronger than the best terrestrial engineering. He was armored against physical damage. Dmitri felt a surge of strength. He climbed back onto the sled without assistance, the effort no longer draining. The brief moment of activity went unnoticed by Grigory, who was still dealing with the logistics of the restless dog team. “Petrov is improving rapidly,” Grigory noted, returning to the rear deck, unaware of the structural damage to his sled. “The proximity to the sacred land restores the spirit even to the most materialist heart.” Dmitri offered a weak smile. “The Society’s mandate gives me determination, Volkov.” He saw the lie did not register. Grigory simply incorporated every sign of Dmitri’s recovery into his own grand narrative of divine success. The third hour of travel approached, and Dmitri was almost entirely focused. He was tracking the terrain, mentally bracing for the vulnerable section of the journey that Grigory had marked on the map as the zone of weak ice. It was a frozen inlet, heavily prone to unpredictable shifting and covered by wind-crusted snow. He needed to create a decisive spiritual moment during the chaos of the crossing. He looked at the small pile of iron spikes that Grigory had loaded so carefully onto the sled—the consecrated tools the Cossack intended to use to penetrate the seal. Dmitri needed one of those spikes. They were physically hardened, spiritually charged implements designed to open the seal, and they would serve as a perfect conductor for his own cold energy. He needed his weapon. The sled hit a stretch of very rough terrain—frozen tussocks covered by deep, powdery snow. The sled lurched severely, throwing loose gear around. Dmitri seized the moment. As the sled pitched hard to the right, he reached out quickly toward the crate containing the spikes, hidden beneath a pile of extra rope. He slipped his hand beneath the lashings. His modified body moved with supernatural precision. His fingers located the thick, heavy shaft of one of the iron tools, wrapped in sacking. He pulled swiftly, utilizing the crystalline bone’s momentary surge of strength. The wrenching motion caused a small, low sound—the tear of the rough cloth covering the spike. Grigory heard the noise instantly. The Cossack was all attention and trained instinct. “What was that?” Grigory barked, abandoning his position to scan the cargo. Dmitri held the massive iron spike tightly concealed beneath his heavy coat, leaning into the sled cargo to hide the bulge. “The lashing has loosened on the fuel box,” Dmitri improvised, coughing slightly for effect. “The movement is very severe here, Volkov. If we lose the paraffin supply, we have no heat.” Grigory’s face tightened with logististical stress. He scrambled forward, checking the seals on the fuel tin. The momentary distraction was enough. Dmitri confirmed the spike was secure. He had his weapon. The team cleared the rough section and resumed a smooth pace. The air was turning brittle, cold beyond easy comprehension. The sun was dipping toward the low horizon, marking the shift into the deep arctic twilight, a blue-tinged world of endless shadows. Grigory returned, satisfied with the cargo. “We press on. We will reach the edge of the inlet before we change course to the coastal ice. It will be dark soon.” Dmitri now operated with lethal certainty. The moment was approaching. He ran a physical inventory on the iron spike beneath his coat. It was cumbersome, cold, and immensely powerful. It was the physical corollary to the spirit’s purpose. *Weapon acquired.* The voices in the obsidian stone intensified, but they were now advising caution, not action. The stone recognized the imminence of the physical confrontation. *The vessel is full of intent. The vessel is weak.* Dmitri forced himself into complete calm. The plan was fixed: utilize the treacherous zone of the inlet, the weakness in the terrain, to neutralize Grigory. He would not kill the Cossack with a weapon, which would be a vulgar, physical act. He would use the spiritual tools, turning Grigory’s own consecrated implements against him, channeling the absolute zero of the crystalline bone through the iron spike to freeze the zealous physical shell around the entity’s corrupted core. He focused on the landscape. The deep blue color of the snow suggested they were rapidly closing on the inlet. The wind picked up, a constant, abrasive force that scoured the surface of the packed snow. The dogs were visibly straining, their pace dropping slightly under the strain of the relentless travel and the increasing resistance of the air. “Push them harder, Mikhail!” Grigory yelled forward. “We cannot stop in this wind!” Mikhail responded with a sharp sound, urging the teams forward. The sled sped up, approaching the deep shadows of the frozen inlet. Dmitri felt the spiritual terrain shift dramatically. The energy from the sky vortex began converging down toward the inlet—the same convergence he had experienced during his spiritual test. The air itself seemed to thrum with intense, destructive possibility. He realized the vision of the spirit wolves was not just a test of his new anatomy; it was a foretelling of the physical place where the greatest physical danger intersected with the greatest metaphysical weakness. The entity was actively manipulating the physical environment to destabilize forces that approached the seal, creating hazards from afar. The ice of the inlet was a living weakness, ready to collapse. He had to use it now. Dmitri watched Grigory, who was leaning forward, sighting the terrain ahead, anxious to maintain speed. The Cossack’s focus was entirely external, on the logistics of survival. Dmitri lifted his gaze to the horizon beyond the inlet. The sky, which had glowed a solid, intense blue, had ruptured. The incandescent vortex from his initiation vision was visible again, this time centered directly over the position of Yttygran Island, radiating immense, silent energy. The pressure inside Dmitri’s skull, originating from the obsidian stone, became almost unbearable. The internal noise of the iron ribs escalated to a frantic, mechanical drone. The spiritual forces were aligning for the final conflict. Dmitri threw off the remaining blankets and surged upright on the sled, grabbing the iron spike from beneath his coat. He felt the weight of the spike, connected to the weight of his purpose. Grigory turned instantly, reacting to the aggressive movement. “Petrov! What are you doing?” Grigory demanded, his hand moving automatically to the pistol holstered at his hip. The movement was slow, however, hampered by the layers of arctic gear and the necessity of stabilizing the sled. Dmitri ignored the question. He channeled all his focus, all the stored energy from the sky vortex and the cumulative cold from the crystalline bone, directly into the iron spike. The massive iron tool reacted instantly, a perfect conductor. It began to hum, emitting a deep, bass frequency that cut through the external noise. The spike’s surface turned not merely cold, but violently, impossibly frigid, a column of absolute zero drawn into physical reality. The air around the spike crystallized instantly, forming a sheath of super-frozen vapor clinging tightly to the metal. “It is not a path of restoration, Volkov!” Dmitri announced, his voice steady now, overriding the internal clamor. “It is the perfect lie! You are a tool, and you are compromised!” He lunged forward, not at the man, but at the structural integrity of the sled, aiming the immensely cold tip of the iron spike directly toward the point where he had already initiated the fissure in the wooden runner two stops ago. Grigory, realizing the attack was physical and intentional, reacted by trying to stop the sled. He grabbed the lead rein that connected his position to Mikhail’s. “Hold! Stop the sled!” Dmitri ignored the shouted command. He slammed the iron spike into the weak point of the wooden runner. The iron was so cold it acted like a cosmic chisel. The wood, already compromised, fissured instantaneously, releasing a sharp, loud crack that echoed over the frozen wastes. The main runner shattered completely. The front end of the heavily loaded sled dropped violently, burying one side deep into the snowpack. The catastrophic mechanical failure threw the physics of the entire caravan into chaos. The sudden jolt ripped the heavy sled from the main hitch, which immediately swung violently to the side, yanking the teams pulling Mikhail’s sled into a massive, tangled snarl of dogs, harnesses, and snapping lines. Mikhail screamed, fighting to control the terrified animals. The immediate, localized disaster was total. Grigory was thrown from his feet by the force of the sudden arrest, his body slamming into the cargo boxes. He recovered instantly, scrambling for his weapon, realizing the nature of Dmitri’s sabotage. Dmitri stood over the wrecked sled, the charged iron spike held defensively. The intense cold radiating from the spike provided a momentary shield, a bubble of extreme, painful temperature that deterred immediate approach. “It ends here, Volkov,” Dmitri stated. “Before you reach the island. This delusion dies with you.” Grigory pulled the pistol from his holster. He did not hesitate. He raised the weapon, sighting down the barrel. He had no time for theology. He had time only for absolute prevention of threat. “Then you choose dissolution, Petrov,” Grigory snarled, the messianic zeal suddenly giving way to the cold pragmatism of the soldier. “I will not allow an apostate to threaten the ultimate salvation.” He fired. The shot was deafening in the sudden stillness of the arctic air, the sound swallowed immediately by the vast snowfields. The heavy lead slug struck Dmitri squarely in the chest. The impact was tremendous, designed to incapacitate. But the armor held. The slug hit the center of the heavy, fused iron rib cage. The metal absorbed the impact perfectly, transforming the deadly kinetic force not into bodily trauma, but into spiritual output. The iron groaned, but did not yield. The spiritual energy amplified—a blinding flash of indigo light exploded internally, channeled through the obsidian stone. The energy feedback was agonizing, tearing through Dmitri’s nervous system, but the human body was protected. The iron ribs had functioned as designed. Dmitri staggered backward, breathing heavily, but he remained standing. The internal flash of spiritual power momentarily stunned Grigory, who shielded his eyes. Dmitri had his second, crucial chance. He raised the spike again, channeling the focused cold into the very air between them, forming a localized area of extreme atmospheric chaos. He did not aim for the man, but for the weapon. *The confrontation must happen immediately, before they reach the island, as Grigory's delusion is too dangerous.*