The stairs ended at a heavy iron door. Shen pushed it open. Cold air rushed out, thick as water. He stepped through and stopped.
The storage room was enormous. Ice coated the walls. High above, darkness swallowed the ceiling. Metal shelves stretched in every direction, piled with food—meat hanging from hooks, vegetables in crates, jars of spices, barrels of grain. But much of it was rotten. Black spots on the apples. Green mold on the bread. Meat that had turned gray and liquid.
In the center of the room stood a stone pot, big enough to hold a person. Frost crawled up its sides. No fire beneath it. Just cold. So cold that Shen's breath turned to ice crystals before his eyes.
Jiang stepped up beside him. "This is the storage?"
"Looks like it," Lin said, her short sword already in her hand.
Qiang, Yun, and Fang spread out behind them. Qiang's scarred jaw was tight. Yun kept rubbing his arms for warmth. Fang's nervous hands had stopped moving—she was staring at the frozen meat with wide eyes.
A thermometer hung on the far wall. The red liquid sat at minus ten. Even as Shen watched, it dropped another notch. His fingers had already gone numb. He could barely feel the handle of his hook. Jiang's breath came in shallow clouds that froze on her scarf.
"Temperature's falling," he said. "We don't have long."
Lin pointed at the stone pot. "There's writing on the wall."
Shen walked closer. Words were carved into the ice behind the pot, each letter sharp and deep:
CHOOSE THE RIGHT INGREDIENTS.
THREE WRONG CHOICES.
FOREVER FROZEN.
"Three mistakes and we die," Jiang said.
Qiang walked to a shelf and picked up a chunk of red meat. It looked fresh. Too fresh, in a place where everything else was rotting. "This looks fine. Maybe we just need to put something in the pot."
"Wait," Shen said.
Too late. Qiang tossed the meat into the stone pot.
The pot shuddered. A deep gong sounded. Then white gas erupted from the rim—thick, cold, choking. Shen grabbed his collar and pulled it over his mouth. Jiang coughed. Lin's eyes watered. The gas spread through the room like a living thing.
When it cleared, the thermometer had dropped to minus fifteen. Shen's lips felt stiff. His chest ached with every breath.
"That was one mistake," he said, looking at Qiang.
Qiang's face was pale. "I didn't know."
Yun muttered, "Maybe let the rest of us think next time."
Qiang's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Shen cut in: "Enough. We learn or we die." He turned to the others. "No one touches anything until we find clues. Spread out. Look for writing, notes, anything that tells us what to put in the pot."
They split up.
Jiang took the left aisle. Lin took the right. Qiang and Yun went deeper into the shelves. Fang stayed close to Shen, her eyes darting.
Shen walked past rows of spices. Cinnamon. Pepper. Salt. But the jars were mislabeled—salt labeled as sugar, pepper as flour. He kept moving.
Behind a shelf of dried herbs, he found words carved into the stone wall. Old words, half-covered by frost:
MAIN COURSE NEEDS BLOOD.
VEGETABLE NEEDS ROOT.
SOUP NEEDS BONE.
But the rest was obscured, frozen solid.
"Over here," Jiang called.
She was kneeling beside a body. A man, frozen solid, his skin blue, his eyes open. He wore old clothes, nothing like what people wear now. A notebook lay beside his outstretched hand.
Jiang pried the notebook free. The pages were brittle. She flipped through carefully.
"Recipe notes," she said. "Listen. 'Red meat without bone. Black root from the east shelf. Clear broth, no spices. And at the end…'" She squinted at the last line. The ink had smeared. "'A touch of sweet to cut the bitter.'"
"Red meat, black root, clear broth, sweet," Shen repeated. "That's four things."
"The pot might need a full dish," Jiang said.
"Found something," Lin shouted from across the room.
They hurried over. Lin was standing in front of a shelf of root vegetables. Most were shriveled, black, and leaking fluid. But one—at the back, half-hidden—was different. It was black, yes, but firm. No rot. No smell.
"This looks like the black root," Lin said.
Shen examined it. His mark was cold. No warning. "Maybe. But we need more."
Fang tugged his sleeve. She pointed to a small barrel in the corner. "That one smells different."
Shen walked to the barrel. He lifted the lid. Inside was a clear liquid, pale yellow, like old broth. No odor. He dipped a finger in, tasted. Bland. Clean.
"Could be the broth," he said.
"What about the meat?" Yun asked. He had returned with Qiang, both empty-handed.
Shen scanned the shelves. Red meat was everywhere—hanging from hooks, stacked in crates. But most of it had bone. Ribs. Legs. Joints. He remembered Jiang's words: Red meat without bone.
He walked to the far end of the room. A single hook held a large cut of beef. No bone. Deep red. Almost purple. It looked fresh, though everything else was frozen solid.
His mark stayed cold.
"This one," he said.
"That's three things," Lin said. "Meat, root, broth. We still need sweet."
Fang pointed up. "There."
High on a shelf, almost lost in the shadows, sat a small clay pot. Honey. Crystallized, but still honey.
"How do we get it?" Yun asked.
The shelf was too tall to reach, and the metal was too cold to climb. Qiang bent down. "I'll lift someone."
Lin stepped onto his shoulders. Qiang straightened, and Lin grabbed the pot with both hands, cradling it against her chest. She climbed down carefully.
"Four ingredients," Jiang said. "Do we put them all in at once?"
Before anyone could answer, the room grew colder.
The thermometer dropped to minus twenty. Shen's exposed skin burned. Yun's lips were turning blue.
And the shadows moved.
A shape emerged from the far wall—pale, translucent, wrapped in frost. It had been a man once, tall and thin, wearing a stained apron. A chef's hat sat crooked on its head. Its eyes were empty pits. Its hands ended in icicles instead of fingers.
The frozen wraith.
It opened its mouth. No sound came out, but the temperature plunged. Ice spread across the floor toward them.
"It's the storage keeper," Jiang said, pulling out her dagger. The blade glowed faintly blue.
"My hook won't work on it," Shen said. "Jiang, you're the only one with a spirit weapon. Lin, cover her. Qiang, Yun, Fang—stay back and keep the ingredients safe."
The wraith lunged.
Jiang met it head-on. Her dagger cut through its chest. The thing hissed—a sound like wind over ice—and stumbled back. Frost sprayed from the wound.
Lin circled, her short sword flashing. She couldn't hurt the wraith, but she could distract it. She slashed at its arm. The blade passed through, but the wraith turned toward her, its icicle fingers reaching.
It grabbed Lin's shoulder.
She gasped. Frost spread across her jacket. Her arm went numb. The ice began crawling up her neck. She dropped to one knee.
Jiang stabbed the wraith in the back. The blade sank deep. The wraith screamed—a high, thin shriek—and released Lin. It spun, swiping at Jiang with both hands. Jiang dodged, but the frost caught her sleeve. Ice crackled up her arm.
"Its head!" Lin shouted. "There's something bright inside!"
Shen saw it too. A faint glow behind the wraith's hollow eyes.
"Jiang, the head!"
Jiang pulled her dagger free and drove it into the wraith's face. The blade sank to the hilt. The wraith convulsed. Light burst from its eyes, its mouth, the cracks in its frosty skin.
Shen grabbed a metal lid from a nearby barrel and threw it like a discus. It passed through the wraith's head—useless—but clattered against the far wall with a loud ring. The wraith flinched. That was enough.
Lin got back to her feet. Her left arm hung limp, ice still spreading, but her right hand gripped her sword. She stabbed at the wraith's legs, forcing it back.
Jiang twisted her dagger. The wraith shattered—pieces of ice flying in every direction. Then they melted into mist, and the mist faded.
The room was quiet. The thermometer stopped at minus twenty-two.
Lin's arm was frozen from shoulder to elbow. Jiang's sleeve was stiff with ice. But they were alive.
"We need to finish this," Shen said. "Before the temperature drops again."
They gathered the four ingredients. Red meat. Black root. Clear broth. Crystallized honey.
"All at once?" Yun asked.
"The notes didn't say an order," Jiang said. "Just put them in."
Shen picked up the meat and dropped it into the stone pot. The pot hummed. He added the black root. The hum grew louder. He poured the broth. Steam rose from the pot for the first time.
Last, the honey. He scraped the crystals in.
The pot erupted with light—warm, golden light. The ice on its sides melted. Water ran down onto the floor. The temperature began to rise. Minus twenty. Minus fifteen. Minus ten.
Lin shook her frozen arm. The ice cracked but didn't fall. "Still stiff. But it's melting."
A door appeared on the far wall, where before there had been only ice. It was made of dark wood, warm to the touch.
A chime sounded in their minds. Cold. Mechanical.
Storage Trial Complete.
Correct Ingredients: Four of Four.
Mistakes: One.
Rating: Standard.
Rewards: Each survivor receives four bone fragments.
Special Reward: Preservation Charm — Prevents food from spoiling. Can restore minor health.
Four fragments settled into Shen's body. He felt them, cold and heavy. Jiang touched her chest. Lin looked at her hand.
A small silver charm appeared in the air—a disk etched with a snowflake. Shen caught it and tucked it into his pocket.
"Four fragments each," Qiang said. He sounded surprised. "I thought we'd get nothing after my mistake."
"We got lucky," Shen said. "Next time, ask before you throw things into magic pots."
Qiang nodded. "Fair."
Fang was still staring at the wooden door. "What's through there?"
Shen walked to the door and pushed it open. Warm air rushed in, carrying the smell of cooking—onions, garlic, roasting meat. The sound of sizzling. The clatter of pans.
"The kitchen," he said. "The real one."
He stepped through. The others followed.
Behind them, the storage room faded into darkness. The stone pot went cold again. Waiting for the next group.