John’s stomach rumbled again as he raised a massive arm, slamming a homemade pick into the sheer icy cliffside, using his malleable armor to fuse the strange metal with the cracks in the ice and stone, pulling himself up another few feet. He had searched across Althanas for answers on what his gauntlets were, and where they were from.

Now, for the first time in months, he might have an answer. Or at least someone who might provide him an answer.

If he could reach the top of this mountain, that is. He had been climbing for hours, and there was still no end in sight. His muscles burned, his stomach ached, and he felt the tingle of frostbite in his left foot.

No, he thought, bringing up another arm, I will not stop, I cannot stop. I will find out what it means, I will find out what it means, I will…

John repeated the statement to himself again and again, committing himself over and over again to his cause. The armor had taken so much from him, and it would answer for that.

If he could get to the top.

As if to punctuate this thought, he saw a break in the snowy wasteland above, almost as if the cliff were ending. His vigor renewed, he climbed up faster, reaching the edge and pulling himself upward, nearly-lame foot notwithstanding. Where he could not see before, a massive white building stood, nearly obscured by the snow. He limped toward a massive iron-banded door and slammed his fist against it.