You wake up in the snow, your head spinning from the fall. The frigid air stings your cheeks as snowflakes stick to your eyelashes, blurring your vision. You shiver violently, your gloved hands numb despite the layers you're wearing. Through the swirling snowfall, you spot your mallet half-buried in the snow a few feet away. The mountain looms above you, its jagged peaks disappearing into the dark, starless sky. It's time for your hell to start all over again.

The snow crunches beneath your boots as you push yourself up to a sitting position. Your muscles ache from what feels like hours—maybe days—of climbing. Somewhere in the distance, you hear a low, guttural howl that sends chills down your spine despite the cold. This isn't a normal mountain climb anymore.

You notice the temperature dropping even further as the wind picks up, carrying with it an unnatural sound that resembles whispers. The snow around you seems to shift subtly, almost as if something is moving just beneath the surface. Your mallet glints faintly in the dim light, calling to you.