As they travelled farther from the wilds, the land gradually softened beneath their feet. Grass gave way to gentle hills brushed smooth by wind and time. Mist lifted. The air carried the scent of camellia and clean spring water. Under the late-afternoon sun, the hills rolled like folded silk, tranquil and untarnished.
Most of the journey passed in idle chatter between the juniors—light teasing, laughter, soft gossip shared among their ranks. Yet as the hours wore on, even Chen Zhao, walking in distant silence at the head of their group, could sense the shift. The mood dimmed. Their voices became hushed, tentative. Curious glances flickered toward him, quickly withdrawn.
He said nothing. If they wished to ask, they would. If not—he would not pry.
Finally, it was Li Boyan who found the courage to speak. His voice trembled, caught between respectful hesitation and the boldness of youth.
"Senior… forgive my offence but… is it true?" he asked. "That you feel nothing? Not even warmth, or cold? No kindness, no joy… or sorrow?"
The words were spoken clumsily, as if afraid of breaking something sacred. Chen Zhao turned his gaze to him—cool and unreadable as frost.
"You've heard the tale of Jue Shuang Ling, haven't you?" he asked. "And the legend of the Goddess of Snow and Nightmares?"
All the juniors nodded. Their expressions were solemn now.
"It is said that none who enter the Ice Prison may return," Chen Zhao continued, voice calm but distant. "The seal that binds that mountain can hold a soul for centuries. Even if one were to escape, the frost outside the boundary would kill them before their foot touched the valley below. No spiritual power can be summoned inside. No talisman can be drawn. The only path out… is by sacrifice." He lifted his right hand and gestured to his blade. Xuemie, the Sword of Frost and Oath.
"A sacrifice made not in blood, but in essence. You offer your heart. Not in metaphor, but in truth. It is severed from your body—entirely. In its place, the Goddess plants a core of eternal ice, cold enough to imprison every mortal sensation. From the lost heart, a sword is forged—Xuemie. Its weight is that of every desire, every feeling... transformed into purpose. Vengeance. Justice." His fingers brushed the hilt, the obsidian blade gleaming faintly with rivers of pale blue veins—like frost etching itself across a night sky.
"When your final wish is fulfilled," he went on, "you are to return. To be sealed once more in solitude, where the Goddess may return your heart. That is the pact. But should she be slain after your return… your soul and body vanish, scattered beyond summoning. Should she fall before you complete your task—your heart remains lost. Forever."
Silence followed. The wind passed gently through the tall grass, rustling robes and loose strands of hair. Even the birds seemed to quiet.
Wen Mu stepped closer, his voice soft. "Then… your emotions…"
Chen Zhao did not look at him. "I do not feel them," he said. "I can observe happiness, kindness. I can recognise it in others. I see laughter, but I do not laugh. I see warmth, but it does not reach me. The same for sorrow, hatred, pain… these things do not come as emotion. They come as agony. A wound without blade. The stronger the emotion, the deeper the pain."
Li Boyan's brows furrowed with concern. "But, Senior… how can you live like that? How can anyone endure such loneliness?"
Chen Zhao paused. For a breath, his voice was almost gentle. "It is easier this way."
They didn't know. Couldn't know. That before the Ice Prison, before Xuemie, he had already lived like this. A life of observation, not participation. Of devotion without return. The difference now… was that pain at least had a name. At least had purpose. But it was not pain he chased now. Only truth.
They walked on, and slowly the landscape shifted again. Ahead, hidden within the cradle of hills, loomed the next destination: Whispering Magnolia Temple—a place once sacred to wandering sages and moonlit rites.
Now abandoned, half-swallowed by vines, its broken bells still chimed in the wind.
There, a message awaited him. One left by the man he once called Shizun.
Jing Lianqing, former Sect Leader of Jing Yao Sect, had once stood like a pillar against the storms of the cultivation world. Graceful, aloof, revered by cultivators across the empire, admired by both men and women alike. The sect he once led was a realm of cloud-silver robes and jade-coloured walkways, of fountains that whispered and magnolias that bloomed year-round. Every disciple moved like a verse from a forgotten poem—measured, elegant, deliberate.
To the world, Brightjade Peak was a dream. To Chen Zhao… it had been the closest thing to a home.
But now, even that dream was dimmed by dust and silence. And even if his feet led him there again, even if the magnolias bloomed as before—he knew. He could no longer walk those paths as one of their own.
Not with a sword born from his heart. Not with a name buried beneath the snow.
Gaining access to the Whispering Magnolia Temple was not a matter of simply knocking at its gates with good intentions.
The scroll, the messenger had said, had been left for Chen Zhao alone. A message locked with spiritual imprint, hidden beneath sacred stone and time. But now, the world had changed. The cultivation realm stirred with tension. Whispers travelled faster than light, and names once carved into the scrolls of honour were now spoken in hushed breath like curses.
The city ahead, nestled within the gentle basin of the hills, shimmered like a dream beneath the dusk. A city of quiet water bridges, curved jade roofs, and hanging bells that chimed with the wind—a place of peace, if not for the eyes watching from every corner.
Jing Yao Sect would not openly welcome a "traitor" into its sacred halls, even one raised within its embrace. Especially not the one carrying the Mark of the Cursed Seal.
And the Temple—oh, the Temple lay not just within sect boundaries but at the spiritual heart of the inner sanctum, where even high-ranking cultivators trod only under ceremonial rites. To enter it now was to step into the eye of a storm with nothing but an old name and a fading memory to shield oneself.
Chen Zhao did not plan to cause chaos. Not yet. But the scroll must be reached. Somehow.
Under cover of darkness, perhaps. Or with a well-placed ripple through the city's calm surface—something small enough to distract patrolling eyes. But first, they needed to cross the city gates unnoticed.