Morning frost glazed the tiles of the secluded courtyard Haotian had claimed as his private training ground. The faint light of dawn shimmered across the frost chi gathering formation he had quietly carved into the earth. At its heart sat Ling'er, Xue'er, and Baiyun — the three Frost Falcon hatchlings, feathers now fuller and brighter, their tiny bodies humming faintly with yin essence.
Haotian stood before them, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, little ones. You've eaten, you've grown, you've filled this courtyard with your cries. It's time you learn what it means to be Frost Falcons."
The chicks chirped back in chorus. Xue'er flapped its wings with such vigor it tumbled backward into Ling'er, who pecked at it in protest. Baiyun, as ever, remained still, eyes fixed on Haotian, as if waiting for the lesson to begin.
Haotian knelt, extending his palm. Threads of yin chi coiled around his fingers like streams of mist. "Watch closely."
He released the chi gently into the air. It condensed into a ribbon of frost, twisting upward like a serpent. With a flick of his hand, it broke apart into shimmering motes. "This is control. Not just strength. Control will decide if you soar through storms or fall to the earth."
The hatchlings watched intently, sapphire eyes reflecting the dancing frost. Then, one by one, they imitated. Ling'er puffed out its chest, forcing a stream of chi so clumsy it exploded in its face, leaving it sneezing snowflakes. Xue'er cawed proudly, unleashing a burst so wild it nearly knocked over a training pillar. Baiyun, patient as always, narrowed its eyes — and released a perfect, steady thread of frost.
Haotian's lips curved upward. "Good. Very good. Each of you has your own way. Don't fight it. Grow with it."
Then came the moment he had been waiting for. He spread his arms wide. "Now… fly."
The hatchlings blinked, tilting their heads. Haotian smirked, pointing to the sky. "Yes. Those wings aren't ornaments."
Xue'er, bold as always, was first. It spread its wings and charged forward with an indignant cry, leaping into the air. For a heartbeat, it rose — then promptly crashed into a snowdrift. Haotian couldn't help but laugh. "Good spirit, terrible form."
Ling'er tried next. It ran in circles, flapping frantically, only to trip over its own talons. Still, it picked itself up stubbornly and tried again, over and over, never stopping.
Finally, Baiyun stepped forward. Its wings spread, catching the morning wind. Calmly, without panic, it leapt into the air. The frost chi in the formation rose to meet it, and the hatchling glided, not high, but steady.
The other two stopped to watch, their eyes wide.
Haotian clapped once. "That's it. Don't be afraid of falling — falling teaches you how to rise. But Baiyun… you've understood the essence. Control before power."
By midday, the courtyard echoed with cries, flaps, and crashes. Ling'er's stubbornness pushed it to finally hover a moment off the ground. Xue'er, after endless failed attempts, managed to burst upward in a chaotic spiral that ended with it tangled in a banner. Baiyun circled the courtyard thrice, graceful despite its youth.
As the sun reached its peak, the three falcons, exhausted but proud, collapsed around Haotian. He stroked their heads one by one, his eyes warm.
"You've taken your first step today. Someday, you'll soar high above mountains and clouds. But remember—" His voice lowered, carrying the weight of truth. "—you are mine, and I am yours. Never forget that bond."
The hatchlings chirped together, weak but resolute.
Above the courtyard, the frost winds carried their cries into the sect grounds. Few heard them clearly — faint echoes mistaken for wild birds. Only Haotian knew: these were not mere calls. They were the first cries of Frost Falcons destined to shake the skies.
The courtyard still held the echoes of that morning's cries, the frost-tinged air carrying the lingering imprint of three tiny voices. Haotian stood beneath the crooked pine tree at the corner of the grounds, watching as Ling'er, Xue'er, and Baiyun dozed in a heap of downy feathers at his feet. Their first flight had left them drained, yet pride lingered in the curve of their small beaks and the faint rise of their chests.
Haotian's eyes softened, but only for a breath. Then his expression sharpened into one of quiet resolve. The first step is taken. Now the road begins.
When the hatchlings stirred, he crouched low, tapping the ground with a finger. Frost chi pulsed into the earth, spreading in pale-blue ripples until the training field shifted. Ice spikes rose like pillars, snow mounds hardened into compact targets, and the air thickened with a biting cold that made the breath fog heavier. The formation reshaped itself into a miniature hunting ground.
Ling'er blinked awake first, chirping indignantly at the cold. It shook its wings, scattering frost. Xue'er bolted upright next, feathers puffed and tail twitching with restless energy. Baiyun rose last, steady as always, its gaze immediately locking on the shifting ice pillars.
"You've flapped your wings," Haotian said, voice calm, hands clasped behind his back. "But flying without purpose is no different than stumbling. Today, you learn what your talons are for."
The hatchlings tilted their heads at him, curious.
Haotian extended a hand. A thread of frost chi condensed at his palm, sculpting itself into the shape of a hare, crystalline and translucent. With a flick of his wrist, the icy construct sprang across the courtyard, darting between the pillars with surprising speed.
The hatchlings' eyes widened, instincts igniting.
"Catch it," Haotian ordered.
Xue'er launched forward instantly, screeching with reckless excitement. Its wings beat furiously, claws swiping at empty air as the hare dodged. It nearly crashed into a pillar, veered wildly, then skidded face-first into a snowdrift. Haotian didn't so much as flinch.
Ling'er came next. It flapped once, twice, leapt forward — only to trip over its own talons again. But it didn't stop. Snapping and chirping in frustration, it pursued the frosty hare in loops, each failure only fueling more stubborn determination.
Baiyun didn't move at all, not at first. It simply watched the hare's pattern. Its sapphire eyes narrowed, tracking every turn, every feint, every flicker of chi. Only when it saw the rhythm did it strike, wings spreading wide. With a single leap it intercepted the hare mid-turn, talons closing around its icy neck. The construct shattered in a burst of glittering shards.
Haotian's lips curved faintly. "Good. Xue'er — boldness without aim is waste. Ling'er — spirit without focus is folly. Baiyun… patience, then precision. That is the way of a true hunter."
The hatchlings cawed back, half-understanding, half-driven by instinct. Yet their spirits were burning brighter now.
Haotian summoned two more hares. This time, he didn't give the order. He simply watched.
All three falcons leapt at once. Xue'er barreled ahead, Ling'er followed stubbornly, and Baiyun swept low. The courtyard erupted with flapping wings, scattered frost, and sharp cries. Failures piled up — talons striking ice, wings colliding, cries of frustration filling the cold air. But slowly… gradually… the rhythm changed.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, the first true strike landed — Ling'er, after countless failed dives, snared a hare by sheer persistence. Xue'er managed one not long after, triumphant despite its sloppy form. Baiyun, steady as ever, ended the day with three clean kills, its precision undeniable.
The three collapsed around Haotian again, chests heaving, feathers damp with frost. He knelt beside them, one hand stroking their heads in turn.
"Remember this day," he murmured. "Your wings will carry you high, but it is your talons that will make the sky tremble."
The hatchlings chirped weakly, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, yet their cries carried something new — not the helpless mewls of chicks, but the first raw echoes of hunters.
As the night frost thickened across the courtyard tiles, Haotian stood, gazing up at the pale moonlight. His hand lingered over the three tiny forms huddled against his boots.
"They grow too fast," he whispered to himself, a rare hint of warmth breaking through his usual calm. Then, sharper, firmer: "Good. Let them. The world won't wait."
Above, the moon seemed to shimmer brighter, as though answering his vow.
Their first hunt had begun.
The courtyard lay silent beneath the moonlight, save for the soft breathing of three tiny hunters curled together in sleep. Yet when dawn crept pale across the horizon, they stirred before Haotian did. Ling'er was the first to lift its head, sapphire eyes bright with restless defiance. Xue'er followed, wings twitching as though even dreams had not stilled its need to fly. Baiyun, calm as ever, rose last — steady, focused, unhurried.
Haotian stood at the threshold, arms folded. He had watched them long enough to know what their gazes now sought. The walls of this courtyard had been their nest, their trial ground, but their cries the day before had not been the mewls of hatchlings anymore. They had been hunters' calls.
"Today," he said simply, his breath misting in the frost air, "we leave this place."
The three tilted their heads at him, uncertain but eager.
Haotian led them through a side passage of the sect, cloaked by a concealment talisman. Few disciples stirred this early, and those that did mistook the faint cries for the wind's bite. Beyond the outer wall, the world stretched vast — a forest smothered in snow, mountain ridges shimmering with frost, rivers half-frozen beneath the weight of winter.
The hatchlings stepped onto snow for the first time, their talons sinking into powder. Ling'er squawked indignantly, shaking its foot. Xue'er leapt in, belly-flopping into the drift with glee. Baiyun only adjusted its stance, talons pressing until it found balance.
Haotian let them take their first steps, silent, his aura veiled. Only when they grew still did he kneel, scooping a fistful of snow. His chi seeped into it, reshaping it into the faint outline of a rabbit — not ice-born this time, but a projection of a living creature's essence. He held it up before the hatchlings.
"This is the world outside," he murmured. "Prey with blood, with breath, with will to escape. To eat, you must hunt. To hunt, you must kill."
The falcons' eyes shone, instinct sparking.
Haotian scattered the image, then gestured toward the tree line. "Go."
The three bounded forward as one.
At first, chaos reigned. Xue'er darted wildly at shadows, screeching, startling snow hares before it ever got close. Ling'er tripped over roots half-buried in snow but chased anyway, wings flapping furiously. Baiyun, quiet as moonlight, paused — listening, watching.
A hare burst from its burrow, white fur blending with the snow. Xue'er charged, talons outstretched — and missed, skidding through a drift. Ling'er leapt, wings thrashing, only to crash headfirst into a tree trunk.
Baiyun moved last. It spread its wings once, caught the updraft rolling through the pines, and glided low. Its talons flashed like pale steel. When it struck, the snow erupted, and when it stilled, the hare was limp in its grasp.
Haotian's eyes narrowed with approval. Patience. Precision. As it should be.
But he said nothing. He let the hatchlings learn.
Failure after failure piled upon Ling'er and Xue'er. Yet neither quit. Ling'er, stubborn as stone, kept charging, feathers ruffled, eyes fierce. Xue'er, bold as thunder, dove and leapt, each miss followed by louder cries. By midday, exhaustion dragged at their wings — and still, they pressed on.
It was then that the forest gave them their first true chance. A trio of hares scattered from a bush. Xue'er dove headlong, wings flaring. Ling'er, battered but relentless, followed in a clumsy arc. For the first time, their paths converged — Xue'er's reckless dive cutting off escape, Ling'er's stubborn pursuit driving the hare into its path. Talons met fur. A triumphant cry split the cold air.
They had done it — together.
Haotian's lips curved. So they begin to find one another.
By dusk, the hunt was over. Baiyun had claimed two kills, clean and silent. Ling'er and Xue'er, through sweat and persistence, shared one between them. Their tiny beaks were stained faintly red, their cries no longer mewling but sharp, echoing through the trees like the first notes of a storm.
Haotian stood with them beneath the fading light, the forest quiet save for the crunch of snow beneath his boots. He knelt, touching each head with a single finger, a faint pulse of chi soothing their weariness.
"You have tasted the world," he said, voice low, carrying like the frost wind. "Remember it. From today, you are not merely chicks. You are hunters."
The falcons cried in answer — Ling'er shrill with defiance, Xue'er loud with pride, Baiyun calm with resonance.
Haotian's eyes lifted to the distant ridges. The forest was silent now, but it would not always be so. Someday, storms would come, demons would prowl, sects would clash. And when that day came, these cries would not be small — they would be the voices of predators that shook the heavens.
The three Frost Falcons huddled at his feet, wings trembling from exertion, yet their eyes burned with light.
Haotian looked down at them, and for the first time in many years, his expression held something rare — a quiet smile that was not for disciples, not for sect, but only for them.
"My children," he whispered.
The frost winds carried his vow into the night.
The night after their first hunt passed in silence. The hatchlings slept curled tightly against one another, their small chests rising and falling in sync. Their feathers, though still downy, bore a faint new sheen — a hunter's mark, subtle yet undeniable. Haotian did not sleep. He stood at the courtyard's edge with his arms folded, his gaze turned upward to where frost winds tangled in the mountain ridges.
By dawn, his mind was decided.
When the first pale light broke across the snow-draped pines, Haotian roused the hatchlings with a sharp clap. Ling'er jerked awake in protest, Xue'er flapped in alarm, Baiyun blinked silently.
"You learned yesterday what it means to strike the earth," he said, his voice calm but iron beneath. "Today, you will learn what it means to fight the sky."
The three falcons tilted their heads, their sapphire eyes glinting in curiosity.
Haotian led them beyond the treeline, up the narrow ridges that overlooked the sect. The mountain winds grew stronger with every step. By the time they reached a cliff ledge, the gusts tore at his robes and howled past like phantom wolves. Snow swirled in wild spirals, the kind that could strip branches bare in heartbeats.
The hatchlings huddled instinctively, wings clamped to their sides. Xue'er cried in protest, Ling'er squawked angrily, Baiyun only narrowed its eyes against the gale.
Haotian stood at the cliff's edge, the wind battering him without effect. His gaze turned to the horizon, where dark clouds gathered in slow churn, promising greater storms yet.
"Do you think the sky is gentle?" he said, his voice cutting through the roar. "The sky kills. The wind tears. Wings are not ornaments — they are weapons against the storm. And you will master them, or you will break."
With that, he stepped aside and pointed outward. "Fly."
The hatchlings froze.
Xue'er screeched as if to argue, but Haotian's gaze silenced it. Ling'er shifted nervously, talons scraping the rock. Baiyun stared at the abyss, then at Haotian, reading the unspoken command in his eyes.
One by one, they spread their wings.
Xue'er leapt first, bold as always. The wind caught it instantly, flinging it sideways like a leaf. It tumbled, screeching, wings flailing against currents too wild to control.
Ling'er, stubborn, flapped furiously as it jumped, fighting the gale with everything it had. For a moment it rose — then a sudden downdraft slammed it down, forcing it into a spiraling fall.
Baiyun stepped last. Its wings stretched wider, steady, its body lowering into the wind as though listening. When it leapt, it didn't resist the gale. It tilted, shifted, let the currents carry it for a breath before adjusting. It was still tossed, but it glided further than the others, landing hard but intact on a snowbank below.
Haotian's expression didn't change. He leapt down after them, his presence silent but unyielding.
"This is the storm," he said, standing amidst the swirling snow, his hair whipped by the gale. "You will not run from it. You will rise within it."
The training began.
Hour after hour, he drove them off the cliffs, again and again. Every failure left them battered, wings trembling, bodies rolling across the snow. Xue'er screamed louder each time, but it always leapt again, reckless courage burning like fire. Ling'er crashed more than it flew, but its eyes never dimmed, each fall met with another furious attempt. Baiyun grew sharper, calmer, reading the currents better with each try, its glides growing longer, its landings less jarring.
Haotian gave no mercy. He raised the frost chi within the mountain itself, intensifying the wind, shaping sudden bursts and downdrafts that came without warning. "The sky does not forgive," he said coldly. "Nor will I."
By midday, the hatchlings were sprawled across the snow, bodies shaking, wings heavy with exhaustion. But in their eyes burned something new — not only instinct, but will.
Haotian crouched before them, his presence fierce and solemn. "The storm is your enemy, and your ally. Learn its song. Bend with it. Strike through it. The day you master the sky, nothing beneath it will bind you."
The hatchlings chirped weakly, but their cries were sharper now, cutting through the roar of the wind like sparks through darkness.
As the sun dipped low and the storm finally waned, the three small falcons stood once more. Feathers ragged, wings trembling, yet when they spread them against the fading light, they no longer looked like helpless chicks. They looked like fledglings preparing to carve the sky.
Haotian's gaze lingered on them, unreadable, but deep within, a rare flame stirred. Good. Break now, so you will not break later.
The storm had not defeated them. It had baptized them.
Their wings belonged to the sky now.