The chamber's exit opened onto a frost-slick ledge, the second tower's spire piercing the swirling mist like a jagged tooth. Qin Mo led the team out, the shard's heat a faint glow against the biting cold that clung to the air. His breath clouded as he scanned the horizon, the FFD System humming a warning in his mind.
[FFD System: Frostflame Balance: Heat 40% / Cold 60%. Azure Flame Sect ambush, 10m ahead, threat level: High.]
Before he could react, arrows whistled through the fog, their azure fletching marking them as the work of the Azure Flame Sect. Qin Mo ducked, his Frostmirror Shield flaring with a translucent barrier that deflected a blade aimed at his chest. The mist parted, revealing a dozen robed figures, their jade tokens pulsing with a cold blue light. "Core-bearer," one sneered, his voice cutting through the wind, "your time's up."
Yi was already moving, her frost threads spiraling out like silver whips, lashing around a scout's legs and yanking him off balance. The man hit the ice with a grunt, his arrow skittering away. Ren charged in from the flank, his daggers flashing as he clashed with another sect member, fury driving each strike. The clash of steel rang out, sparks flying as Ren's blades met the enemy's frostfire sword.
Ling Shou stepped into the fray, his frost-white robes billowing as he raised a hand, a swirl of frost deflecting an arrow aimed at Qin Mo's back. "They want the shard," he said, his voice strained with effort. Qin Mo nodded, his eyes narrowing as a sect elder emerged, his robes adorned with intricate runes, his jade token glowing brighter than the rest. The elder's frostfire blade ignited, a wave of blue flame and ice slashing toward Qin Mo with deadly precision.
He rolled aside, the heat of Flame Step surging through his boots to shatter the ice beneath him, the cold receding for a moment. The elder pressed the attack, his blade weaving a net of frost that forced Qin Mo back toward the ledge's edge. Lian's arrows flew, one piercing the elder's shoulder with a wet thud, the impact slowing his advance. Qin Mo seized the opening, lunging with the Frostfang Strike, the blade's icy edge grazing the elder's arm, drawing a hiss of pain.
Yi's threads joined Ling Shou's, the two weaving a net that pinned the elder's arms, his token flickering as he struggled. Ren darted in, his daggers finding the elder's chest, the final thrust ending the fight with a spray of blood that steamed in the cold. The remaining sect members faltered, their ambush broken, and fled into the mist, leaving the ledge silent but tense.
[Devour progress: 15%. Balance: Heat 38% / Cold 62%.]
Qin Mo lowered his blade, his chest heaving, the shard's heat battling the chill that seeped into his limbs. Ling Shou stumbled, a dark stain spreading across his robes where an arrow had grazed him. "They're desperate," he said, his voice rough. "The Tax drives them—your shard is a threat they can't ignore."
Yi retracted her threads, her eyes narrowing as she glanced at Ling Shou. "And you knew this would happen," she accused, her voice sharp with suspicion. "How deep are you in this?" Ren wiped his daggers, his gaze fixed on the mist where the sect had vanished, his mind clearly on Wei. Lian stood silent, her bow still raised, her expression unreadable but wary.
The ledge shook beneath their feet, a low rumble signaling more danger. Shadows shifted in the fog—more sect members, or perhaps something worse. Qin Mo's hand tightened on his blade, the Frostflame Core pulsing with a mix of heat and cold. The bells' chime from his pouch grew louder, a constant reminder of the Tax's claim. He glanced at Ling Shou, whose face was pale but resolute. "We need to move," Qin Mo said, his voice steady despite the uncertainty. "They'll be back."
The team fell into formation, their trust in Ling Shou wavering but their resolve unbroken. The mist thickened, the spire's height looming above, and the faint sound of clashing steel echoed from below. Qin Mo's mind raced— the sect's aggression, Wei's capture, Ling Shou's cryptic warnings—all pointed to a larger game, one the towers were drawing them into. The cold pressed harder, but the shard's heat flared, a defiant spark that refused to fade.
As they moved, the ledge narrowed, forcing them closer together, the ice beneath their feet treacherous. The bells' whisper mingled with the wind, a haunting melody that tugged at Qin Mo's chest, and he knew the shadows held more than just sect blades. Whatever lay ahead, the fight for the shard—and their survival—had only just begun.