The sealed thunder chamber beneath the Mirror Bell trembled with ancient power. The stormlight outside pierced the cracks of the chamber, casting shards of electric silver across the blackened stone. At the center, the crystal tablet pulsed, its frost-etched surface cracking as Tiān Lán's past life name—Yè Tíanshuāng—blazed in ethereal blue.
With a sound like ice splitting, the tablet fractured, releasing three relics that floated slowly into the air, each a testament to centuries of forgotten mastery.
The first was a sword, long and sinuous, black steel kissed by silver frost—Hanxue, the Cold Snow Blade. Its edge shimmered as if it held winter itself, cold enough to bite into the spirit of men. Forged from starsteel and quenched in heavenly thunder, it was said to have cleaved through immortal shields with a single stroke.
Next rose a jade bottle, etched with nine lightning talismans. Faint blue light danced beneath the stopper, revealing the Frostheart Soul Elixirs within. Pills that could calm inner demons, fortify the soul vein beyond known limits, and awaken powers thought lost to time. The aura emanating from them was subtle, yet potent—a harmony of ice and lightning, waiting for the one worthy to consume them.
And above the altar, hovering like a calm eye in the storm, floated a shard of the Mirror Bell itself. Light pulsed from its core, then, impossibly, a voice spoke—a young woman's, serene and clear:
> "Yè Tíanshuāng… Master. You have returned."
Before him materialized Lingxiao, the Bell Spirit, her robes silver like moonlight reflected on ice, her eyes calm yet piercing blue. She had waited, sealed for centuries, to greet only him.
> "I hold your secrets, your techniques, your wrath.
The Frost God has not been forgotten."
The sword thrummed with power. The pills shimmered. Lingxiao's gaze pierced the air. And Tiān Lán, standing in the frozen chamber, felt the weight of his rebirth. One step forward—no longer a child, no longer fragile—only the cultivator who had once frozen the heavens with a single breath.
---
Later that evening, the rain whispered against the manor windows. Candles flickered across polished wooden floors and jade tableware, casting gold against shadows. Tiān Lán entered the dining hall, formal blue hanfu flowing softly with his movements. Silence fell—not awe, not fear, but the sharp edge of notice.
> "Hmph. He finally shows up," murmured the second wife, her eyes narrowing. "Didn't expect the sickly one to remember family traditions."
Tiān Lán's gaze did not waver. Calm. Unreadable. His half-brother scoffed and turned, dismissing him with the ease of those who underestimated a shadow.
At the far end, however, his mother rose, warmth blooming in her expression:
> "Lán'er, come sit by me. You must be tired from cultivation."
Her hand patted the chair, her pouring of tea deliberate, protective, soft. Amidst the cold judgments and dismissive stares, Tiān Lán felt a stir in his long-frozen heart. Even now, she was the only one who saw him.
Beneath the table, the Cold Snow Blade rested, a silent promise. Lingxiao's whisper brushed his mind:
> "Shall I silence them for you, Master?"
Tiān Lán gave no reply. Not yet.
---
That morning had brought only a letter, bearing the Duke's seal:
> "You are to report to Sky Hollow Sect within three days. You will remain there for training until further notice."
A polite command that hid the sting of exile. His half-brother's triumph had been soft-spoken poison into the Duke's ear:
> "He's always been weak, Father. If he cannot survive there, he was never worthy."
That night, under the moon's pale gaze, his mother wept quietly, placing a white jade pendant around his neck.
> "Frostveil is dangerous," she whispered, voice trembling. "But if your destiny lies there… go, Lán'er. Never bow again."
Tiān Lán's eyes softened, just a fraction.
> "I promise, Mother. One day, the name they cast aside will freeze the heavens themselves."
Her hands trembled as she pressed the jade pendant into his palm.
> "Promise me you'll return stronger. They cannot see you—but I always will."
He bowed.
> "I'll come back. Not as the boy they cast aside—but as the cultivator the heavens themselves will remember."
---
Frostveil Peak loomed beyond the capital, shrouded in endless snow, wind howling like restless spirits. A sect where Silence, Ice, and Endurance were law, and only the devoted survived.
Tiān Lán stepped through the frozen obsidian gate. Lingxiao's voice, soft yet resolute, stirred within his soul:
> "So it begins, Master. Where once you fell, now you shall rise—stronger than frost, quieter than death."
Fingers brushed the Cold Snow Blade. Frostheart Soul Elixirs pulsed softly in his pouch. Snow and silence swallowed him, yet he did not look back. Frostveil Peak towered like a spear piercing heaven—a graveyard for the unworthy, a proving ground for the reborn.
At the base, the Gate of Silent Ice awaited. Ten initiates shivered, fur-lined robes clinging to them, courage or desperation etched on their faces.
A white-haired elder, blindfolded, spoke, voice both gentle and cruel:
> "The path of frost is not walked by words. Three trials await. One to test your soul. One to test your silence. One to test your storm. You will enter alone. You may not speak. And if you scream… the mountain will answer."
Tiān Lán stepped forward. The gate shuddered. It opened, revealing nothing but blinding white.
---
First Trial: Soul Mirror Cavern
Ice mirrored ice. Snowflakes hung motionless. A thousand reflections of him—twisted, tormented, screaming. One bled. One wept. One smiled cruelly.
> "Why try again?" it hissed, voice his own. "You failed once. Betrayed. Slain. Forgotten."
Tiān Lán's gaze remained steady. Snow fell silently around him.
> "Because I am no longer Yè Tíanshuāng. I am Tiān Lán. And I know how the story ends this time."
The mirror cracked. Shattered. The path opened.
---
Second Trial: Chamber of Silence
A storm raged, but no sound reached him. Ice blades flew with deadly precision. Every movement made noise. Every breath risked failure. Yet he moved like flowing water—slow, controlled, a storm contained. One slip, one wrong step, one pebble… a blade grazed his cheek. Still, he did not fall. The center of the chamber awaited.
---
Third Trial: Heartstorm
Lightning, snow, wind. A tempest in its purest form. Tiān Lán drew Hanxue, the Cold Snow Blade, and with a single sweep redirected a bolt of thunder, embracing the storm rather than resisting it.
> "You are part of me now," he whispered to the sky.
The tempest stilled. The Gate of Silent Ice opened.
The blindfolded elder bowed.
> "Accepted. Frostveil recognizes you, disciple… Tiān Lán."
He stepped into the sect grounds. The true path had begun.
Far above, in a sealed frost-laden palace, silver-haired eyes opened wide.
> "…He has come."