The wind at Frostveil Peak was unlike any Tiān Lán had ever felt.
It was not merely cold—it carried whispers of the mountain's history, voices sharp as steel and heavy with judgment. Snow blanketed the stone paths in thick silence, preserving footprints, secrets, and the weight of every past failure.
He had passed the entrance trials. Alone. Unshaken.
Now, he stepped through the towering gates of the Frostveil Sect. Robes damp with sleet clinging to him, the Cold Snow Blade slung across his back. Eyes turned toward him—some curious, some dismissive.
> "That's him…"
"Did you hear? He stood inside the Heartstorm without flinching."
"Tch. Noble brat with a backer, probably."
Tiān Lán said nothing. He never needed to. His presence alone carried weight.
---
The Lower Disciple Courtyard stretched before him, carved into cliffsides, stone houses lined in perfect order. Pines wrapped in frost, lanterns flickering icy blue, each breath visible like smoke in the frozen air.
Beneath a frost-carved arch stood a woman, tall, frost-hued robes flowing like a glacier. Her hair bound with silver ribbon, eyes polished like ice.
> "Tiān Lán. Outer East Quarters," she said, voice low and cutting. "You'll begin training at first frost. Learn the sect rules. Break them, and the mountain breaks you."
She was Lan Yuerong, senior disciple, the sect's living embodiment of cold precision.
Tiān Lán bowed low, his face unreadable.
> "Most newcomers ask questions," she continued.
"The rules are clear," he replied calmly. "I'll follow them."
Her eyes lingered, calculating, before she turned away.
---
His quarters were humble: a cot, a desk, a meditation mat. Clean. Quiet. Perfect for focus.
Tiān Lán unrolled his cloth bundle… and froze.
A folded letter, tucked in layers of spare clothing, sealed with blue wax—his mother's seal, a cloud entwined with a lotus bloom.
> Mother.
He carefully broke the seal, unfolding the parchment. Her handwriting was like flowing water—soft, curved, familiar.
> "My Lán'er, the path you walk is long, but it is yours. Hidden in your robes is a jade token. Press it to your heart beneath moonlight and remember: the frost is not your enemy. It is your nature."
Beneath her words, a verse in ancient script: a seal-breaking chant, a key to a treasure she risked everything to pass on. Tiān Lán's fingers trembled as he slipped the letter into his inner sleeve.
> "Mother…" he whispered, closing his eyes for the first time since arriving.
---
Night fell. Frostveil's sky was indigo, pierced by pinprick stars. Snow fell silently.
Tiān Lán stepped beneath a pine dusted in white, sitting cross-legged. He began to cultivate, drawing qi into his core. Resistance rose from the mountain itself, testing him, probing him—but beneath that resistance hummed a familiar resonance.
Ice. Void. Power long buried. He welcomed it.
A fox spirit darted between trees. A soft laugh followed.
> "You really do look like a statue," a gentle voice said.
Tiān Lán opened his eyes. A girl stood before him, long white sleeves flowing, pale foxes circling her legs. Silver eyes, calm, observing.
> "Bai Qianli," she said, bowing. "Beast tamer. You must be Tiān Lán."
He nodded once. "You're perceptive."
> "Foxes always find the ones with heavy fates," she replied.
From above, a loud, warm voice rang out. A flame-haired boy dropped from a branch, rolling to a stop.
> "She's right! You've got that brooding-hero energy. I'm Rong Jian. I punch things. You're quiet. I like that."
Tiān Lán almost smiled.
> "Thank you… I think."
Unseen above, two senior disciples watched from shadowed cliffs.
> "That's him, isn't it?" the shorter boy hissed.
"The bastard son they said wouldn't live."
The taller one, Feng Yuancheng, voice like flint striking steel, said:
> "He won't stay quiet forever. And when he dares to shine… I'll be the one to break him."
---
Later, Tiān Lán retrieved the jade token. Against his chest, he whispered the seal phrase. Cold qi surged through him, spiraling in currents visible only to those with eyes for cultivation.
Deep within, the Frostheart Cauldron awakened, ancient symbols carved into its frost-laced surface glowing faintly. Three elixir seeds shimmered:
1. Heal the soul.
2. Shatter illusions.
3. Awaken bloodline memory.
The path had begun.
A creak outside drew his attention. A masked figure in black, cloaked, silent as snow, stepped in.
Before Tiān Lán could react, a strike came—fast, precise. Not to kill, but to measure.
Tiān Lán blocked, slid, and countered with a palm infused with frost qi. The figure laughed softly:
> "You've retained more than I thought, Yè Tíanshuāng."
His eyes widened. His past life name—how did they know?
Before another blow could fall, the attacker vanished, leaving a sigil pressed into the frost: a blooming ice lotus surrounded by seven stars.
Tiān Lán clenched his fists.
> "The… Silent Orchid Sect…"
They were watching.
---
The next morning, frost glittered on every surface. Disciples gathered in the courtyard.
Lan Yuerong's voice cut like a blade through the snow:
> "You who stand here are the lowest seeds of Frostveil Sect. Ice does not grow weak roots. You will learn our sacred ways—or leave broken."
Tiān Lán's gaze drifted to the forest edge. There, a girl in cloud-blue robes, ink-dark hair, stood silently. A faint smile touched her lips. Recognition. Not from this life… but from before.
Night deepened over Frostveil Peak. The outer courtyard lay silent except for the wind's low howl. Tiān Lán stood barefoot on icy stone, eyes closed, frost qi swirling visibly around him. Frostlotus patterns formed beneath his feet where his qi touched. The Frostheart Cauldron pulsed, alive and waiting.
A rare thunderstorm erupted above the peak—a chaotic anomaly, lightning piercing snowfall. A bolt of azure struck above Tiān Lán. Disciples screamed and scattered.
Tiān Lán did not move. He opened his eyes—faint blue glimmers radiating.
The lightning entered silently, absorbed by him like water into dry soil.
Ding.
Within the Frostheart Cauldron, a new technique etched itself into his consciousness:
>Skyfrost Vein Severing Art — purifies all meridians, burning impurities with frost-infused lightning qi.
Only he could wield it.
From shadowed treetops, a slender figure watched—a girl in light blue robes, ink-dark hair tied neatly, silver embroidery catching the moonlight. Her closed parasol rested at her side.
> "So… it really is you," she whispered.
Tiān Lán looked up—startled. She was gone before he could speak.
The mountain held its breath. Frostveil had awakened.