Dawn Over Frostveil Peak
Snowflakes hung like frozen lanterns in the pale morning light. The Crystalline Ring lay pristine, yet tense; whispers raced through the outer and inner disciples like wind across ice. The Sect Master's violet robes glimmered faintly in the sunlight as he raised his hand.
> "No artifacts. No spirit tools. No qi techniques. Only your body, your bones, your spirit."
A shiver ran through the gathered disciples. Even the most confident inner disciples paused. Today, only skill, only instinct, only will would determine their place.
Tiān Lán stood at the edge of the platform, frost-blue robes billowing in the morning breeze. His black hair was tied simply, yet his posture—slight, unmoved—radiated calm. Every fiber of him hummed with contained power, like a glacier ready to move.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
> "Liú Qìnghai? That's insane!"
"Ironbone Jade Physique… he'll crush the new recruit!"
Yet Tiān Lán's eyes were unreadable. No fear. No arrogance. Only observation.
---
The signal sounded. Qìnghai lunged, each strike explosive, controlled, and brutal, honed by years of ironbone cultivation. The air shuddered with every impact.
Tiān Lán moved—but not like a beginner. His footwork flowed, pivoting, sliding, and coiling like ice water around rocks.
> Phantom Snowstep.
Silent Iceflow.
His movements whispered of techniques long lost to time, forgotten even by the elders. A redirection here, a gentle tap there—the strikes of a master buried beneath discipline and caution.
Qìnghai's strikes became desperate.
> "Slippery!" he growled, trying to force a misstep.
Tiān Lán didn't strike to win. Not yet. He only let precision meet force, allowing Qìnghai's strength to reveal itself, then redirected it, a single palm sending the inner court disciple tumbling like a leaf caught in a gust.
The crowd gasped. The elders exchanged uneasy glances.
> "That stance… those steps… Silent Iceflow?"
"No one has performed it in centuries…"
"This boy… he isn't an ordinary recruit."
Even the Sect Master's hand twitched toward his beard. Recognition—silent but undeniable.
---
Aftermath
Tiān Lán bowed, calm as ice.
> "Apologies, Senior Brother."
He stepped back, serene, as murmurs turned into hushed fear and pointed curiosity.
Elder Yao's eyes lingered on him longer than necessary.
> "…The Frozen Star… may have returned."
A prophecy murmured among the sect's most vigilant watchers.
---
Nightfall, Outer Quarters
Under the silvered moon, Tiān Lán held the Frostheart Soul Pearl, its glow faint but resonant. Lingxiāo, the bell spirit, fluttered beside it, tiny wings stirring frost in the air.
> "You held back," she whispered.
"One blow… that would've ended him."
He stared into the falling snow. Shadows of a past life drifted across his mind—blood, betrayal, and frost-strewn death.
> "Not yet," he murmured. "I need to see the traitors first. Then I will act."
Lingxiāo nodded. Patience. Concealment. Observation.
---
Sleep brought visions, but not memories. Prophecy.
Tiān Lán stood amidst blue fire and shattered swords, a thunder-laced obsidian gate hovering above. A voice, neither distant nor near, called:
> "Yè Tíanshuāng… your soul has not healed. When the mirror breaks, the sky shall weep blood again."
Ice and lightning danced across the vision before shattering like glass. He woke, the weight of fate heavy on his shoulders.
---
Formation battle. Strategy and teamwork over raw strength. Tiān Lán's eyes met a newcomer—Guo Rénjie, a tall boy with sword scars and sharp eyes.
> "I want to team up. You're the target of someone's scheme."
Tiān Lán narrowed his eyes.
> "Then we'll give them a show."
The seeds of alliances, rivalries, and danger began to entwine. The storm was coming. Faster than expected.
And high above, the girl in pale robes observed silently, parasol at her side, her heart racing:
> "…Yè Tíanshuāng. It's really you."