Frostveil Peak – The Plaza of Rankings
The mountain wind tore across the Frostveil Sect's main plaza, snapping banners against stone towers that gleamed with frost. Thousands of disciples gathered beneath the towering jade stele, their breaths misting in the cold morning air. Pride, envy, and anxiety mingled into a thick haze over the crowd.
One by one, the names etched themselves in glowing blue script, the ancient array burning each character into the jade with a soft hum. Cheers erupted whenever a favored genius appeared near the top, while whispers and side-eyes followed the less accomplished.
> Rank 3: Liú Qìnghai – Stormblood Physique
Rank 7: Kaì Zhěn – Flame Serpent Art
Rank 19: Mù Liuyun – Flowing Snow Grace
Excited murmurs swelled as all eyes turned to the top two. The stone trembled once more.
> Rank 1: ??? (shrouded in mist)
Rank 2: Xuè Wen – Crimson Saber Style
Gasps swept the plaza. Rank 1 concealed by mist—a deliberate act of the elders. Such concealment was rare, reserved for names that carried either danger, heritage, or secrets no disciple should yet know.
> "Who… who could that be?"
"Never seen this before!"
Tiān Lán's calm black eyes lingered briefly on the misted script. Lingxiāo, the Bell Spirit, stirred faintly in his mind, her voice like a soft wind:
> "Master, do you still doubt? They know it's you. The sect is watching."
He said nothing, letting the truth hang in silence like the frost over the jade.
---
After the rankings, the sect moved to assign masters. Elders descended from their pavilions like storms settling onto the field, robes shimmering faintly with qi. Every disciple watched, eager to be chosen, hoping for mentorship that could define their entire path.
Liú Qìnghai bowed before Elder Fang, whose Stormblade Hall was legendary. Xuè Wen approached Elder Yun, crimson robes rippling. Even Kaì Zhěn—defeated yet proud—found himself taken by a fire elder.
And Tiān Lán?
Elder after elder shook their heads, dismissing him. Whispers rose, some sneering, others incredulous.
Finally, a ragged figure stepped forward. White beard uneven, sleeves frayed, robe smelling faintly of wine and herbs. His eyes twinkled with mischief—or madness.
> "Hoho! This one," the old man croaked, pointing at Tiān Lán.
Gasps swept the crowd.
> "That useless one?"
"Old Man Wáng? The hermit?"
"He hasn't taken a disciple in decades!"
Tiān Lán simply bowed, serene as frost on pine needles.
As he straightened, the old man leaned close, voice suddenly sharp beneath its drunken cadence:
> "If you keep walking your path, boy… heaven's frost will fall again. And thunder will come for you."
Tiān Lán froze. For a heartbeat, Old Man Wáng's madness cleared—a piercing gaze that seemed to look into the soul of calamities past. Then he shuffled away, humming incoherently, leaving Tiān Lán staring after him, ice and storm tightening in his chest.
---
Later, the sect grew quiet. Snow whispered against stone, moonlight silvering rooftops. Tiān Lán stood alone at the cliff's edge, gazing into the abyss where the wind carried frost like shards of glass.
A soft crunch—footsteps on frozen stone—broke the silence.
She appeared from the mist: ink-black hair tied back, silver embroidery glittering along her sleeves, parasol resting closed on her shoulder. Her eyes were clear as autumn pools, studying him with a focus that made the cold feel warmer.
> "You…" she whispered. "It really is you."
Tiān Lán's chest tightened. He had expected her someday—but not tonight, not here. His voice was even, controlled.
> "You mistake me for someone else."
A faint curve of sorrow touched her lips.
> "No. I would know that frost anywhere. Yè Tíanshuāng."
The name struck like a lightning bolt. Frost qi swirled at Tiān Lán's feet before he forced it down, eyes hardening, mask of calm returning.
> "You should not speak that name."
She stepped closer, parasol tip tapping lightly against stone, each sound deliberate, almost ceremonial.
> "Then answer me one thing. Are you still the man I once knew… or only his shadow in another's skin?"
The wind howled between them, carrying ice and memory.
Tiān Lán met her gaze. For the first time in this life, the mask cracked—just enough for frost and fire to tremble in the same moment.