The weeks of training under Lang Bingwei reshaped Yukishiro completely. His body had grown stronger, his lungs deeper, and his endurance longer.
But more importantly, his understanding of breathing had transformed.
Through hardship and pain, he finally began weaving his martial foundation into something uniquely his own—Ice Breathing.
Yukishiro spent his spare time refining, trimming, and reshaping his techniques until he had crystallized them into seven distinct forms—each sharp as winter frost, each born from his heart's frozen resolve.
…
Breath of Ice · First Form · Cold Wave
A tide of freezing air bursts outward from his body, distorting the air around him into mist and crystalline frost. Enemy perception falters, movements dull under the creeping chill, and vision is stolen by fog. Even blood slows, muscles stiffen. It is not an attack but a battlefield in itself, a storm that tilts the fight in his favor.
Breath of Ice · Second Form · Falling Snow
Coldness gathered upon the edge of the blade. Every slash becomes more than steel—it becomes frost. Wounds that should heal instantly under a Demon's regenerative power freeze over instead, slowing their recovery. If the strike lands upon joints, the enemy's mobility falters, their movements bound in invisible chains of winter.
Breath of Ice · Third Form · Shattering Rain of Time
He breathes, swings, and shards of frozen air congeal into a storm of ice cones, scattering toward the enemy alongside his blade. Long-ranged, relentless, and merciless—each cone that lands bites deeper, freezing wounds into stubborn scars that hinder healing. A storm that tears both distance and time away.
Breath of Ice · Fourth Form · Icefall
The swordsman becomes an avalanche. He leaps, descending with the Nichirin Blade brimming with cold fury, multiplying the force with inertia. If the enemy evades, the ground shatters under impact, spreading concentric circles of jagged ice cones that claw outward like fangs, driving enemies back into the storm.
Breath of Ice · Fifth Form · Swift Ice Spike
A thrust sharper than lightning. His body twists as one, channeling strength, speed, and cold into the blade's tip. A piercing strike that ignores hesitation, meant only for decisive, critical moments. This was the very move that saved him once before, when a wooden stick—guided by instinct and desperation—pierced a Demon's throat.
Breath of Ice · Sixth Form · Phantom
Here, body and frost become one. A thin sheet of ice condenses beneath his soles, reducing friction, letting him skim the ground as though weightless. The phantom form does not kill—it creates opportunities, weaving speed and unpredictability into the rhythm of combat. Its derivative, Phantom · Snowfall had already proven devastating when he pierced a Demon's joints in a single instant.
Breath of Ice · Seventh Form · Ice Dragon
The pinnacle of his mastery so far. With body twisting in fluid, merciless arcs, the blade spins and spirals, drawing a dragon of frost in the air. Each rotation amplifies the strike's power until the spectral beast of ice crashes down upon the enemy. Beautiful, terrible, and unstoppable.
…
Yet within him lay the whisper of an eighth form—a vision beyond his reach.
Breath of Ice · Eighth Form · Thousand Miles of Ice · True Mist.
In his imagination, it began with the release of an immense tide of frost, freezing the battlefield into a world of stillness. Then, stepping through the frozen mist using Phantom, he would cover vast distances in a breath, severing the enemy's neck before they even realized he had moved.
But this technique was only a dream for now. His body could not yet sustain the torrent of cold it demanded. "Someday," he promised himself, "when I stand on the peak of my strength, this blade of winter will finally be born."
….
Two days remained before the Fujikasane selection.
That evening, when the sun had sunk low and dusk blurred the mountain, Shinobu Kocho walked a quiet path through the forest. Her butterfly-patterned haori fluttered gently in the cool air as she approached Bailong, the White Dragon Pool.
A snow-white waterfall thundered down from ten meters above, crashing into the pool below like a descending dragon.
Mist curled into the evening air, and pebbles glittered faintly with spray.
On a flat bluestone by the shore lay a coarse linen shirt, neatly folded. Shinobu tilted her head, smiling softly. That must have been where Yukishiro usually left his clothes before diving into the pool for training. Lang Bingwei's reports had said he trained in the lake every evening until it was time to eat.
Quietly, Shinobu stepped onto the stones by the shore, crouching near the slab. Mischief lit her violet eyes. She wanted to see what expression would flicker across the boy's face when he emerged and found her there.
Soon, a dark shadow stirred beneath the water, swimming closer.
"Finally," she thought, watching intently.
Yukishiro surfaced with a gasp, water cascading from his pale hair. But the instant his eyes found a blurry silhouette squatting on the shore, alarm surged through him. His instincts flared, and cold air burst outward in reflex. In the blink of an eye, ice spread across the pond, creeping toward Shinobu's sandals. He retreated to the pool's center, poised to strike.
"Oh my, still so rude after two months?" Shinobu's voice was teasing, soft but sharp.
"Not cute at all. Haven't improved a bit."
Recognition flickered, and Yukishiro exhaled. The frost receded, retreating into him like a tide pulling back from the shore. His chest rose and fell, tension slowly unraveling.
It was Shinobu.
Relief, annoyance, and something else—something warm—mixed within him. He was angry at her sudden intrusion, but a small, buried joy also surfaced.
Yet embarrassment followed quickly behind, for his bare torso gleamed in the fading light, droplets rolling down his skin.
Without a word, he sank back underwater, swimming toward the shore. For a moment, he considered waiting until she turned her back, but Shinobu Kocho remained exactly where she was, chin resting lightly on her knees, watching him with a smile that was both knowing and merciless.
She's not leaving…? Yukishiro grit his teeth. He had no choice but to climb out, water dripping from his frame.
His heart betrayed him—he was glad to see her. But on his face, he wore indifference. "Why are you here?"
Shinobu clasped her hands behind her back, leaning forward playfully until her face hovered just inches from his. Her violet eyes studied him with open boldness, lingering on his handsome features, his pale lashes wet with droplets.
"Why so cold? Didn't we get along before? Or…" her voice softened, though her smile never wavered, "are you blaming me? For not sending you up the mountain that day? For leaving you to almost die?"
Yukishiro met her gaze steadily, though his heartbeat betrayed him. His skin burned beneath her nearness, though his body carried only frost.
He was no longer the broken boy she had once treated at the Butterfly House. His complexion now held a healthy flush, his eyes burned with vitality, and his presence was that of someone who had carved strength into his bones. Snow-white hair, firm expression, and a body forged by relentless training—he looked as though he had stepped straight out of a painted scroll.
Shinobu, watching him, let her smile deepen.
"Mm," she whispered to herself, "he's grown."