The snow fell gently across the peaks of the Northern Wastes, swirling in a graceful dance atop the crystalline palaces of the Everfrost Sect. The world seemed still here—untouched by time, war, or ambition. Here, the cold ruled eternal, and at its heart stood a man feared and revered by all beneath heaven.
Lián Báiye, the Frost Monarch.
Wrapped in flowing robes of pale white and silver, he stood on the terrace of the Ice Lotus Pavilion, his long hair trailing behind him like moonlight carved into silk. Eyes as cold as ancient glaciers gazed out into the distance. Behind that gaze lay centuries of cultivation, countless battles won, and a heart long frozen to the world.
The air was still. Too still.
Below, disciples moved through the white-marble courtyards of the sect, their movements as precise as flowing ice. A sense of serenity rested over them, unaware of the storm creeping toward their sanctuary.
He closed his eyes.
There was no wind.
"Strange," he murmured. "The frost… is quiet today."
A faint chill, deeper than the natural cold, crawled down his spine. He turned to call for his disciple—Mei'er, the one he trusted to guard the inner gates—but the girl was not at her post.
He stepped forward. A crack echoed in the distance.
Then, the silence shattered.
A pulse of spiritual energy surged through the ground. The defensive formations buried beneath centuries of snow flickered—then failed. A sudden shriek tore through the air. It was not the cry of a beast. It was human.
One of his disciples.
Lián Báiye vanished in a gust of snow, appearing in the central square. Dozens of Everfrost disciples lay sprawled across the polished white floor, blood staining the marble red.
There were no signs of battle—no clashing swords, no shouts, no warning.
Only death.
He knelt beside the youngest of them—a boy barely fifteen summers. His body was frozen solid from the inside out, eyes wide in horror, lips parted as though trying to scream.
Lián Báiye's hands trembled.
No wounds. No poison. No qi signature.
Only ice. His own element.
He rose slowly.
"Who dares?" His voice rang across the heavens, thunder masked in frost. "Show yourselves."
Nothing.
The clouds darkened. The snow turned to ash.
From every shadow, they came.
Figures cloaked in void-black robes burst forth from the frost itself, moving like spirits, faster than thought. No aura. No name. No sect. They struck in utter silence, and their blades found flesh.
His inner disciples, masters in their own right, fell like mortals.
One tried to cry his name. Another tried to run. Both were silenced before they could draw breath.
Lián Báiye's fury erupted.
With a flick of his sleeve, the world froze.
The mountains cracked. The sky turned pale. The domain of the Frost Monarch descended in full—a world of absolute stillness. Snow turned to razors. The very breath of air could cut bone.
Yet they kept coming.
He moved like a phantom, blade of spirit ice forming in his hand. With every strike, he felled one—yet for each shadow he destroyed, three more rose.
They knew his techniques.
They moved like those who had studied his very soul.
He could not see a face. Not a single one. Hoods cloaked their features. Masks of bone and ice hid their eyes. Even their qi felt… wrong. Hollow. As though stolen.
He could not breathe.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
One of them struck Mei'er down right before his eyes.
"No!"
She fell soundlessly, her blood scattering like rubies across the snow.
He reached for her, but pain seared through his back. A sword pierced through his chest—through his heart. Not just flesh. Through his dantian. His core shattered like glass.
The world tilted.
He coughed, blood spilling down his lips.
He turned to see the attacker.
Nothing. Just a blur of shadow.
He fell to his knees, vision fading. The snow beneath him turned crimson, then black. His body began to freeze—not by his own power, but something else. A sealing technique.
Even the frost no longer obeyed him.
His mind screamed for answers.
"Who… are you…?"
The shadows surrounded him. Silent. Watching.
He reached out.
One last time.
A child's voice echoed in his fading mind.
"Master… will we become legends?"
He smiled bitterly.
"No, little one. Legends do not bleed."
His vision dimmed. The sky above cracked.
And the frost fell with him.
There were no names. No faces. No last words.
Only silence.
Only stillness.
Only betrayal.
And beneath the ice that swallowed his body whole, something stirred.
The frost remembered.