Cold.
Bone-chilling ice.
Boundless freezing cold.
Meridians shattered, Dantian destroyed...
The mountain gate collapsed in flames...
Figures of fellow disciples falling one by one, and the master's final shout...
In the Frost Roar Valley, everything was to be buried in deathly silence and ice, but deep inside, that intense unwillingness and resentment, that persistence for survival, surged like unextinguished lava beneath the Ice Mountain.
Plunk.
Ling Mo sank into the ice river, his whole body encrusted with frost, wrapped temporarily in a thin white icy cocoon, protecting his broken body and soul.
Silence.
Emptiness.
No hope, no sound, no warmth, even the pain itself became vague. The thirst for revenge, the extreme desire for power, became his only spiritual pillar.
He gradually heard other sounds, the nearly stagnant flow of his blood, the weak heartbeat like ice shattering.
