The winters grew harsher, but none harsher than in Leng Tian's body.
Years of overexertion showed cruelly. His hair, once black though thin, now whitened like snow. Wrinkles carved cheeks still young by years but ancient by burden. His back bent, coughs stole his voice daily, and blood stains dotted cloth from within palms.
Yuexin begged him to rest. "You've given them everything, Tian. Let them protect you now."
But every dawn, no matter his frailty, Tian arose with help of staff carved from frostwood. "I will stop only when the frost stops falling," he whispered hoarse.
Disciples still gathered nightly. Even unable to demonstrate, Tian corrected their breathing, sharpened their formations with words alone. His aura was fragile, but his will inspired.
Children of clan watched too—his three heirs among them. Xuān, fierce spear-bearer at fifteen. Mei, graceful with frost runes at twelve. Yu, youngest, eyes too bright, already controlling frost better than many adults at only seven.
Seeing them stirred bitter-sweetness in him. "They are stronger already. Better branches than my trunk," he muttered.
And when coughs wracked him nearly to collapse, he thought quietly: "Soon, frost shall return me to snow… but the clan will remain standing."
🔥 End of Chapter 47