The town itself was overwhelming—stone streets damp with melted snows but bustling with traders, vendors, shouting carters. Steam rose from foods spiced unfamiliar; warmth filled air with scents almost dizzying to their frost-bitten lungs. Leng Yan clung close, eyes widened in awe, while Huan muttered irritably at jostling crowds. Leng Xue walked steadily through, gaze heavy, breathing calmly so not to reveal disturbance inside.
It was here they faced first deliberate provocation. Local youths spotted their northern attire, pelts over armor, and one mocked: "Ice boys, did frost freeze your brains? Too slow to live in heat." His friends laughed. Huan stepped forward, fury glaring, but Xue again restrained. He instead spread faint veil of frost. Air chilled subtly. The laughing boys coughed as their breaths misted white. They staggered, shivering, though sky overhead was warm blue. The crowd quieted. Xue whispered calmly: "Snow falls silent, but cold lasts. Do not force me again." Eyes widened, mockers fled. Whispers spread of strange boy who froze square without lifting blade.
That lesson grounded his companions. Huan muttered with shame but also admiration. Yan grasped his sleeve that evening. "You did not even strike, and still they ran. You are stronger than you think." Xue turned gaze upward toward auroras he imagined above—even here they did not show in sky, but inside his soul they burned eternally. He whispered to himself that the path south would be filled with flames mocking snow. He would not burn. He would smother flames. And he would carve Leng name into this hot soil until frost roots spread.