The trio soon reached a mid-sized Imperial city. While great capitals lay further, even this smaller hub dwarfed Frostpine. Walls of layered stone rose higher than their entire stronghold, guards in armor patrolled with practiced steps. Merchants bustled endlessly, language mixes dizzying. The city held a spirit master academy for youths—a preparatory school rather than elite, but to them, it was first place to measure.
When they presented themselves, instructors examined them with skeptical eyes. Frost spirits were known regionally but not among greatest traditions. "Innate rank three?" a teacher muttered after testing Xue. "Middling. Perseverance needed or you'll remain small." Another scoffed at Huan's impatience. Yan was dismissed as fragile. Yet they allowed them trial acceptance, for Empire encouraged collecting students.
Training here was shock. Teachers emphasized flare—explosive attacks, bright displays. Youths battled ferociously in practice, shouting their spirit names like war. Among them, Xue seemed plain. He never shouted. He quietly sustained frost veils, slowed arenas, frustrated opponents who slipped or missed by inches. Victories came slow, but came surely. For every proud burst collapsed quickly, his frost never yielded until foe exhausted. Slowly, murmurs began—"That northern boy always lasts longest." Instructors frowned for lack of power, yet grudged respect consistency.
Even here, clan creed worked. Patience carved roots. Xué recorded notes nightly, adjusting Frost Manual slightly to adapt to southern climates. Air warmer but frost bent differently—it needed more concentration. He realized his ancestors had never written this chapter; now he wrote it in his heart.