By his sixteenth year, tensions stirred among the group. Leng Huan had grown impatient with the academy's dismissive instructors, who favored southern prodigies with rank seven or eight innate power. "Why should we stay here?" he snorted one night, fists clenched. "They give us scraps while pampering fools just because their flames are bright."
Yan, gentler but equally unsettled, admitted she struggled under stares. "They whisper I am fragile, that I only succeed because I hide behind your frost, brother Xue."
Xue remained calm, voice measured. "Neither praise nor mockery matters. Frost does not need others to acknowledge it, only to endure. Still… staying here too long may dim our roots. You may be right, Huan."
The academy, though useful for learning southern customs, taught shallow glory. Xue realized lessons were not for them but for him: proof that the Leng Clan's way must remain distinct. They could not thrive by chasing brightness—they must be the quiet cold, patiently eroding all obstacles.
Conflict broke when Huan lashed out at instructor who mocked their "northern freezing tricks." Xue intervened before punishment fell heavy, accepting blame himself. Later, Huan knelt ashamed. "Why cover me, brother?"
Xue shook head. "Clan creed: one falls, others endure for him. I uphold it. But this proves: our path lies elsewhere. Someday, we must leave."
Yan, clutching diary where she wrote notes of frost inscriptions, looked timid. But her eyes—cold, determined—revealed she would follow wherever he went.