Moonlight danced along the lacquered wall of the shattered Mirror Dimension—
silver beams cutting through darkness like blades of judgment.
Ice blossoms drifted through the still air, petals tumbling like snow—soft, yet sharp in their serenity.
But beneath that beauty coiled unease—tension, quiet and deep as breath before battle.
Arlen stood alone beneath the ethereal glow, katana raised, every muscle taut.
His blade carved a faint line of cold air, his breath steady, eyes burning with resolve.
Opposite him, Seo Rin's robes flowed like liquid silk—black fabric framing a face carved in calm.
He drew Winter's Touch from its sheath—not in anger, but in solemn duty.
He knew this boy stood no chance.
But the resolve in Arlen's eyes reminded him of the man he used to be.
So—for this battle—he would not use martial arts, nor codex arts, nor domains.
Only the blade. Only truth.
A wind stirred—soft, scentless, and cold.
The moon, reflected in shards of glass above, watched in silent judgment.
And then—
Arlen shifted first—light bending around him in a shimmer.
A thousand petals exploded around Rin, a tempest of white obscuring all.
But these were no flowers. Their edges glinted—steel thin, death sharp.
Arlen's voice cut through the frost, calm and measured:
> "Petals of frost—bloom."
In an instant, tens of thousands of katana fragments unfolded—each a petal of silver light,
each reflecting the moon's sorrowful gleam.
Rin exhaled.
He raised Winter's Touch into stance—
and the dance began.
No time for fear. No space for thought.
The storm of blades sang—a requiem of resolve.
Rin surged forward, every swing tracing arcs of frost through mirrored air.
> "Ice Edge."
Their blades collided—shard against sovereign steel.
Sparks flew. Petals shattered. Echoes rang through the hollow night.
Rin's aura spiked. Frozen Fang Dragon erupted from the frost, spiraling into life.
A dragon of pure crystal roared, wings splitting the storm.
Arlen rolled aside, the beast hissing past—freezing air, freezing stone,
missing flesh—but not purpose.
Rin pressed on—calm, poised, inevitable.
Arlen countered, darting through falling petals,
his breath ragged, his resolve unbroken.
Their dance blurred between mirrors, frost, and light.
"Why do you—?" Arlen's voice broke through the gale.
"Why must it always be you above me!?"
Rin's reply came in the ring of steel.
> "Because you're weak.
You were never my rival.
You were meant to be the stone beneath my step—
to climb toward the one who corrupted my father, but i have to limit myself and still not be your equal"
His voice carried no malice.
Only truth. Cold, and final.
Arlen gritted his teeth—pain and pride igniting in his chest.
He roared, defiant, blade swinging in wide, reckless fury.
Rin pivoted, parrying clean, his counterstrike carving pain across Arlen's ribs—
but the wound only made Arlen's aura surge brighter.
He rose again, trembling, but stronger.
Always stronger.
The air rang with the sound of breaking mirrors.
Each echo scattered like shrapnel across the froststorm.
Rin's form blurred—flowing through the storm like a phantom, every strike cold, precise, deliberate.
Arlen's body jolted with each blow. A palm slammed into his sternum, a knee folded him forward, a backfist shattered the frostlight clinging to his cheek.
Every impact carved a crater. Every gasp came between shockwaves.
Arlen swung back, blade flashing desperate arcs—
but Rin was already gone.
A flicker—then a heel crashed into his ribs, detonating air and mana alike.
Arlen shot across the field, colliding with a mirrored ridge. The reflection splintered, scattering a dozen echoes of his defeat across the horizon.
He groaned, rising to one knee, frost dripping from his lip.
Damn it… why can't I—
Before thought could finish, Rin was there.
A hand gripped his shoulder—pressure like a glacier.
An upward strike followed—palm glowing white.
Arlen lifted from the ground, hurled skyward, trailing shards like feathers.
The world blurred.
Pain followed.
Then silence.
---
For a heartbeat, even time hesitated.
The frost, the echoes, Rin's silhouette—all slowed.
And in that stillness, a voice resurfaced—one buried beneath years of pride.
> "Arlen," the voice said, calm and ancient.
"Every royal Sylvanyr wields ice—but not all command it properly."
He remembered the old courtyard—snow-dusted stones, mana humming beneath frost.
His teacher stood before him—an elder with hair pale as the winter sky, eyes both gentle and stern.
> "Ice is not merely cold. It is shape. It is memory.
It is the world's still breath made visible."
A younger Arlen frowned, hands trembling above a frozen basin.
> "But I can't… I've tried every pattern, every seal—nothing fits!"
The elder only smiled.
> "That's because you're chasing another man's frost.
Every royal Sylvanyr bears two fruits—two blessings—but only one Way."
He turned, raising a finger.
Snow lifted, swirling gently, shaping into a petal—delicate, sharp, perfect.
> "Even the softest snowflake can cut… when it remembers what it was born for."
The petal shimmered—splitting into countless fragments that orbited him like lazy stars.
> "When you reach your limit—when your body fails, your mana burns, and your pride cracks—then you may glimpse it. Your Way.
Perhaps it will bloom around you.
Perhaps it will fall like rain.
Or perhaps…" his eyes glimmered,
"You will become the storm itself."
The memory dissolved—
and pain returned.
---
Rin's hand seized Arlen's collar—then hurled him down.
The floor cratered, light spilling from the cracks.
Rin stepped through the haze, aura silent but suffocating, every motion final—sovereign.
Arlen wheezed, frost and blood steaming off his skin, mind flickering between agony and clarity.
Is this it?
Am I just… another name buried beneath the ice?
His fists clenched. Mana surged—wild, unbound.
The world trembled.
For the first time, he didn't think.
He felt.
The frost answered.
Chains of light erupted around his arms, etching sigils across his skin.
Each exhale became a glyph, crystallizing into orbit.
The ice beneath him pulsed—then cracked open like a blooming flower.
Petals of translucent frost rose from the ground, gleaming with a cold, sharp brilliance.
Each petal shimmered like a blade—thin, curved, impossibly sharp.
They drifted upward, reflecting his heartbeat, aligning in rhythm with his will.
> "This…" he breathed, eyes widening as power flooded his veins,
"…this is my Way."
His aura twisted—no longer frantic, but inevitable.
The petals multiplied, circling him like moons, edges whispering of storms yet to come.
Across the field, Rin paused mid-step—eyes narrowing, calm but keen.
> "Finally," he murmured, frost curling from his breath,
"Show me the frost born of desperation."
Arlen raised his sword.
The petals aligned with its edge.
The world stilled—snow halting midair, mirrors bowing in reverence.
The Way of Ice had awakened.
And with it, the promise of a storm to come.