The wind at Frostveil Peak was unlike any wind Tiān Lán had known.
It wasn't just cold—it carried voices, sharp as sword edges and heavy with history. The snow that blanketed the stone paths didn't melt beneath lantern light. It preserved everything: footprints, silence, secrets.
He had passed the entrance trials. Alone. Unshaken.
Now, he stepped through the towering gates of the Frostveil Sect, robes damp with melted sleet, sword slung across his back. Eyes turned toward him—some curious, some dismissive.
> "That's him…" "Did you hear? He stood inside the Heartstorm without flinching." "Tch. Probably some noble brat with a backer."
He said nothing. He never needed to.
The Lower Disciple Courtyard was carved into the cliffside—rows of stone houses lined in perfect order, pine trees wrapped in frost, lanterns flickering blue.
Standing beneath an arch was a tall woman in frost-hued robes, hair bound by a silver ribbon, eyes like polished ice.
Lan Yuerong. Senior disciple. Cold as the sect's name.
She read from a jade slip. "Tiān Lán. Outer East Quarters. You'll begin training at first frost. Learn the sect rules. Break them, and the mountain breaks you."
Tiān Lán bowed low, his face unreadable.
She raised an eyebrow. "Most newcomers ask questions."
> "The rules are clear," he said calmly. "I'll follow them."
Her eyes lingered a moment longer. "We'll see."
His assigned room was humble—no more than a cot, a desk, and a meditation mat. But it was clean. And quiet.
Tiān Lán placed his sword gently against the wall, unrolled a cloth bundle… and paused.
There, tucked within the layers of spare clothing, was a folded letter—sealed with blue wax shaped like a cloud and lotus bloom.
> Mother.
He sat, unsealing it carefully. Her handwriting flowed like water, soft and curved:
> "My Lan'er,
The path you now walk is long, but it is yours. No matter what others say, I see you—not the weak boy they call you, but the soul reborn. Hidden in the hem of your robes is a jade token. Press it to your heart beneath moonlight and remember: the frost is not your enemy. It's your nature."
Beneath her message was a verse written in ancient script—his mother's native dialect. His past life recognized it instantly. It was a seal-breaking chant—a key to one of the treasures she had risked everything to pass on.
His fingers trembled slightly as he folded the letter. He slipped it inside his inner sleeve.
For the first time since arriving, he closed his eyes.
> "Mother…"
Night fell.
Frostveil's sky was deep indigo, pierced by stars. Snow fell in silence.
Tiān Lán stepped outside his quarters, standing beneath a pine tree dusted in white. He began to cultivate, cross-legged and still, drawing qi into his core.
He felt it—the resistance of the mountain. It tested him.
But beneath that resistance was a familiar hum—his past life's resonance with ice and void. He welcomed it.
A fox spirit darted between the trees nearby, and a soft laugh followed.
> "You really do look like a statue," said a gentle voice.
He opened his eyes.
A girl stood there with long white sleeves and pale foxes circling her legs. Her eyes were silver, calm.
> "Bai Qianli," she said, bowing. "Beast tamer. You must be Tiān Lán."
He nodded once. "You're perceptive."
> "Foxes always find the ones with heavy fates."
From behind her, a loud, warm voice rang out.
> "She's right! You've got that brooding-hero energy."
A flame-haired boy dropped down from a tree branch above, rolling onto his feet.
> "Rong Jian. I punch things. You're quiet. I like that."
Tiān Lán almost smiled.
> "Thank you... I think."
Unseen above them on the cliffs, two senior disciples watched.
One was tall, elegant, eyes narrowed with interest. The other, a shorter boy with sharp eyes and a restless air.
> "That's him, isn't it?" said the second. "The bastard son they say shouldn't have lived."
> "Tiān Lán…" said Feng Yuancheng, voice like flint striking steel. "He won't stay quiet forever. And when he dares to shine, I'll be the one to break him."
That night, back in his room, Tiān Lán removed the jade token from his sleeve.
He held it against his chest and chanted the seal phrase under his breath.
A pulse of cold qi surged through him.
His spiritual sea shimmered—and deep within, a hidden pill cauldron awakened. Frost-laced, ancient, carved with symbols of stars and rivers.
> The Frostheart Cauldron…
Three small elixir seeds shimmered within it—Frostheart Soul Elixirs, made in his past life by a technique only he had mastered.
> One to heal the soul.
One to shatter illusions.
One to awaken bloodline memory.
They were sealed for now. But he knew the path had begun.
He exhaled slowly. Just then—
> Crack.
A faint creak outside.
He turned.
A masked figure stood in the doorway, cloaked in black, no footsteps in the snow.
Before Tiān Lán could speak, the figure struck—a fast blow, aiming not to kill but to measure.
Tiān Lán blocked. Dodged. Slid under the attack and countered with a flash of his palm.
The figure laughed softly.
> "You've retained more than I thought, Yè Tíanshuāng."
Tiān Lán's eyes widened. That name—his past life—how did this person know?
Before he could act again, the attacker vanished into the snow, leaving only a faint trace…and a sigil pressed into the frost:
A blooming ice lotus, surrounded by seven stars.
His fingers clenched.
> "The... Silent Orchid Sect…"
From a past life long buried.
They were watching him.
The next morning, frost glistened on every surface. Disciples gathered at the training courtyard.
Lan Yuerong stood before them, voice like thunder on snow.
> "You who stand here are the lowest seeds of the Frostveil Sect. But ice does not grow weak roots. You will learn our sacred ways—or you will leave broken."
As others began murmuring, Tiān Lán glanced toward the forest edge.
Where a certain girl in cloud-blue robes stood. Ink-dark hair. A faint smile. She said nothing.
But in her eyes, he saw it again.
> Recognition.
Not from this life.
From before.
As the night deepened over Frostveil Peak, a hush fell over the sect—broken only by the low howl of the wind. Inside the courtyard assigned to outer disciples, Tiān Lán stood barefoot on the icy stone, his long black hair damp with snowmelt, his eyes shut.
The frost qi swirled around him in visible currents. The ground beneath his feet crackled, forming frostlotus patterns where his qi touched the stone. From within his dantian, the Frostheart Cauldron pulsed—steady, alive, and waiting.
Suddenly—
> Boom!
A peal of thunder crashed directly above the peak. A rare thunderstorm during snowfall, a sign of chaotic weather—and chaotic fate.
From the clouds, a bolt of azure lightning struck the very peak of Frostveil, right above where Tiān Lán stood. The disciples screamed, running for shelter.
But Tiān Lán didn't move.
He opened his eyes—and they glowed faint blue.
The lightning didn't burn him. Instead, it entered his body silently, disappearing like water into dry soil.
> Ding...
From within the Frostheart Cauldron, something awoke. A sliver of a new technique etched itself into his sea of consciousness.
> ❄️ "Skyfrost Vein Severing Art" — a long-lost technique that purifies all meridians by burning away impurities with lightning-infused frost qi.
Only he could use it.
And then—from the shadowed treetops nearby, a slender figure watched him. A girl in a light blue robe, with ink-dark hair tied up and silver embroidery glinting across her sleeves. Her parasol was closed at her side.
She whispered:
> "So… it really is you."
Tiān Lán looked up, startled.
But she was already gone.