The morning sun struggled to pierce through the thick mists that cloaked the Azure Peaks.
The mountain range—ancient, vast, and silent—seemed alive with breath and memory. Frost glittered faintly across stone ridges, while endless layers of mist rolled like oceans of white, swallowing the valleys whole. The world here was untouched by mortals, shaped only by wind, by qi, and by time.
At the very edge of a high plateau stood Tiān Lán, his silhouette sharp against the pale horizon.
The air around him hummed faintly—qi currents bending, coiling, whispering secrets to his skin. His eyes, deep as a frozen lake, swept across the valley below. Even in silence, he felt it—the pulse beneath the land. The Sprint Realm had gifted him more than speed and strength. It had granted him perception. He could hear the heartbeat of the mountain. He could feel the subtle stirrings of presence—some near, some hidden, some waiting.
His Guardian floated beside him, its ethereal form rippling with a subdued luminescence. Threads of translucent qi webbed outward like spider silk, anchoring themselves in the very fabric of the plateau. Around him, three spirit beasts—his bonded companions—stood in absolute harmony.
The frost dragon, scales gleaming like shards of starlight.
The fox, cloaked in gentle embers, tails curling and flickering in rhythm.
The wolf, silent as shadow, eyes aglow with disciplined ferocity.
Everything was still—too still.
Tiān Lán's lips curved faintly, though his gaze remained forward. "The wind carries more than snow today…" he murmured. "Patience. They'll reveal themselves soon enough."
---
The first sign came as a tremor in the mist.
Then, without warning, the valley below erupted.
Three figures dropped from the cliffs, silhouettes cutting through the fog like falling stars. Their landing shattered the silence—rocks splintered, qi flared violently, and the ground itself cracked beneath the pressure. Each of them radiated Spirit Severing–level cultivation, their power unmistakable and oppressive.
Yet Tiān Lán didn't flinch. The faintest flicker crossed his eyes—amusement, or pity, it was hard to tell.
"You've come far," he said, his voice calm, cold, unhurried. "But not far enough."
The Guardian reacted before his words faded. Invisible threads pulsed and tightened across the cliffside, forming a web of energy barriers. The dragon coiled, low and ready, its nostrils glowing faintly with frostlight. The fox flicked its tails, scattering wisps of fire that blended seamlessly with the mist.
Traps—layered, silent, deadly—now surrounded the plateau.
One of the attackers stepped forward, a man with silver-edged armor and eyes sharp as blades. "So it's true," he said. "The Mountain Phantom breathes. We were sent to see if the stories matched the strength."
Tiān Lán tilted his head slightly. "And if they don't?"
"Then you fall."
The words barely left his mouth before qi exploded outward.
A storm of energy ripped across the plateau, carving deep fissures in the stone. The mist turned into whirling knives of wind. But Tiān Lán was already moving—his movements fluid, effortless, as though he were dancing with the storm itself. The Guardian's threads bent space around him, redirecting attacks, guiding rocks and air currents like extensions of his body.
He did not counterattack.
He observed.
Every step of his enemies. Every flaw in their stance. Every fragment of hesitation that bloomed behind their eyes.
The first exchange lasted seconds. The tension that followed—an eternity.
---
The battle became a blur of motion and sound.
The first attacker lunged—a spear of condensed qi slicing toward Tiān Lán's chest.
The fox darted ahead, trailing golden flame that twisted midair into decoys. The Guardian's threads snapped taut, altering gravity's pull on a single stone beneath the attacker's foot. A subtle shift—just enough.
The man stumbled.
Tiān Lán's hand moved. Not to kill—just to guide. His fingers brushed the man's wrist, redirecting force, turning his own momentum against him. The enemy spun, crashed, and landed hard, coughing blood.
But Tiān Lán's face remained expressionless.
"Predictable," he whispered.
The second opponent moved immediately, faster, sharper. She wielded twin blades that howled through the air, each swing producing arcs of compressed wind. Tiān Lán met her fury not with strength, but grace—bending, twisting, flowing like water around a rock. His Guardian glowed faintly, altering wind currents just enough to distort her strikes.
Her movements grew frantic. He hadn't struck her once, yet she was losing.
Then came the third attacker—a shadow among shadows. Silent. Calculated. His blade appeared where eyes could not follow. But Tiān Lán had already seen it before it came. The wolf snarled, intercepting with a flash of silver claws. The Guardian's threads redirected the blow mid-swing, deflecting it into empty air.
Every movement was deliberate, precise, beautiful in its coldness. The battlefield became his stage; his opponents, unwilling dancers in a choreography they could not follow.
And in that icy rhythm, Tiān Lán remembered—
the betrayal, the laughter that had echoed as blood stained the altar of his past life,
the vow whispered through broken breath and dying light.
He would not fall again.
He would not bend again.
He would rise—and this world would learn that vengeance could be silent, patient, eternal.
---
The three assailants faltered.
Their breath came ragged, their qi flickering unevenly, while Tiān Lán still stood untouched—robes barely rustled, eyes calm and dark as a storm unbroken.
He took one slow step forward.
The Guardian pulsed once. Every thread across the plateau came alive.
The air thickened.
The ground groaned.
Wind turned razor-sharp.
The mountain itself moved.
A dozen rocks shifted—guided not by chance, but by Tiān Lán's will. They rolled, fell, and collided in perfect synchrony, reshaping the battlefield. The enemies stumbled into positions Tiān Lán had foreseen long before the fight began.
"Your forms are good," he said quietly. "But strength without awareness is nothing."
His hand rose.
A single flicker of energy leapt from his fingertip.
It struck the first attacker's weapon—shattering it.
Another thread tightened around the second's wrist—disarming her completely.
The third turned to flee. But the Guardian's web had already sealed the path.
In the end, none could even touch him.
"Tell your masters," Tiān Lán said softly, stepping through the dissipating mist, "that the Mountain Phantom is not prey. Those who come for me… will not return."
His voice carried across the cliffs like thunder rolling beneath the sky.
---
Night descended slowly upon the Azure Peaks.
The mists glowed faintly under moonlight, swirling around broken stones and quiet corpses. The spirit beasts stood watch as Tiān Lán gazed down the valley.
The battle's remnants shimmered faintly—threads of qi still unraveling in the air, vanishing like starlight fading into dawn. He exhaled slowly, letting his power settle. The Guardian dimmed to a soft luminescence, loyal and still.
He thought of Yue Qingling's warning—that the continent had begun to watch. Every action he took sent ripples across empires, sects, and hidden clans. Allies and enemies alike would soon move.
And in the quiet that followed, he thought of them—
those who had once called him brother,
those who had betrayed Yè Tiānshuāng,
those who had stolen what was his.
He clenched his hand slowly. Frost gathered at his fingertips.
> "Every step I take, every shadow that follows…
this world will remember my name."
The wind rose.
The mist danced.
And from the darkness of the valley below, distant eyes watched.
Whispers traveled through sect halls and hidden courts, carried by rumor and fear alike.
Tiān Lán… the Mountain Phantom.
A name that once was myth—now spoken as prophecy.
---
High above, the stars shimmered faintly, as though bowing to the one who walked beneath them—
a cultivator reborn, a phantom unbound,
the Frost Soul Ascending once more.