The Frost That Shields
A whisper, colder than the deepest well-water, brushed Yao Xuan's ear. "They twist truth into a weapon before the blood is even dry. This is the nature of their kind." Gu Yue's voice was low, meant for him alone. The hatred in her words wasn't personal, but ancient—a dragon's disdain for the petty, scheming violence of lessers. She saw not a man seeking revenge, but a symptom of a chaotic, dishonorable world.
On the plaza, Long Hengxu was performing a delicate, desperate dance. His smile was strained, a diplomat's mask over a warrior's frustration. "Captain Guang Biao, please, let's be reasonable. Look at these photographs—they're children. The idea that they could orchestrate such… severe harm against a grown Soul Master strains credulity. There must be a misunderstanding we can clarify." His tone was placating, but his spine was straight. He was buying time, assessing the grim arithmetic before him.
Yao Xuan, observing from the shadows, understood the vice dean's predicament perfectly. Long Hengxu was a Soul King, a respectable power. But Guang Biao was a Soul Emperor encased in military-grade mecha, a fusion of biological and mechanical might that pushed his threat level into the lower tiers of Soul Sage territory. This wasn't a fight; it was a potential massacre. Furthermore, Guang Biao's rank as a Brigadier General in the Mech Corps made him a political landmine. The city governor might mediate, but could not command. This was power acting with impunity, cloaked in fraternal grievance.
"Misunderstanding?" Guang Biao's amplified voice was a saw blade of contempt. "My brother's body is the evidence. His finger points the accusation. Where is the room for 'misunderstanding'?" He took a heavy, mecha-assisted step forward, the servos whining. "Enough talk. You have thirty minutes. Produce the individuals in the photographs. If you refuse, my men and I will retrieve them ourselves. But I must warn you," he added, the threat oily and explicit, "my subordinates are combat veterans, not school monitors. Their methods are… direct. Any collateral damage would be regrettable, but inevitable."
Long Hengxu's diplomatic mask finally cracked. "You exceed your authority, Captain! By the laws of Donghai City and the Spirit Pagoda Federation, you require a judicial warrant to remove a student from academy grounds. Without it, this is an illegal seizure. You will not pass."
"I won't?" Guang Biao's laugh was a short, ugly bark. "You? A Soul King who's never smelled real battlefield smoke? You think your rules are walls to me? They are cobwebs."
The air grew heavy. Long Hengxu's face hardened into resolute stone. "I may not be able to defeat you," he said, his voice suddenly clear and ringing with a dignity that silenced the murmuring crowd. "But if you wish to cross this threshold, you will do so over the bodies of myself and every teacher who swore to protect this place." As he spoke, a surge of soul power erupted from him. His martial soul, a shimmering, book-like entity filled with shifting runes—the Tome of Order—manifested behind him. The dozen teachers at his back followed suit in a chorus of rising auras and luminous spirits—a badger, a shield of vines, a crystal staff. Their collective might was a defiant, flickering flame against Guang Biao's looming darkness.
The effect on the students was electric. Where there had been fear, a fierce, proud solidarity ignited. Senior students, some with two or even three spirit rings, stepped forward without a word, taking places behind the teachers. They said nothing, but their clenched jaws and activated martial souls were a louder declaration than any chant.
Guang Biao's eyes narrowed, not in concern, but in irritation. "Fine. You choose stubbornness." He sighed, a theatrical sound of disappointment. "Then let me educate you on the first principle of our world: strength is the only sovereignty that matters."
He released his aura. Not a probing threat, but the full, crushing weight of a Soul Emperor's spiritual pressure. It descended like a physical blanket. Long Hengxu and the teachers ground their feet into the cracking plaza, their collective aura flaring to form a shaky barrier. But the students behind them cried out. Nearly half buckled under the pressure, knees hitting the stone, gasping for air as if in a thin atmosphere. The defiant flame was being smothered.
"Although you are a despicable creature," a voice cut through the oppressive field, clear, calm, and cold as a glacier's heart, "on one point, you are accidentally correct. In the world of Soul Masters, strength is paramount."
A blur of serene blue. It wasn't a flashy teleportation, but a movement so swift and direct it seemed to slice through the heavy air. Wu Zhangkong landed softly between Long Hengxu's embattled line and Guang Biao's looming form. He stood alone, his white teacher's robe pristine, his light blue hair undisturbed by the psychic turbulence. His presence didn't clash against Guang Biao's aura; it nullified it. The crushing pressure on the students simply vanished, replaced by a refreshing, sharp chill.
He was a lone pine on a barren cliff, facing a thunderhead.
Guang Biao's cocky demeanor stiffened. His sensors and soul perception tingled with warning. This newcomer had shattered his aura-lock without apparent effort. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice losing its bored edge.
"My identity is irrelevant," Wu Zhangkong replied, his dark green eyes holding the mecha-clad man in a dispassionate stare. "The students you seek are under my instruction. You wish to take them? You have one path. Defeat me. Succeed, and you may proceed. Fail, and you will depart. Permanently."
A vicious grin spread across Guang Biao's face within his helmet. "The teacher steps in? Perfect. Then I'll collect some interest from you first!"
He stopped holding back. With a roar, his soul power erupted. Six spirit rings—two yellow, four purple—rose behind him in a dazzling, intimidating array. His martial soul, the Iron-Armored Tyrannosaurus, manifested in a surge of bestial energy, fusing with his body. He grew taller, bulkier, thick gray scales sheathing him like living plate armor. On his shoulders, three orbs of light solidified—his soul spirits, augmenting his already monstrous physique and aura. The air around him warped with heat and raw, aggressive power. He was a fortress of scale and fury, a Soul Emperor at the peak of his combat readiness.
Many students paled. This was a level of power they had only heard of in stories. It felt apocalyptic.
Wu Zhangkong simply lifted his hand.
A soft, azure light bloomed in his palm. From that light, a sword condensed into reality. It was not ornate, but perfectly forged from what seemed like captured sky and glacial ice—the Heavenly Frost Sword. As his fingers closed around the hilt, the very temperature on the plaza plummeted.
He didn't assume a stance. He merely pointed the sword's tip, with elegant negligence, toward Guang Biao.
An invisible, razor-sharp wave of absolute cold shot forth. It didn't roar; it silenced. Guang Biao's raging, fiery aura wasn't pushed back; it was cleaved in two, the separated halves dissipating like mist in a gale. The shockwave of force Guang Biao had projected was gone, replaced by a spreading hoarfrost that crackled across the cratered ground toward his boots.
The bystanders gasped, hugging themselves. Their breath fogged in the suddenly wintry air. Yao Xuan, even at a distance, felt the penetrating chill seep through his clothes, a cold that spoke of eternal stillness at the heart of ancient ice. It was awe-inspiring, not just in power, but in its absolute, controlled purity.
Guang Biao's eyes behind his visor widened in genuine shock. He instinctively flared his soul power, a corona of heat erupting from his scales to combat the invasive cold. He felt isolated, trapped in a pocket dimension of impending frost. "Impossible! Such control!"
Then, he saw them.
As Wu Zhangkong allowed a sliver more of his power to surface, six spirit rings emerged from his feet, ascending behind him like halos of frozen light.
Yellow. Yellow. Purple. Purple.
Then, the final two.
A deep, profound, awe-inspiring black.
A murmur, then a roar, swept through the students and teachers. The whispers were filled with disbelief and reverence.
"Ten-thousand-year…"
"Black spirit rings! Two of them!"
"He's… he's from Shrek…"
The revelation was a seismic shift. The black rings didn't just represent power; they represented a realm of achievement, a pedigree of monstrous battles won against legendary spirit beasts. They were a statement that transcended the immediate conflict.
Guang Biao's confidence, so massive a moment before, fissured. The sneer vanished, replaced by a stunned, calculating alarm. He was no longer facing just a stubborn teacher. He was facing a legend in the making, a graduate of the continent's most hallowed academy. The "cobwebs" of rules were now backed by the glacial edge of a sword that had likely felled beings far more terrifying than a mecha-clad Soul Emperor.
The standoff had entered a new, deadly phase. The frost in the air wasn't just temperature; it was the cold, hard reality of a superior force. Wu Zhangkong hadn't moved an inch, yet he had already redrawn the entire battlefield.