The blizzard never ceased along the Road of Ten Thousand Tombs.
Once, it had been a grand pilgrimage route, where mortals and low cultivators knelt every hundred steps to honor the immortal sect that ruled the Northern Domain.
Now, it was a graveyard of frozen statues and shredded banners. No one dared tread it at night.
Tonight, someone did.
Footprints appeared one by one in the untouched snow. Each print bloomed into a black frost rose, petals curling into icy death. The instant the foot lifted, the rose withered, leaving only a circle of blood-red ice.
Luo Xinghan walked without hurry. The black-and-white fur cloak, taken from the first corpse that had offended him, fluttered like the wings of a night bird. Half his face remained ruined—a mask of terror. The other half glinted in the moonlight, sharp enough to cut souls.
Mo Cangqiong's voice rumbled lazily in his mind.
"Slow. You crawl like a mortal."
Luo Xinghan did not answer. He simply kept walking.
Three hundred li ahead, a caravan from the Palace's outer sect had stopped for the night.
Twenty snow-leopard mounts. Forty Foundation Establishment guards. One Core Formation elder overseeing the operation. They carried new slaves and spirit stones—tribute from mortal kingdoms below. Bonfires burned blue with frost-flame talismans, bright enough to be seen for fifty li. Perfect bait.
When Luo Xinghan arrived, the temperature dropped first.
The bonfires guttered. Snow-leopards whimpered, paws scratching frozen earth.
A young guard, thin of courage, stepped forward, sword half-drawn.
"Who goes there! This is Northern Frost Palace territory! Declare yourself or—"
The words died in his throat.
A tall figure stepped into the firelight: black-and-white cloak flowing, one eye glowing like a frozen star. Frost spiraled outward from his feet in perfect fractals, extinguishing every flame in a heartbeat. Darkness swallowed the caravan. Only the glacial eye remained visible, floating in the void.
A scream split the night.
Then the slaughter began.
Luo Xinghan never drew a weapon. Every guard who raised a sword found it frozen to their hand. Their hand frozen to their heart. Then shattered like glass.
The Core Formation elder roared, aura bursting outward in rings of icy blades.
"Nine Profound Frost Wheels!"
Nine spinning wheels of ice qi screamed toward him, sharp enough to slice Nascent Soul experts in half.
Luo Xinghan lifted a single finger. The wheels froze mid-air, trembled, then reversed. Faster. Larger. Black instead of blue. They sliced through the elder's own body before he could blink. Blood sprayed, froze into crimson lotuses, drifting to the ground.
In less than ten breaths, the entire caravan—forty-one people—became ice statues, faces locked in the instant they realized death had come.
Luo Xinghan crouched beside the elder's frozen corpse, prying open his spatial ring with a crack of frost. Spirit stones poured out like a crimson river.
Thousands of low-grade slaves huddled inside an expanded cage, chained, half-dead from cold. Luo Xinghan paused, staring at them. Then he flicked his sleeve.
Every chain shattered into black snow. The cage door swung open on its own. The slaves froze, terror rooting them to the spot.
His ruined lips moved.
"Run."
The single word carried demonic qi that drilled into their souls. They scrambled into the darkness, trampling each other, none daring to look back.
Mo Cangqiong laughed inside his mind.
"Mercy? From you? The heavens will weep."
Luo Xinghan ignored the dragon. He reached into the pile of spirit stones and pulled a small jade tablet—the insignia of an outer sect deacon. Warm to the touch, still linked to the Palace's grand array. Perfect.
He crushed it.
Three thousand li away, inside the Northern Frost Palace's Enforcement Hall, a wall of ten thousand jade tablets cracked. One piece fell and shattered. An elder on duty frowned, then paled.
"Blackwind Ridge direction… Deacon Zhao's life tablet!"
Alarms howled across the sect. Luo Xinghan felt the ripple through the air. He smiled. Small. So small.
He turned south again, continuing down the Road of Ten Thousand Tombs. He had only taken the first step.
Dawn still refused to rise when he reached the first true checkpoint: Frostgate City.
A mortal city of a hundred thousand souls, built beneath the Palace's outer mountain gate. Walls fifty zhang high, carved entirely from Eternal Frost Iron. Three Nascent Soul generals stationed year-round. Normally impregnable.
Tonight, black roses bloomed along every wall.
Luo Xinghan stood outside the gate, looking up. On the highest tower, a white-cloaked general stared down, face hidden behind a silver mask. His aura pressed like an avalanche, peak Nascent Soul, half a step into Soul Transformation.
"Demon!" the general bellowed, amplified by the array. "You dare approach the Holy Land of the North?"
Luo Xinghan tilted his head. The ruined half of his face caught the torchlight. Recognition flickered in the general's eyes. Ten years ago, this same man had personally whipped a certain slave boy until his face became meat paste, then tossed him into the mass grave for sport. His hand trembled on his halberd.
Luo Xinghan spoke softly, carried only by the wind.
"Do you remember… slave number four-seven-one?"
The general's mask cracked. Frost spider-webbed across the silver.
Luo Xinghan raised his hand. A single black snowflake drifted lazily from his palm. It landed on the city wall. In a heartbeat, the entire fifty-zhang wall flash-froze… then shattered into dust.
Screams erupted from inside. Two other generals soared into the sky, treasures blazing. Luo Xinghan did not look at them. He walked straight through the space where the wall had been.
The masked general roared, halberd raised.
"Nine Heavens Frost Execution!"
A pillar of ice, a hundred zhang thick, crashed down. Enough to flatten a mountain.
Luo Xinghan kept walking. The pillar touched his shoulder—and crumbled into black snow. He passed without stopping. The man froze mid-swing. The halberd suspended in air. The statue cracked along a perfect vertical line… splitting in half.
Behind him, Frostgate City's three Nascent Soul guardians became ice sculptures, silently guarding an empty gate.
He never broke stride.
By the time the pale, cold sun rose, the Road of Ten Thousand Tombs had gained forty-four new statues—all facing south.
High above, on the Northern Frost Palace's true mountain gate, the first warning bell tolled. Once. Twice. Nine times. The sound carried across ten thousand li of ice and snow.
In the deepest pavilion, the woman in white opened her eyes again. This time, blood trickled from the corner of her lips. She clutched her jade pendant until it cut her palm. The ancient blood inside began to glow, icy blue.
Far away, Luo Xinghan paused atop a cliff, looking toward the palace piercing the clouds. He touched the ruined half of his face. Frost gathered, weaving new skin—perfect, flawless.
When he lowered his hand, both sides were divine. Only the eyes remained different: one glacial blue, one endless black, spinning slowly like a black lotus abyss.
He spoke to the dawn, voice soft as falling snow:
"Qingyao."
The name tasted of ten thousand years of poison and honey.
"I'm home."
Behind him, the wind carried a faint dragon roar that shook the heavens.