Murong Xueli arrived at the third watch of the Dog Hour.
She came without sound, without footsteps—like a weightless snowflake drifting down into the shadows beside the back wall of the menial quarters. Moonlight caught on her silver hair and cast a faint icy-blue halo around her. Wherever that glow passed, threads of frost quietly bloomed in the air—then melted the moment she moved on.
Jiang Muchen was drawing water from the well outside the shared ten-man dormitory. Halfway through lifting the bucket, his hand froze—not because he *saw* anything, but because he *felt* it. That cold—ancient, piercing, bone-deep—stabbed through the night like an invisible needle and lodged itself along his spine.
He didn't turn. He raised the bucket as if nothing had happened. Water splashed into the wooden basin beside him, rippling under the moonlight like shattered silver. He rolled up his sleeves and started washing his hands, slow and meticulous. Between his fingers, under his nails, along every crease of his palms—he scrubbed as if this mundane task was the most important thing under heaven.
"The flute."
The voice behind him was cold, emotionless—every syllable touched with the texture of ice. When it reached the ear, it left the illusion of frost forming there.
"Where did you get it?"
Only then did Jiang Muchen turn. He dried his hands with the coarse cloth over his shoulder and bowed slightly.
"Disciple Jiang Muchen greets Fairy Murong."
He didn't answer the question first; he completed the courtesy. Neither humble nor overbearing—just the right hint of surprise a menial should show when addressed by someone far above his station.
Murong Xueli's ice-blue eyes rested on him for three long breaths before she repeated,
"The flute. Where did it come from?"
"It was a gift from a senior." Jiang Muchen drew the jade flute from his robe and presented it with both hands—respectful, but without groveling. "Half a month ago, while gathering herbs in the back mountain, I slipped and fell off a cliff. A senior's remains prevented my death. He left this flute behind… and a few words. Then his form dispersed."
Half truth, half lie.
He truly *had* received the flute from Bai Gui's lingering will—just not through a peaceful passing.
Murong Xueli didn't take the flute. Her gaze dropped to it, however—and changed. From cold scrutiny to a focused, almost entranced concentration. A faint current of icy-blue rippled in her pupils, as though she were parsing ancient sigils hidden within the jade.
"Ten-thousand-year Ice Soul…" she murmured, so softly it was nearly soundless. "But… different. Softer. Warmer. More… receptive."
Jiang Muchen lowered his eyes, but inside he was crystal-clear.
The flute *resembled* Ice Soul Jade—but was completely different in essence. Ice Soul was absolute cold: pristine, ruthless, and purifying, but capable of hardening a person's heart.
The jade flute, however… soothed, steadied, guided. It didn't force—it harmonized.
Murong Xueli cultivated **Cold Marrow Art** to its extreme—powerful, but inevitably reshaping her temperament, pushing her closer and closer to *becoming her own element*.
And the flute's warmth—its gentleness—was exactly the missing half of her path.
She came not for the flute.
But for what it represented—
an alternative to becoming ice itself.
"That senior," she asked, "did he leave his name?"
"He called himself… Bai Gui," Jiang Muchen said truthfully.
Murong Xueli frowned slightly at the unfamiliar name. Naturally—Bai Gui existed ten thousand years ago. Only ancient, buried legacies knew the name of that old Shang ancestor.
"You said he left you words." She looked up. "What were they?"
Jiang Muchen paused briefly before reciting, word for word:
"He said:
*All things have spirits, and each seeks what it lacks. The Dao is neither seizing nor begging—it is discerning the true need of all beings, creating irreplaceable value, and letting all spirits resonate of their own accord.*"
Not fabricated. Pure Dao.
And Dao—spoken from the mouth of someone who believed it—cut straight to the heart.
Murong Xueli froze.
She repeated those words to herself, tasting them at the tip of her tongue.
Then she lifted her gaze.
"What Dao does he cultivate?"
"I do not know," Jiang Muchen lied gently. "He transmitted only a simple breathing method, saying it would help me calm my spirit and perceive my surroundings better. As for the flute—he said its sound soothes the mind, dispels delusions, and anchors the heart. A gift for self-protection."
He hesitated, then added softly:
"He also said… the flute shares affinity with the northern ice veins. Should it meet someone born with Ice Soul, it may resonate on its own."
A gamble.
And he won.
Murong Xueli's pupils tightened ever so slightly.
"Resonate…" She raised a hand, stopping three inches above the flute—not touching, only sensing.
Then the miracle happened.
The flute glowed—a soft, gentle green radiance rippling like flowing jade.
Murong Xueli's finger exuded a faint blue frost.
The two lights touched—not clashing, not repelling, but merging like water and moonlight.
Green and blue intertwined, spiraling… condensing…
until a small lotus bloomed in midair—half ice, half jade.
When it opened, a cool yet soothing tide spread outward, washing through the courtyard.
Frost crystallized along the well stones and the moss around it—yet every crystal shimmered with a vibrant green glow. The weeds at the wall stiffened with cold but remained a lively emerald, veins outlined sharply under the moon.
Jiang Muchen's heart shook violently.
This was *not* planned.
The flute and her Ice Soul truly resonated—producing a phenomenon he had never imagined.
Murong Xueli's breath hitched for a heartbeat.
For the first time, a real emotion cracked through her icy composure.
The lotus faded into motes of light.
She looked at him—complicated, conflicted, shaken.
"Would you… lend me this flute for three days?"
Not demand.
Not command.
*Ask.*
Jiang Muchen knew then—she valued the resonance enough to put aside her pride.
"Fairy Murong's request, I would naturally not refuse." Jiang Muchen looked troubled, but not evasive. "But… I swore upon my heart that the flute must not leave my person. If Fairy does not mind, may this disciple accompany you? I will keep my distance, not disturbing your cultivation. Only so the flute remains within reach whenever you need it."
Perfectly spoken.
Honor the oath.
Respect her status.
Remove her concerns.
Murong Xueli fell silent.
He waited, patient.
Finally—
"…Very well."
Her voice was still cool, but no longer distant.
"Tomorrow at dawn. Wait outside the Plum Court."
Jiang Muchen bowed. "Yes, Fairy."
She turned into drifting ice-snow and disappeared—leaving behind only the faint fragrance of winter plum.
Jiang Muchen exhaled deeply.
It worked.
The first step forward.
He touched the still-warm flute and quietly smiled.
*Flattery isn't kneeling.
The highest form of flattery—
is becoming the missing piece in someone else's Dao.*
---
The next dawn, Jiang Muchen arrived at the Plum Court on time.
He wore a clean coarse-cloth robe—old but spotless. His hair was neatly tied, his face washed, nails trimmed. Still a menial, but no longer shabby.
A young maid in ice-blue robes awaited him. Seventeen, pretty—and cold as frost. Qi Refining Seventh Layer.
"You're Jiang Muchen?" She frowned faintly. "Follow me. The Fairy awaits at Listening-Snow Pavilion."
The Plum Court was vast, lined with winter plum trees—bare, yet powerful in form. The air carried a crisp cold that sharpened the mind instead of numbing it.
In the center lake, thin ice covered the surface, fish gliding lazily beneath. The pavilion stood alone above the water.
Murong Xueli sat at a stone table, facing a half-played game of Go. Today she wore plain white, silver hair lightly pinned by a jade comb. In the morning glow, her profile looked carved from frost.
"Sit," she said without looking up.
"Play with me."
Jiang Muchen sat across from her. The board—a slab of cold jade. Black stones warm like obsidian; white stones clear as frozen dew. He played black.
Her moves came quick—sharp, ruthless, pressing. Her style mirrored her swordwork: icy, fierce, unrelenting. Ten moves in, he felt pressure building like a glacier bearing down.
This wasn't a game.
It was a test.
He inhaled.
The jade flute warmed against his chest.
His breath steadied.
He extended his senses—not to the stones, but to *her rhythm*.
Then he saw it.
Her moves carried force—but beneath it, a faint stiffness. Like a frozen river straining under its own ice.
He placed his stone.
Soft. Yielding.
Water against ice.
Twenty moves later, her pace slowed.
Thirty—her brows drew together.
Fifty—her hand hovered in the air, unable to fall.
She stared at the board.
Finally:
"Your play… does not match your cultivation."
"I merely follow Fairy's momentum," Jiang Muchen said calmly.
"Follow… and redirect?" she murmured.
"If a force cannot be diverted," he said softly, "then transform it. Ice becomes water under fire; water becomes ice under cold. Everything exists in cycles of creation and dissolution."
Her eyes sharpened.
She set a stone down—*click*—and the whole board shifted.
The frozen river broke.
White stones melted into streams—slipping into the gaps of Jiang Muchen's defenses.
He lost.
He bowed.
"Fairy, I concede."
But Murong Xueli wasn't looking at the board.
"How," she said quietly, "did you know my cultivation carries hidden backlash?"
Instead of answering, Jiang Muchen lifted the jade flute.
"Try it, and you'll understand."
She touched it.
Cold spiritual power surged—
and was *soothed*.
The raging cold around her calmed.
The pain in her meridians—eased.
The icy sharpness in her aura—softened into clarity.
Her eyes widened.
"So that is it… The ninth layer—Ice-Heart Jade-Vessel—never required deeper cold… but the warmth hidden inside jade…"
She stood.
And bowed.
Deeply.
So deeply Jiang Muchen had to step aside.
"Fairy—this disciple cannot accept—"
"This is thanks for breaking my barrier," she said, voice steady but full of sincerity. "This favor—Murong Xueli will remember."
She returned the flute.
"From today onward, you may freely enter the Plum Court."
She paused.
"And next month, you will enter the Azure Spirit Herb Valley, yes?"
"Yes."
"I will assign two Cold Palace disciples to accompany you," she said. "Consider it… interest, for the guidance you gave."
Jiang Muchen bowed again.
"Many thanks, Fairy."
He understood.
**Not protection.
An investment.**
And he needed that investment.
When he left the Plum Court, the sun had risen—shattering across the frozen lake like golden scales.
He glanced back once, the jade flute warm at his chest.
Far away, at the well, Zhao Xiaoliu stared at his own reflection in the water—pale, hollow-eyed, and filled with a quiet, growing…
resolve.
*(True enlightenment isn't teaching someone how to grow stronger.)*
*(It's letting them see—)*
*(they were always meant to be strong.)*
---