The highest form of submission is never flattery.
It is turning someone's hardest problem into the only stage where your worth can be proven.
From that moment on, you are no longer begging for favor—
you are the help that arrives when everything else has failed.
The door to the quiet chamber sealed shut without a sound.
The instant Jiang Muchen stepped inside, a shiver crawled across his skin. This was not the chill of mountain wind—it was a cold that drilled straight into the bones. Even the glow of the night-luminescent pearls embedded in the four corners burned pale blue, casting a sickly frost over everything they touched.
Han the Deacon sat at the center on a throne carved from ice-jade, fingers tapping absently against the armrest as his sharp gaze measured every detail. Beside him stood Murong Xueli. Her silver hair, frozen under the cold light, flowed like a waterfall locked in ice. When her ice-blue eyes settled on Jiang Muchen, he felt his thoughts slow by half a beat.
"Jiang Muchen," Han said quietly, his voice deliberately low, as if afraid of disturbing something fragile.
"You claimed a seventy percent success rate. On what basis?"
No pleasantries. No probing. Straight to the heart of the matter.
Jiang Muchen bowed and pulled a worn charcoal notebook from his robe. The edges of the pages were frayed, the cover wrinkled and stained, with four crooked characters scrawled across it:
Miscellaneous Thoughts on Alchemy.
It looked pitiful—almost embarrassing.
"While stationed at Blackwind Cavern," he said evenly, "I recorded my deductions every night using charcoal."
He flipped to a marked page and presented it with both hands.
"These are seventeen possible methods to reconcile the conflicting properties of Yin-Soul Wood and Soul-Stabilizing Grass. Nine are impractical under current conditions. Five carry unacceptable risk. Of the remaining three, the Frostblade Qi Tempering Method has the highest probability of success."
Murong Xueli took the notebook.
The pages were rough. The handwriting uneven, sometimes so cramped it required careful reading. But every entry was painstakingly detailed—ingredient ratios measured down to the smallest unit, fire control described with terms only veteran alchemists used: crab-eye boil, rolling pearl surge. Even the seventy-two potential deviations at different refining stages were listed, each paired with a contingency response.
This was not something thrown together overnight.
This was a month of nights spent in a dim mining cavern, thinking by the light of a flickering oil lamp.
"How long have you been preparing this?" she asked, lifting her gaze.
"Since the day I heard the Frostborne Family was coming to the Pavilion."
Jiang Muchen smiled, a little sheepishly.
"I thought… maybe I could help. Even if not, learning more never hurts."
Han and Murong Xueli exchanged a glance.
Neither spoke—but the temperature in the room seemed to drop another degree.
"Jiang Muchen," Murong Xueli said suddenly. Her voice was soft, calm—sharp as an ice spike driven into the ear.
"If you are lying to me, I will freeze you into a living ice statue and place you at the gates of the Frostborne Family. Not as a warning—
but so you can watch, forever, what comes of betraying trust."
She said it as casually as commenting on the weather.
Jiang Muchen smiled.
Then he knelt.
One knee to the ground, right hand pressed over his heart. It was not the posture of supplication—but of an ancient oath.
"If I speak a single false word," he said steadily,
"may my dantian shatter of its own accord, and my path to cultivation end forever."
The chamber fell silent.
Only the pale glow of the pearls remained, and the quiet rhythm of three breathing hearts.
Murong Xueli studied him for three breaths—then raised her hand.
A streak of ice-blue sword qi shot from her fingertips, so fast Jiang Muchen barely caught its afterimage. It pierced his brow, surged through his meridians, and came to rest at his dantian.
There, emerald-green energy from the Jade Flute and the golden vortex of the Myriad Spirits Resonance Art rotated in perfect clarity—pure, clean, untouched by demonic taint.
"Your spiritual energy is pure," she said, withdrawing the sword qi.
"Rise."
Jiang Muchen stood. His clothes were soaked through—he had felt death brush past him without hesitation.
"This method," Murong Xueli continued, turning toward the western wall, "I am willing to try. But first, you must prove something."
She pressed her palm to the ice wall.
It slid open soundlessly.
A wave of cold poured out—ten times harsher than before. Inside was a smaller chamber. At its center lay a middle-aged man on an ice platform. His features bore a faint resemblance to Murong Xueli's, but his complexion was deathly pale. At his brow, a shard of black ice had formed—and was slowly spreading.
"My third uncle. Murong Han," she said quietly.
"Three days ago, he forcefully used the Ice-Soul Soul-Sealing Art to suppress my father's heart demon backlash. The technique rebounded. Pavilion alchemists say he needs three months of rest."
She looked at Jiang Muchen.
"Your Jade Flute. Your Soul-Stabilizing Incense.
If you can stabilize his breathing within half an hour—I will believe you."
The trial had arrived.
Jiang Muchen drew a slow breath and stepped forward.
Up close, the cold was terrifying—not merely freezing, but soul-piercing. Even with his Qi Refinement cultivation, his spiritual circulation slowed like rusted gears.
Yet he still wore that honest smile.
He bowed first to the unconscious man.
"Senior Murong," he said gently,
"Junior Jiang Muchen has some understanding of sound-based healing. I apologize for the intrusion."
Only then did he remove the Jade Flute.
He did not play immediately.
Instead, he placed the Soul-Stabilizing Incense at the edge of the ice platform and unsealed it. Pale green smoke rose, carrying a faint bitterness laced with calming floral notes. Even the cold seemed to soften.
Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged and lifted the flute.
He did not play the Purifying Heart Chant.
What emerged was a strange, jarring tune—shrill like birdcalls one moment, low and bestial the next. There was no melody. It was almost unpleasant.
Han the Deacon frowned deeply.
Murong Xueli's eyes narrowed.
Because she saw it—the chaotic icy energy around Murong Han began to pulse rhythmically. Not suppressed. Guided. Like floodwater finally finding a channel.
Eyes closed, Jiang Muchen sank fully into the circulation of the Myriad Spirits Resonance Art. Through sound, he heard the flow of Murong Han's energy, saw frozen meridians and damaged soul nodes.
And with each note, he tapped, vibrated, and combed them into order.
Like a craftsman shaping frozen ice.
Too much force, and it shattered.
Too little, and it wouldn't budge.
Then—
He found it.
Jiang Muchen's eyes snapped open. The tune shifted.
Chaos gave way to a long, gentle melody—clear as a spring stream in early thaw. Silent Nourishment, a harmonizing technique recorded in the art.
The black ice at Murong Han's brow slowed.
Color returned—faint, but real—to his face.
Han the Deacon surged to his feet.
Murong Xueli's hand rested on her sword—not in hostility, but shock.
Half a stick of incense later, Murong Han's breathing steadied. The black ice ceased spreading.
Jiang Muchen lowered the flute. His face was bloodless, sweat pouring down.
Guiding a peak Foundation Establishment cultivator's energy with Qi Refinement cultivation had nearly emptied him.
"E-Elder," he croaked, forcing a smile,
"mission… accomplished."
Murong Xueli studied him for three breaths.
Then she raised her hand and sent a stream of pure frost energy into his body.
It wasn't cold—it was cleansing. His exhausted meridians soothed, his dantian loosened at a long-stalled bottleneck.
"This is…?" he whispered.
"A gift from Frostblade Qi," she said calmly.
"I believe your method."
She turned to Han.
"Prepare. Three nights from now, at midnight—we temper the medicine."
"Yes, Miss!" Han replied, trembling with excitement.
Murong Xueli looked back at Jiang Muchen.
"As for the Yin-Soul Wood from the Nether Ghost Manor—you retrieve it yourself. I cannot intervene."
"I understand."
"I will, however, give you two things."
She handed him a jade bottle and an ice-blue pendant.
"Three drops of millennium frost marrow—temporary suppression of Nether Yin.
The pendant is a guest retainer token. Within three thousand li of the northern region, you may access Frostborne Family resources."
Jiang Muchen's heart thundered.
He bowed deeply.
When he left the courtyard, it was near dawn.
Cold wind howled.
His smile finally surfaced.
Then—
The Nether Bone Fragment burned hot in his chest.
Someone was calling it.
From the northwest.
Ghostcry Forest.
They were done waiting.