True devotion isn't flattery.
It's finding the wound no one dares to touch—
and proving that the only cure in this world rests in your hands.
By the time Jiang Muchen returned to the Cold-Gate courtyard, daylight had already flooded the sky.
The small yard was in chaos.
Wang Duobao paced back and forth at the entrance, his round face slick with a mixture of grease and cold sweat, like an ant about to be roasted alive. Lu Hanshan leaned against the wall with his door-plank-wide saber in his arms, eyes closed, but his ears twitched faintly—alert, predatory. Zhou Xiaohuan crouched by the well scrubbing clothes, glancing toward the alley every few strokes. Zheng Xiaoqi lay sprawled on the roof, chewing absentmindedly on a rock-hard grain cake, crumbs littering his chest.
Then—
That familiar green-robed figure emerged from the morning mist at the alley's end.
"Brother Chen!"
Wang Duobao rushed forward first, grabbing Jiang Muchen's arm, his voice trembling.
"How did it go? Did Elder Murong make things difficult? That Frostglory Sword—she didn't put it to your neck, did she? Was it settled?"
Jiang Muchen didn't answer.
He simply reached into his robes and drew something out.
An ice-blue token, palm-sized, engraved with a frost phoenix mid-flight—every feather etched in lifelike detail, its gaze sharp and imperious. The token radiated cold the moment it touched the air. Thin threads of secret silver traced its edges. At its center was an ancient seal script character:
Snow.
On the back, a single line:
Within the Northern Ice Domain—this token stands in place of the master.
Wang Duobao sucked in a sharp breath, the sound wheezing like a broken bellows.
"T-The Ice-Soul Token?! The Frostborne Family's core guest insignia! With this, you can mobilize thirty percent of their resources across thirty thousand li of the North! See the clan head without kneeling! Enter restricted grounds without reporting—"
On the roof, Zheng Xiaoqi's hand slipped. He slid right off the eaves and landed flat on his rear, the grain cake flying from his grip.
Lu Hanshan opened his eyes, stared at the token for three breaths, swallowed once, and said only two words:
"…Impressive."
Zhou Xiaohuan rushed over, hands still damp, eyes shining.
"So that means—"
"It's done," Jiang Muchen finally said, his voice hoarse with exhaustion after a sleepless night.
"Three days from now. At dawn. We leave for the Frostborne Family's main estate and enter the Mystic Ice Chamber. If we don't save Murong Yuan, the patriarch dies."
Silence swallowed the courtyard whole.
Only the wind rustling through the old locust tree broke it.
After a long moment, Wang Duobao swallowed hard.
"Brother Chen… we're really stepping into the life-and-death game of a Nascent Soul cultivator? That's Frostborne internal strife, poison from the Nether Ghost Manor, Murong Feng circling like a tiger. One wrong step and we're dust—souls erased."
"Exactly because the waters are deep," Jiang Muchen said calmly as he set a heavy wooden chest onto the stone table, "that the net is worth casting."
He opened the chest and took out the Jade Flute.
Its surface was smooth and green, gleaming softly in the morning light like bamboo freshly lifted from a deep pool. It was a relic from a rogue cultivator of Green Nether Medicine Valley—barely qualified as a magical implement, its only notable trait a mild ability to soothe the soul of Qi Refinement cultivators.
"Brother Chen…" Zhou Xiaohuan hesitated. "You're planning to use that flute?"
"To test it."
Jiang Muchen's gaze swept across them.
"The Frostborne Family cultivates extreme yin-cold energy. Whether the flute resonates with ice-aligned spiritual power, how strong that resonance is—these things must be proven first."
The group exchanged looks.
Cold-aligned techniques were rare in the Red Dust Pavilion's outer sect. And even if they found someone suitable, who would let a fourth-layer Qi Refinement disciple experiment on them?
"I know someone," Zheng Xiaoqi suddenly said.
"There's a woman named Shen Lingxue in the far corner of West Court. Ice spirit root. From a minor Northern clan. She's… isolated. Failed her Foundation breakthrough last year and barely comes out anymore."
He scratched his head.
"But Brother Chen, I wouldn't go if I were you. She's notorious. An inner disciple once tried to 'guide' her cultivation—she blasted him out of the courtyard with an ice lance. Froze him for three days. Her meridians are damaged. Her spiritual energy goes berserk. People call her the Ice Madwoman."
"Berserk energy?"
Jiang Muchen smiled faintly.
"Perfect."
He picked up the flute and headed out.
West Court lay buried deep within a purple bamboo grove.
The farthest house was unmistakable—icicles hung from the eaves, frost patterns etched the windows, even the stone steps were sheathed in mirror-slick ice. The cold there wasn't mere chill—it gnawed straight into the soul.
Jiang Muchen stopped three strides from the gate and raised the flute.
The first note rang out—clear, like spring water striking stone.
"Get lost!"
A voice laced with raw ice-aspected spiritual force exploded from inside. Bamboo leaves rattled violently; morning dew froze mid-fall and shattered on the ground. Wang Duobao nearly collapsed.
Jiang Muchen stepped forward instead.
The melody did not break.
He played Spring Waters Thawing Ice—a simple tune from the Art of Myriad Resonances, evoking sunlight, cracking ice, snowmelt feeding streams. Slow, gentle, persistent.
Silence followed.
Then—
The door creaked open halfway.
A woman in white stood within the shadows, face pale as paper, frost etched into her brows. Her hand pressed against her left shoulder, white vapor leaking between her fingers.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"Outer disciple Jiang Muchen," he said, lowering the flute in a respectful bow.
"I'm here to test whether this sound can calm your runaway ice energy."
She laughed—cold, cutting.
"Qi Refinement, fourth layer. A broken flute. You think that helps me?"
"I do," he replied evenly.
"Because your problem isn't excess cold. It's blockage."
And then—
He named every pain.
Every pathway.
Every moment of agony.
Her hand shook.
"How… do you know?"
"The flute told me."
He raised it again.
This time, the tune changed.
Moonlight Over a Frozen Pool.
The sound flowed like silver light sinking into deep water. Ice crystals in the air trembled in rhythm. Shen Lingxue closed her eyes—and for the first time in a year, the raging cold inside her slowed.
When the final note faded, tears welled in her ice-blue eyes.
"What do you want?" she asked quietly.
Jiang Muchen smiled.
"Three days from now, I need you."