When you finally stand before her,
the most important thing isn't proving how strong you are—
it's making her see that you understand every impossible burden she carries,
and that you've already prepared the solutions.
The hour of the Tiger.
Three quarters past midnight.
The sky was still drowned in pitch-black ink.
Jiang Muchen stood on the bluestone platform outside the Crimson Pavilion's mountain gate, dressed in a washed-out blue robe that had clearly seen too many winters. On his back hung a half-worn cloth pack—small in size, yet stuffed to the brim.
Inside it was everything he had prepared over three sleepless days and nights:
A modified resonance array plate.
Specially blended soul-stabilizing incense.
A spirit-dispersal array disk.
Half a stalk of Soul-Calming Grass sealed in a jade case.
Fire-Yang pills stored in a red-jade vial.
Three Ice-Soul Stones.
And the jade flute that never left his side.
Heavy frost clung to his shoulders and hair, crystallizing in the darkness before dawn.
Behind him stood four figures.
Wang Duobao.
Lu Hanshan.
Zhou Xiaohuan.
Zheng Xiaoqi.
Each carried their own packs, standing silently in the thick fog like statues carved from stone. Only their breath betrayed them—white mist curling into the dark before vanishing.
The agreed time was the Hour of the Dragon.
Murong Xueli's Ice Lotus Pavilion lay three hundred miles north, atop the snowbound peaks of the Northern Frontier. At the speed of Qi Refinement cultivators, they had to leave now to arrive on time—no delays, not even a single quarter-hour.
Yet Jiang Muchen didn't move.
He was waiting.
For the sixth person.
At the first bell of the Rabbit Hour, footsteps finally echoed from the fog-shrouded mountain path.
Not one set—two.
One light. One heavy.
One steady. One slightly unbalanced.
Moments later, two figures emerged.
At the front was Shen Lingxue, dressed in white. Her hair was tied into a high ponytail today, but her face was paler than it had been three days ago. A faint layer of frost clung to her lips—clear evidence that her Ice spiritual energy was destabilizing again.
Half a step behind her walked an old servant in gray cloth. His back was slightly hunched, and in his hand he carried a dim yellow lantern.
Shen Lingxue stopped in front of Jiang Muchen.
No greetings.
No explanations.
She spoke only one word.
"Go."
Six people—no, seven—set out toward the Northern Frontier.
The mountain road coiled through the darkness like a serpent. Night dew slicked the stone steps, making every step treacherous. Jiang Muchen led the way, Shen Lingxue close behind him, the others following in silence.
No one spoke.
Only the crunch of boots against dead leaves, labored breathing, and the distant cries of nocturnal birds broke the stillness.
After fifty miles, the sky shifted from black to deep blue. A pale line of dawn crept up along the eastern horizon.
Shen Lingxue suddenly spoke.
"You're not going to ask," she said calmly, "why I brought him?"
She meant the old servant.
Jiang Muchen didn't turn back.
"Senior Sister has her reasons."
"He's my guardian," she said after a pause. "Surname Chen. He's served the Shen family for thirty years. My meridians are unstable—if something happens on the road, he can suppress the cold backlash temporarily with his Foundation Establishment cultivation."
"I understand," Jiang Muchen replied. "Thank you for being thorough."
She hesitated.
"You're not afraid," she asked quietly, "that I'm Murong Feng's spy? Or that he's here to monitor you… or kill you?"
"I am," Jiang Muchen said, finally glancing back at her. In the dim pre-dawn light, his eyes were clear as mountain springs.
"But I'm more afraid you wouldn't come."
Shen Lingxue fell silent.
Something stirred in her ice-blue eyes—then vanished.
Thirty miles later, daylight fully arrived.
A roaring river blocked their path.
Ten zhang wide, its current thundered like a stampede. White spray smashed against the rocks along the bank. Only a single suspension bridge spanned it—ancient, rotting, its planks mostly gone, iron chains corroded beyond recognition and shrieking in the wind.
"We should detour," Wang Duobao muttered. "That thing wouldn't hold a bird, let alone people."
"A detour adds sixty miles," Jiang Muchen said, calculating quickly. "We'd miss the Dragon Hour."
He crouched at the bridgehead and tugged the thickest chain. Rust flakes rained down into the river and were instantly swallowed.
"I'll go first," Lu Hanshan said, gripping his blade.
"Wait."
Jiang Muchen stopped him—and took out the jade flute.
He sat cross-legged on a flat stone at the bridgehead and raised the flute to his lips.
The sound that followed stunned everyone.
It wasn't an attack.
Nor defense.
Nor a calming melody.
It was strange—sharp like an eagle's cry one moment, deep like a beast rumbling underground the next. The soundwaves rippled visibly through the air, vibrating the bridge's chains until even the stones along the riverbank trembled.
More astonishing still—
The raging river began to calm.
Ripples spread outward in perfect rhythm with the flute's cadence, as if invisible hands were smoothing the water's fury.
"This is…" Shen Lingxue murmured, eyes widening. As a cultivator of ice, she could clearly sense the water veins beneath the riverbed being guided, reorganized.
"Water Vein Resonance," Jiang Muchen said, lowering the flute, his face pale from exertion. "A minor technique recorded in my master's notes. The turbulence here is caused by three submerged reefs forming a triangular current trap. The flute synchronizes with the river's natural frequency, allowing the flow to bypass those points temporarily."
He stepped onto the bridge.
It swayed violently—but held.
Each step he took landed on the strongest support points, mapped moments earlier through sound.
All seven crossed safely.
By the time they reached the far bank, the river had returned to its furious roar.
Wang Duobao wiped cold sweat from his brow.
"Brother Chen… your master—what kind of monster was he?"
"Just an old man who liked studying how the world works," Jiang Muchen replied, already moving on.
He didn't tell the truth.
The Art of Universal Resonance went far deeper than this. After three nights with the yellowed notebook, he'd realized something terrifying—
That mysterious master saw the world as a single, interconnected system.
Water. Earth veins. Plants. Seasons. Stars.
Everything resonated.
That understanding—not his cultivation—was why he dared step into Murong Xueli's life-and-death endgame.
They reached the snow mountain with fifteen minutes to spare.
Ice Lotus Pavilion gleamed atop the peak, blue crystal structures bathed in golden dawn light.
By the time they climbed halfway up, the cold bit to the bone. Jiang Muchen distributed warming talismans. Shen Lingxue didn't need one. Neither did Old Chen.
At the mountain's waist stood an ice archway etched with four characters:
Ice Lotus Pavilion.
Inside waited Murong Xueli.
She stood watering a plum tree.
White robes. No adornment.
Ice-blue eyes like still water over abyssal depth.
When she turned, her gaze swept over the group—and stopped.
"I told you to come alone."
"They're my companions," Jiang Muchen said evenly.
Her voice was colder.
"Qi Refinement disciples are liabilities."
He met her gaze without flinching—and calmly dismantled her objection piece by piece.
When he finished, silence reigned.
Then she asked softly, dangerously:
"Then tell me—using your method… what do you see when you look at me?"
The air froze.
Jiang Muchen studied her for a long time.
Then he spoke.
He spoke of her fading Ice Soul Seal.
Her inherited authority.
Her father's condition.
Her secret poisoning attempt.
And finally—he placed a small jade vial before her.
Not as a plea.
As a solution.
When Murong Xueli took the vial, she didn't thank him.
She only said:
"Six hours remain."
"And two traitors stand among the seven."
Her eyes sharpened.
"This is your board now."
As the ice doors opened and seven Foundation Establishment cultivators turned to look at him—
Jiang Muchen stepped forward calmly.
He knew this moment well.
This was where survival ended.
And the real game began.
· The Way of Leverage
The highest form of breaking the ice isn't striking it with force—
it's finding the thinnest layer, breathing gently,
and letting it melt on its own…
believing spring has arrived.