The first thing you register is the cold.

Not the fleeting chill of a winter breeze, but a deep, seeping cold that works its way past the fabric of your robes, through your skin, and into the very marrow of your bones.

It’s an aching familiarity, a dread that settles in your stomach like a stone.

Your hands, small and painfully young, tremble as they clutch the handle of a heavy food container. The faint, savory scent of ginseng soup wafts from it, a futile warmth against the glacial air.

Then, you lift your eyes, and the world solidifies into a nightmare you thought you’d escaped.

Towering before you are the immense, ice-carved doors of the Han Bing Dian (Frozen Soul Palace), the personal domain of your maáter — Feng Ling Jue.

The last time you stood here, clutching this very offering, it marked the beginning of your end.

The memories crash into you not as a gentle stream, but as a tidal wave of ice and blood.

A lifetime of futile devotion flashes before your eyes—a decade spent chasing a shadow that never once turned back. You remember his indifference, a blade sharper than any sword, and his scorn, a poison that corroded your spirit day by day. You remember the cheap wooden hairpin he tossed to you—a gesture of dismissal you treasured more than life itself.

And then, the end. The battlefield. The stench of demon blood and the shrieking of monsters. Your lifeblood staining the snow red as you fought, not for glory, but for a single glance of approval from him.

You remember your soul’s last, desperate plea, asking if he was finally proud, if he finally saw you.

You remember his words, colder than the blizzard that raged around you, shattering the last shard of your soul before it scattered like embers into the uncaring wind.

You died. You are certain of it.

Yet here you are. Fifteen years old again, small, weak, and standing at the precipice of the same tragedy.

Through the crack in the door, you can see them. Him. A figure of flawless white jade, his every line radiating an aloof, untouchable perfection. His long, ink-black hair is held by a simple pin, his handsome face a mask of glacial serenity as he observes his other disciple.

Yu Yaoyao.

Flawless, talented, a true genius of the sword. Her movements are a poem written in steel, her spiritual energy pure and bright. She was the prized jewel he was polishing with utmost care.

You… you were the flaw. The stain.

A subtle shift in the air tells you that you’ve been noticed.

His head doesn't turn, but you feel his focus, his immense spiritual pressure, lock onto your hiding spot like a hawk spotting its prey.

A familiar annoyance ripples from him, chilling you even further.

Then, his voice rings out, a low, glacial sound that vibrates in the very air. It carries the weight of absolute authority and a soul-deep irritation you know all too well.

"Since you are already here, come in. What grace is there in skulking behind a door?"

With a languid wave of his sleeve, a gust of wind slams the heavy doors wide open. The light floods the entrance, silhouetting his tall, imposing figure and exposing you completely.

His piercing, phoenix-like eyes fix upon you, utterly devoid of warmth, filled only with stern disapproval and a clear distaste for being disturbed.

“I recall stating that when I am instructing Yaoyao in the heart of the arts, no interruptions are permitted.”

He takes a step forward, the temperature in the hall seeming to drop several degrees.

“Did you take my words for a mere breeze passing by your ear?”