Chapter 5 Hint: Echoes of Frost

Inside the sealed thunder chamber beneath the Mirror Bell, as Tiān Lán’s past life name Yè Tíanshuāng shines in the stormlight, the tablet fractures open.

From within its icy core, three ancient relics slowly rise:

A long sword of black and silver, its edge dripping with frost—Hanxue (寒雪), the Cold Snow Blade. Forged from starsteel and quenched in heavenly thunder.

It once cleaved through immortal shields.

A jade bottle, sealed with nine lightning talismans. Inside: pills glowing faint blue—Frostheart Soul Elixirs, created by Yè Tíanshuāng himself.

Capable of calming inner demons and strengthening the soul vein beyond known limits.

And hovering above the altar—a shard of the Mirror Bell itself. It glows… then pulses… then speaks.

A young woman’s voice, clear and emotionless:

> “Yè Tíanshuāng… Master. You have returned.”

She appears—the Bell Spirit, a calm, blue-eyed phantom dressed in flowing silver robes.

Her name is Lingxiao (灵霄). She was sealed for centuries, waiting only for him.

> “I hold your secrets, your techniques, your wrath.

The Frost God has not been forgotten.”

The sword hums. The pills shimmer. The Bell Spirit bows.

And in that frozen chamber, Tiān Lán takes one step forward—no longer just a boy.

> He is once again the cultivator who once froze the heavens with a single breath.

Later that evening…

The rain whispered softly against the windows as the family gathered in the grand dining hall. Candles flickered, casting golden light on polished wooden floors and jade tableware.

When Tiān Lán entered, dressed in his formal blue hanfu, the room fell silent—but not out of awe.

> “Hmph. He finally shows up,” murmured the second wife with a disdainful glance.

“Didn’t expect the sickly one to remember family traditions.”

Tiān Lán said nothing. His gaze remained calm, unreadable. His half-brother scoffed and turned away.

But at the far end of the table, his mother—a gentle woman in soft silk robes—rose with a warm smile.

> “Lán’er,” she called, voice bright and loving.

“Come sit by me. You must be tired from cultivation.”

She patted the seat beside her and personally poured him tea, ignoring the looks from others.

Tiān Lán’s heart, long frozen, stirred just slightly.

> Even now… she’s the only one who sees me.

The rest of the family continued to eat and chatter, barely acknowledging his presence. They still believed him to be a burden—weak, talentless.

But beneath the table, the Cold Snow Blade rested in its sheath.

And in his shadow, Lingxiao whispered silently:

> “Shall I silence them for you, Master?”

Tiān Lán gave no reply.

Not yet.

It was Tiān Lán’s 17th birthday.

No celebration. No banquet. Only a quiet letter on his table that morning—bearing the Duke’s seal.

> “You are to report to Sky Hollow Sect within three days. You will remain there for training until further notice.”

The words were polite. The meaning was clear: exile.

Behind it all stood his half-brother, lips curved in triumph, whispering poison into their father’s ears.

> “He’s always been weak, Father. If he can’t survive there, then he was never worthy.”

That night, his mother wept quietly in the moonlight. Her hands trembled as she placed a white jade pendant around his neck.

> “Frostveil is dangerous,” she whispered. “But they say its halls once trained saints. If your destiny lies there… then go, Lán’er. And never bow again.”

Tiān Lán looked into her tear-filled eyes, and for a moment, the cold within him warmed.

> “I promise, Mother. One day, the name they cast aside will freeze the heavens themselves.”

But Tiān Lán’s mother, red-eyed and trembling, pressed a jade pendant into his palm before he left.

> “Promise me you’ll return stronger, Lán’er. They don’t see you—but I always will.”

He bowed to her.

> “I’ll come back. Not as the boy they cast aside—but as the cultivator the heavens themselves will remember.”

And so he set out—not banished, but ascending.

Frostveil Peak was far beyond the capital, deep in the north, where the snow never melted and the wind howled like spirits of the dead. A sect known for cultivating Silence, Ice, and Endurance, where only the truly devoted survived the trials.

As Tiān Lán stepped through the gate carved from frozen obsidian, Lingxiao's voice stirred softly within his soul:

> “So it begins, Master. Where once you fell, now you shall rise—stronger than frost, quieter than death.”

His fingers brushed the Cold Snow Blade beneath his robe.

In his pouch, the Frostheart Soul Elixirs pulsed faintly.

And as the mountain swallowed him in snow and silence, Tiān Lán did not look back.

Frostveil Peak towered like a spear piercing heaven.

Blanketed in endless snow and wrapped in clouds, the mountain looked less like a place of cultivation—and more like a graveyard for ambition.

At the base of the summit stood the Gate of Silent Ice, carved from ancient froststone. Ten other initiates stood before it, shivering under layers of fur and courage.

Tiān Lán arrived without fanfare. His robes thin. His blade hidden.

An elder stood beside the gate—tall, white-haired, and blindfolded.

> “The path of frost is not walked by words,” he spoke. “Three trials await. One to test your soul. One to test your silence. One to test your storm. You will enter alone. You may not speak. And if you scream…”

His smile was gentle. Cruel.

“The mountain will answer.”

A girl to Tiān Lán’s left whimpered. A boy behind him clenched his fists.

But Tiān Lán simply stepped forward.

The gate shuddered—and opened.

Inside was nothing but blinding white.

---

The First Trial: Soul Mirror Cavern

Tiān Lán’s breath caught as the world warped. Ice mirrored ice. Snowflakes hung in the air, unmoving.

A thousand reflections of himself appeared—each twisted.

One wept. One bled. One screamed. One begged forgiveness.

And one smiled… cruelly.

> “Why try again?” it whispered, voice his own. “You failed once. Betrayed. Slain. Forgotten.”

But Tiān Lán stared into the mirror, calm as snowfall.

> “Because I am no longer Yè Tíanshuāng. I am Tiān Lán. And I know how the story ends this time.”

The mirror cracked. Shattered. The path opened.

---

The Second Trial: Chamber of Silence

A storm roared around him, but no sound reached his ears. Blades of ice flew toward his body.

To defend was easy—but every movement made noise.

He had to cross the room in utter stillness.

He slowed his breath. Tightened his grip. Each step was like threading lightning through a needle.

A single slip—a pebble moved—a blade sliced past his cheek.

Still… he did not fall.

He reached the center, where the winds died.

---

The Third Trial: The Heartstorm

Lightning. Snow. Wind. All at once.

This was no illusion.

Here, the mountain hurled everything at him—testing will, flesh, and fury.

Tiān Lán drew the Cold Snow Blade, and with one sweep, redirected a bolt of thunder. He took in the storm—not with resistance, but with embrace.

> “You are part of me now,” he whispered to the sky.

The tempest stilled.

And the Gate of Silent Ice opened once more.

---

The blindfolded elder bowed.

> “Accepted. Frostveil recognizes you, disciple… Tiān Lán.”

He stepped into the sect grounds—where the true path would begin.

Far above, in a sealed palace layered in frost, a silver-haired figure opened her eyes.

> “...He has come.”

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