Chapter 4 — Frostroot & Jade

By the time Yun Xueyan returned to the Frostroot estate, dawn had broken again over the capital — pale gold light tracing the frost-laced roofs and frozen garden ponds. Servants bowed so low their foreheads touched the stone, whispering her titles beneath their breath.

In the quiet hush of her study, she stood by the frost-rimmed window, reading the fresh summons that lay open on her desk. A wax seal marked with the sigil of the Xuantian Immortal Sect — her true cradle, the mountain fortress where blades were tempered and genius measured in blood.

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> “Return immediately to Xuantian. Your presence is required for the Winter Conclave and the selection rites.”

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Below, Han Ye waited silently, arms crossed, while Zhao Fei knelt behind him — fresh linen, collar hidden, a calm shadow always at her heel.

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She lowered the scroll, voice calm. “Prepare the carriages. We leave before noon.”

Han Ye didn’t question. “And the boy?”

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Xueyan’s cold gaze flicked to Zhao Fei — head bowed, spine straight.

“Bring him,” she said. “The sect knows power when it sees it. Better they see him chained to me than bought by someone else.”

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She turned away before they answered — her thoughts already on the peaks rising beyond the northern plains, the stone steps of Xuantian where the next piece waited: Rong Yu.

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The next morning, the Frostroot procession crossed the mountain gates beneath drifting banners of pale blue and white. Snow coated the stairway that carved its way up the cliffs toward Xuantian’s ancient gates — engraved with dragons coiled in frost and iron.

Inner disciples in pale jade robes lined the path in silent rows — bows deep enough to brush the snow. Even the lesser Elders dipped their heads when Yun Xueyan passed, her family crest catching the dawn light like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath

As Yun Xueyan stepped over the threshold of the Xuantian Sect’s Jade Gate, the cold seemed to shift — not softer, but sharper. Every flake of snow here carried the weight of centuries of ambition.

Behind her, Zhao Fei moved silently, head lowered, collar hidden under fine robes. Han Ye walked two steps to her right, a living blade ready to be drawn.

In the main courtyard, banners of jade and silver fluttered from carved pillars. Disciples moved in ordered lines — some paused mid-step when they glimpsed her, then bowed deeply, voices hushed in awe:

“Frostroot Heir…”

“…Elder Rong’s chosen…”

At the far end of the courtyard, an inner gate opened — and there stood Rong Yu.

He wore plain jade robes, hair tied high with a froststeel clasp that glinted in the sun. His beauty was the kind that silenced crowds — delicate features, skin like untouched snow, eyes dark as midnight lakes under starlight. When he moved, even the sect’s cold wind seemed to soften.

But when he saw her, that stillness fractured — a breath, a flicker in his eyes that an ordinary mind might miss. But Yun Xueyan was no ordinary mind.

He bowed. “Junior greets Elder Yun.”

His voice was low, warm — but she knew its weight, knew that warmth was not for the world but for her alone.

Her own bow was a shallow nod. “Elder Rong.”

They stood a step apart — two flawless swords drawn from opposite scabbards, edges turned inward. Around them, junior disciples who dared watch too long quickly found reasons to scatter.

Twelve years.

That’s how long they’d stood like this — master and disciple, lines unblurred in the eyes of the sect. But she knew the manuscript’s truth — the original Yun Xueyan had never seen it, never felt it. She’d been blind to Rong Yu’s growing obsession, blind to how his warmth coiled like silk only to burn him alive from within.

Now, standing here with a second mind inside her skull, she saw it all at once: the faint tremor in his breath when her sleeve brushed his, the hidden hunger behind the calm.

He spoke softly, words for her alone:

“Twelve years. You left without a word.”

She tilted her head, studying the flawless curve of his mouth — the face that had bewitched the entire sect, a living fairy tale. She felt no warmth, no thrill. Only a cool flick of logic.

“I returned.”

He smiled — a small curve, so beautiful it could split stone. But in his eyes, shadows pooled. He lifted his hand, brushing a snowflake from her shoulder — an intimacy so bold the few passing elders politely looked away.

“You never change,” Rong Yu murmured. “Even after twelve years, you’re still… perfect.”

To him, it was worship — a prayer hidden behind silk words. To her, it was inconvenient heat she must manage carefully.

A voice cut through the charged air.

Yue Lin, the Sect Leader — Rong Yu’s older sister — approached from the garden corridor, her pale jade robes lined with silver rank threads.

Her eyes, sharp as frost, swept over Xueyan, then flicked to Rong Yu’s outstretched hand still lingering near Xueyan’s shoulder. One brow arched — a silent reprimand, or perhaps a warning.

“Elder Yun,” Yue Lin said crisply. “The Conclave waits for you. There are new disciples to sort — including a stray I hear you brought.”

She didn’t glance at Zhao Fei, but the weight of her words pressed down on him all the same. He bowed low behind Xueyan, the perfect picture of silent submission.

Yun Xueyan inclined her head. “Lead the way.”

Rong Yu fell into step beside her, their sleeves brushing. To an outsider, it was a master’s escort. But to her — she knew this dance for what it was: his constant, hungry orbit. His unspoken plea to melt a glacier that could not thaw.

Inside the main hall, the marble floor reflected flickering torchlight. Elders gathered on the high dais — ancient women whose cultivation power hummed like buried storms. Dozens of fresh-faced children knelt in the rows below — future disciples, all eyes wide, dreams bright and foolish.

Yun Xueyan took her place near Yue Lin, Rong Yu half a step behind her — close enough that when he breathed, the edge of her sleeve stirred. To the gathered sect, it looked normal. But the truth sat heavy between them: master, disciple, hidden lover, inevitable ruin.

She felt it then — the burden of the original story pressing on her skin like a cold chain. Here, in this hall, the future twisted: the Female Lead would soon arrive, pitiful, clever, tragic. She would slide between them like a blade dipped in poison.

But not yet. Tonight, the chessboard was hers alone.

Yue Lin’s voice rang out:

“Let the choosing begin.”

From the shadows, Zhao Fei knelt, silent, eyes lowered. But when the line of new initiates parted, his gaze rose — and locked on the girl shivering at the end of the row.

Small, thin, eyes too bright — a street rat reborn in silk. Lin Anxin, the girl who would awaken demonic blood, who would someday set the world ablaze.

Xueyan’s eyes met Zhao Fei’s for a heartbeat — a flicker of agreement passing between two bound animals who knew this board better than any Elder.

Above them, high on her dais, Yun Xueyan’s cold smile never reached her eyes.

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