The frigid wind howled through the jagged peaks of the Crimson Glacier, whipping snow into sharp, swirling gusts. Xiulan stood at the edge, his breath rising like a dragon’s mist, each exhale a reminder of life and loss. Memories of the previous night—the visions of his parents’ final moments, the masked killer’s face—haunted him like frost creeping into his bones. Pain lingered, but it had hardened into something sharper: steel resolve.

He was not alone.

Beside him, Yanmei’s white robe snapped against the wind like a war banner. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the icy expanse ahead. Behind her, Elder Tianlan and a small contingent of temple disciples readied themselves, hands steady on hilts and staffs. Each had taken a blood oath: to follow Xiulan into the unknown, to uncover the truth behind the Celestial Temple’s devastation.

“We cross the glacier before dawn,” Tianlan commanded, voice low but carrying authority over the wind’s roar. “The energy trail leads to the Frozen Caverns. If the Blood Sect hides there, we strike with fury.”

Xiulan nodded silently. Words felt hollow in the cold. Instead, he let the ache in his heart sharpen into purpose, a silent promise to those lost and those who would follow.

Hours passed as they trudged deeper into the glacier. The snow bit at exposed skin, the wind threatened to topple the unwary. Then, as if the mountain itself had turned against them, an ambush erupted. Dozens of masked assassins, cloaked in spectral white, surged from the snowdrifts like phantoms, swords glinting in the pale light.

Steel clashed against steel. Blood stained the pure snow crimson, each strike echoing with fury and grief.

Xiulan moved like a storm incarnate. Every swing of Sorrow carried a whisper—his family’s names—and with each strike, his aura flared, darker and more fierce than ever. Qi surged violently within him, breaking past the Iron Vein realm into the Obsidian Pulse stage, a level even Elder Tianlan regarded with awe.

“His fury… it fuels his ascension,” the elder murmured, eyes wide, unable to conceal his astonishment.

Amid the chaos, a familiar aura cut through the white storm. On a ridge, partially obscured by swirling snow, stood the masked man—the killer from the Celestial Temple. Silent. Watching. Calculating.

Xiulan’s gaze locked onto him, and in that instant, everything else faded—the wind, the snow, the cries of battle. Only the storm within him remained, a tempest of vengeance and destiny.

A storm had begun.