Xiulan tore through the blizzard of steel like a phantom unbound, his body a blur between flurries of snow and crimson sprays. Every step crunched on ice soaked red, every breath burned like molten air in his chest.

And then—silence.

The chaos of battle seemed to fade from his ears. No steel clashing, no dying screams. Only the heavy thud of his own heartbeat. Slow. Powerful. Unrelenting.

On the ridge above, the masked figure stood as if carved from the mountain itself, unmoving, the wind bending around him.

"You watched them die," Xiulan’s voice was a growl beneath the howling wind. "And you smiled."

The man stepped down from the ridge, each motion so fluid it seemed the glacier itself shifted to bear his weight. His robe was black as midnight, streaked with living threads of crimson that flickered like breathing fire. At his hip hung a long, curved blade covered in glowing, alien runes—symbols that pulsed in rhythm with the embers sewn into his clothes.

"Your rage makes you reckless," the masked man said, his voice low and cold beneath the cloth. "But that recklessness… is the first step toward awakening your bloodline."

Xiulan’s grip tightened on his sword. “What do you know of my bloodline?”

"I know," the man replied, tilting his head, "that your father once bore the Devil Flame… and it almost devoured him."

The words struck Xiulan like a spear of ice. The Devil Flame—a path feared by even the most ruthless sects. A power drawn from wrath, vengeance, and the fire of the soul itself. It had killed more who tried to claim it than it had ever spared.

Yanmei appeared beside Xiulan, breathing hard, blood running from a cut at her temple. “Don’t listen! He’s digging into your mind!”

But her warning was drowned beneath the roar in Xiulan’s chest.

The masked man’s blade rose. "Show me… if the flame has truly chosen you."

Xiulan charged. Their swords collided with a shockwave so fierce the glacier beneath them cracked like shattered glass. Steam hissed from the ground as heat rolled off Xiulan in molten waves, melting snow in a perfect circle around them.

The man’s eyes widened behind the mask. “So it’s true,” he murmured. “The Devil Flame burns again.”

A sudden blast of spiritual energy tore the air as the masked man stepped back—and vanished into a swirl of drifting embers.

Xiulan dropped to one knee, his breath ragged. Heat pulsed under his skin, and faint threads of smoke rose from his body.

Yanmei knelt beside him, gripping his arm. “You were burning. Your skin turned red… and your eyes—” She stopped, her voice trembling.

“I saw them,” Xiulan said hoarsely. “My father. My mother. And… something else. A fire. Waiting inside me.”

Elder Tianlan’s boots crunched over the snow as he approached, his expression grim. “You are no ordinary cultivator, Xiulan. And this war…” His gaze lingered on the steam rising from Xiulan’s shoulders. “…is only just beginning.”

The wind screamed over the glacier, but the true storm had taken root inside Xiulan’s soul—one of fire, blood, and destiny.