The snow crunched under Mei Lian's feet as she followed Shen Liuxian down the frozen ravine. The morning mist clung to the jagged rocks like old breath, coiling around them with the air of ancient secrets.
Last night's training had left her drained, but something inside her had changed. She felt the faint pulse of the flame—dormant, but undeniably there.
"Where are we going?" she asked, hugging her arms to her chest.
"To test your instincts," Shen replied without turning. "There's a shrine here. One not marked on any map."
Mei Lian frowned. "Another test?"
"No," he said. "A trial. Tests are what you take when you have a choice. Trials come whether you're ready or not."
They descended deeper, until the trees thinned and the rocks turned black with frostbite. At the base of the ravine, an arch of cracked stone jutted out of the ground—half-swallowed by ice, half-forgotten by time. It bore a single inscription, chiseled in jagged, primitive script:
"Where the blade sings, souls weep."
"This is a graveyard," Shen said softly, brushing frost off the letters. "Of those who trained in the Way of the Snowblade. Slain before the war even began."
Mei Lian knelt beside a small stone marker, her breath forming a delicate cloud in the air. "Snowblade? I've never heard of that sect."
"You wouldn't have. They were erased—name, history, legacy. But something remains."
A low hum rose in the air, subtle and icy. The mist thickened around them.
"Step carefully," Shen warned. "The ghosts here don't rest easily."
As if summoned, a cold wind swept through the shrine. Snow lifted in spirals, and from the whiteness, silhouettes began to form—warriors with hollow eyes and weapons made of mist.
Mei Lian's heart raced. "They're spirits?"
Shen nodded. "Bound by regret. Their blades seek warmth—your warmth."
A spirit lunged, its cry silent and desperate. Shen moved with inhuman speed, his sword flashing a crescent arc that dispersed the ghost in a wisp of frost.
"Don't fight with strength," he called. "Let your flame guide your motion."
"I can't—"
"You can."
Another spirit rushed her—this one slower, its blade dragging along the ground, leaving trails of frost. Mei Lian took a step back, heart pounding.
Let the flame guide you.
She closed her eyes, drew in a breath, and felt the warmth from her mark stir—small, but present. As the blade neared her, she moved—not quickly, but with intent. The spirit passed her harmlessly, its form dissipating as if burned by her presence.
Shen gave a slight nod. "Good."
They pressed deeper into the shrine. The air grew colder, heavier. At the center stood a stone dais with a rusted sword buried in its heart.
"Their last master," Shen said quietly. "He chose death over surrender."
Mei Lian approached the dais, drawn by a feeling she couldn't name. Her fingers brushed the hilt—and pain exploded behind her eyes.
Visions.
She saw warriors kneeling before a burning mountain. A girl with eyes like hers, raising a sword of ice and fire. Screams. Betrayal. Flame devouring snow. The mark on her chest flared in agony.
She staggered back, gasping.
"What did you see?" Shen asked, catching her by the shoulder.
"Someone… like me. She was here. She had the flame—no, she was the flame."
Shen's eyes darkened. "You saw the Snowblade Heir. The first to bear the Crimson Heart."
Mei Lian stared at the sword. "Is that what I am?"
"No. Not yet. But that legacy now lives in you."
Behind them, the spirits fell still. Silent.
And then, one by one, they bowed.
To her.
Mei Lian stood frozen as the mists thinned and the wind died.
Shen Liuxian looked at her not as a student—but as something greater.
"Come," he said. "You've earned their respect. Let's see if you can earn your own."