The air grew thinner as Zhao Lianxu climbed into the high altitudes of the Northern Glacial Expanse. Frost clung to his eyelashes, and each breath emerged as a foggy whisper in the wind. Snow crunched underfoot like brittle glass, and a veil of mist obscured the jagged peaks ahead. The Temple of Ice lay somewhere beyond this treacherous range—his fourth trial. But unlike the previous elements, this one demanded silence, stillness, and something far colder than death: detachment.
The fire within him, newly awakened and potent, simmered beneath his skin, fighting against the numbing cold. But he knew better than to rely on fire here. Fire was passion, drive, warmth. Ice was clarity, restraint, and the absence of need. In a land ruled by silence and stillness, excess emotion was a liability.
He recalled ancient scrolls that described the Ice Trial not as a challenge of strength but of surrender. "Only when the heart beats like falling snow will the frost accept your soul," they had said. That lesson now echoed through every frozen breath.
Hours turned into days as he trudged through snowstorms and icy ravines, his body layered in seals of warmth and resistance. He fought frostbite and hallucinations, pushing through lands where even shadows seemed to freeze in place. There were no villages here, no souls to speak with. Just the white abyss and the whispering wind, like the voices of the dead. It was said that those who failed the Ice Trial often vanished, their bodies frozen in prayer or madness, their names forgotten by time.
One night, while sheltering in a cavern sculpted by centuries of ice winds, he opened a small leather-bound journal—his father's, left behind after his mysterious disappearance. Zhao had never dared to read the last page. With trembling fingers, he flipped to it. The writing was faded, ink bleeding into the worn paper:
"To master the Ice Veil, you must forget all that anchors your heart. Pain, love, memory—they are chains. Break them. Only emptiness brings clarity."
He closed the journal slowly. The words chilled him more than the wind, as if his father had walked this same path and had been forever altered by it. Or perhaps consumed.
On the fifth day, he reached a frozen lake at the heart of a crystal basin. Towering above the lake, etched into the glacier wall, was the Temple of Ice—its spires glittering like daggered glass, pristine and untouched by time. Icicles the size of spears hung from arches, and intricate frost patterns lined the walls like sacred inscriptions.
At the lake's edge stood a solitary figure clad in robes of silver-white, her face hidden behind a veil of translucent frost. Her presence was ethereal, like a statue carved from moonlight and snow.
"You have fire in your heart," the woman said, her voice like wind against icicles. "It will betray you here."
Zhao stepped forward, frost crackling beneath his boots. "And what do you demand of me?"
"Stillness," she replied. "If you can cross the lake without disturbing its surface, the trial is yours."
He looked down. The ice was unnaturally smooth, a perfect mirror reflecting the overcast sky. A single crack, a ripple, even a breath out of rhythm, and he would fail. It was not a test of strength but of serenity.
He stepped onto the glassy surface, concentrating his energy inward. He silenced the fire within, suppressed the wind, quieted the pull of earth and water. Only emptiness remained. His thoughts were like snowfall—gentle, fleeting, and pure.
Each step was a meditation, each breath a prayer. Midway across the lake, his mind drifted—not to fear, but to memory. Yu Qianhua's eyes, the warmth of her voice, the pain of her betrayal. His foot slipped. A single fracture raced outward from his heel, spreading like a spider's web.
"No!" he hissed, teeth clenched.
He fell to his knees, gasping. The ice beneath him held, but barely. The figure on the shore watched in silence.
Zhao closed his eyes.
He thought of his parents. His homeland. The titles he lost, the power he once sought. The dream of ruling, the weight of betrayal, and the shadow of war. Everything that made him who he was. Then, with aching resolve, he let it all go. In his mind, he was no longer Zhao Lianxu, prince or warrior. He was a breath, a snowflake, a void.
When he opened his eyes again, the lake was silent.
He stood and took his final steps across, unburdened.
At the far edge, the figure removed her veil. She was not a stranger. She was his mother—not in body, but in spirit. An echo. A memory carved from his soul by the temple itself.
"You were always too full of feeling," she said softly, her eyes deep pools of crystalline sorrow. "But you've learned."
A spear of pure ice formed in her hand. She offered it to him, its shaft humming with restrained energy.
"This is the Frostpiercer," she said. "It strikes not the body, but illusion. It reveals what is true."
Zhao accepted it, and in that moment, his entire being aligned. The Ice Element flowed into him—not violently, not with glory, but with an elegance that could only be found in surrender. It curled around his soul like a snowfall on still waters.
The figure faded into mist.
He stood alone once more—but more whole than he had ever been.
Then, without warning, a crack in reality split open behind him. A shimmer, like moonlight striking water, and a hand reached through—his own.
His real body.
The one buried deep within the sacred tomb of his past life. The trial had not only tested his spirit, it had located the missing piece of his soul.
He staggered backward, caught between two versions of himself. Memories rushed in: ancient dreams, forgotten truths, the smell of cherry blossoms in the imperial garden, the warmth of his father's arms.
And then they merged.
Pain.
Fire, frost, weight, memory, soul.
He screamed—not from agony, but from transformation. The sound echoed through the basin like a choir of broken stars.
When the light cleared, he stood taller. The spear in his hand had fused with his veins. His mind was sharper. His memories clearer. His identity no longer fractured.
He was Zhao Lianxu.
He was the Reborn.
He was the Flame and the Frost.
And his path to becoming the Emperor of the Multiverse had just begun.
Beyond the temple, the wind had stilled. Snowflakes hovered in midair, bowing to him as if recognizing a sovereign not just of power, but of balance.
He turned toward the path ahead, where the fifth element awaited.
The Trial of Wind.
And with the Frostpiercer in his grasp and a soul finally whole, he walked forward—into the storm.