Snow blanketed the peaks outside the cave like a shroud of silence. Inside, Lin Yan stood shirtless, steam rising from his skin as he gripped a wooden practice sword.
His body was still weak, his spirit roots fragile, but his eyes—no longer hollow—gleamed with something new: **resolve**.
"Hold your stance," Mei Qingxue said from across the clearing, her voice cutting like frost. "If your hands shake, you die. If your mind drifts, you die. If you hesitate—"
"I die," Lin Yan finished, steadying his grip. "I understand."
They had been training for two weeks since he survived the First Trial.
Every day, Mei Qingxue pushed him beyond his limits—physically, mentally, spiritually. His body had once known only how to endure pain; now, it was learning to **fight**.
She taught him breathing techniques to circulate his nascent spiritual energy, basic footwork that resembled dancing with the wind, and sword forms derived from her own ruthless style: **Frost Veil Arts**.
Lin Yan failed. Often. He vomited blood, collapsed, cursed her in the silence of his mind.
But he never begged.
He never ran.
And so, she trained him harder.
One morning, Mei Qingxue tossed him a dagger with a curved, obsidian blade. "Time to learn how to kill."
He stared at the weapon, its surface cold and hungry.
"Who?" he asked quietly.
"A demonic beast. Mid-tier. Wounded. It waits in a cave five li south." Her expression was unreadable. "It smells weakness."
"I'm not ready."
"You'll never be. That's not how freedom works."
The journey through the forest was a blur of snow and dread.
Lin Yan found the cave. Inside was the beast: a **Shadowfang Wolf**, its left leg crippled but its eyes still glowing with killing intent. It bared its fangs, sensing his hesitation.
He trembled. Just like before. Back when he was weak, used, powerless.
But something in him shifted. A memory.
"Do you want to be free?"
**Yes.**
He charged.
The fight was brutal, clumsy. He was slashed, bitten, thrown against stone. But when the beast lunged at his throat, he ducked beneath its jaw and drove the dagger into its eye.
Warm blood splashed over his face.
The wolf twitched, then went still.
Lin Yan stood over its corpse, panting. Covered in wounds. Crying—but not from fear.
He had killed.
For the first time in his life, **he had won**.
That night, when he returned to Mei Qingxue, she didn't praise him.
She simply handed him a bowl of hot soup and nodded once. A quiet gesture. An acknowledgment.
Lin Yan ate in silence.
But inside, his spirit blazed.
The furnace no longer simply endured.
It burned with a flame of its own.