The snowstorm swept in without warning.
By the time Mo Lianyin and Qingxue reached the ridge above the valley, the wind was a howling wall of white, swallowing the world beyond arm's reach.
Below, through the blur of flurries, came the faint clang of steel and the shouts of dying men.
The Yunqiu garrison was under attack.
---
They descended into the storm, boots crunching through fresh snow. The valley floor was a patchwork of crimson and white—fallen soldiers half-buried in drifts, their lifeblood steaming in the frigid air.
The attackers were not human.
Snow-beasts, pale as ice and twice the height of a man, tore through the lines with clawed hands and fanged maws. Their eyes glowed faintly red in the stormlight, and each roar was loud enough to shake the ground.
---
"Go for the eyes!" Qingxue shouted, drawing her sword. She moved like silver lightning, cutting deep into the nearest beast's flank.
Lianyin followed, weaving through the chaos, his blade a flicker of black steel. But for every beast that fell, two more seemed to emerge from the swirling snow.
Then he saw it—at the far end of the valley, a figure cloaked in ice-blue robes, chanting. The summoner. The one holding this storm together.
If the summoner lived, they would all die.
---
Lianyin carved a path through the beasts, but his muscles screamed from the effort, his lungs burning in the freezing air. The snow seemed to drag at him, slowing his every step.
A beast lunged from his blind side. He turned too late.
The claws never touched him.
The bell rang once.
---
Power ripped through him, dark and hot, burning away the cold. The Eighth Forbidden Art coiled around his heart like a serpent, its pulse beating in time with his own.
The beast froze mid-leap, eyes wide, before crumpling lifelessly into the snow.
Lianyin kept moving, the world narrowing to the rhythm of the bell. With each ring, another beast fell—he didn't need to touch them, didn't even need to look. Their hearts stopped as if the storm itself obeyed his command.
The summoner turned, fear flashing across their pale features.
---
"Lianyin!" Qingxue's voice cut through the wind.
He ignored her.
The Art thrummed louder now, feeding him strength, sharpening his vision. The beasts were no longer obstacles—they were prey.
The summoner began to flee. Lianyin raised his hand.
One ring. The summoner's body jerked, their chant breaking. The storm faltered.
Another ring. The summoner collapsed into the snow, blood blooming from their lips.
---
The storm began to clear—but the beasts remained. Only now, their eyes had gone from red to black, and they turned… on the surviving Yunqiu soldiers.
The power didn't stop. It wanted more. It needed more.
Lianyin felt his arm rise of its own accord, felt the bell toll again, and again, each pulse tearing life from the battlefield. The beasts fell, yes—but so did soldiers. Men who had fought beside him, men who had trusted him.
---
A sword flashed in front of him, knocking his arm aside.
Qingxue.
Her face was white with frost and fury. "Stop! You're killing our own!"
"They were in the way," he said, the words colder than the snow.
"They were ours!" she shouted, eyes wide with disbelief. "Look at them!"
He looked. And for a moment, the haze lifted.
Bodies lay sprawled in the snow—beasts and soldiers alike, their blood mingling in the slush. Their eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the gray sky.
The Art's voice purred in his mind.
> They would have died anyway. Now they die for you.
---
Qingxue's hand tightened on her sword. "If you use that Art again, I will stop you—whatever it takes."
The bell went silent. The valley seemed suddenly too quiet, too still.
Lianyin turned away, though his heart was pounding—not from the fight, but from the knowledge that the day she would raise her blade against him was coming.
And he didn't know if he would let her win.