The Snow Plains ended at Wolf Throat Pass, a scar torn across the land where ancient secrets slept beneath layers of ice and time. Chu Hongying stood alone at the mouth of the pass, her breath misting in the frigid air as she gazed upon the skeletal remains of a forgotten civilization. This was no natural formation—this was a tomb of forgotten arts, and she was about to become its latest offering.
Broken bronze gears jutted through the ice like skeletal fingers grasping for freedom; giant wheels lay still beneath millennia of frost, their intricate patterns whispering of a glory long faded. Everywhere bore the marks of the Lu family's craft, yet it was vaster, more desolate, than any blueprint in her memory. This place felt alive—and hungry.
She stepped inside, the crunch of her boots echoing through the cavernous entrance. Then came the deafening roar as the stone gate crashed down behind her like the lid of a tomb, sealing her off from her soldiers, from safety, from everything but the ghosts of her lineage and the deadly puzzles her ancestors had left behind.
The air grew colder, the silence heavier. Inside the labyrinth, the traps were all set according to the Lu Family's secret techniques. On the "Bridge of Illusions," reality and falsehood intertwined in a dizzying dance, and she had to pierce the phantoms with her Splitting Wind spear, each movement precise, each decision potentially fatal. In the "Adverse Wind Formation," air currents sharp as blades sought to flay her skin, forcing her to move against the flow, against every instinct that screamed for retreat. The Snow-Listening Chamber was utterly still—a place where sound itself had frozen, and only a heartbeat or breath could awaken its traps. She solved them all, calm as ever, yet ripples began to form in her heart—these mechanisms resembled her father's teachings, yet were laced with hidden killing intent, as if testing not just her skill, but her very worthiness to bear the Lu name.
Finally, she reached the core stone chamber, her body aching, her mind weary but sharp. A wall of dark iron stood before her, cold and imposing, inscribed with ancient seal script that seemed to pulse with an ancient, living energy: "To open, use blood as the key; to pass, use the heart as the guide."
She did not hesitate. Her fingertip found a sharp edge on her armor and split, a single drop of blood welling up like a crimson pearl. It fell onto the lock's intricate pattern.
The world dissolved.
Illusions surged over her like a tide, threatening to drown her in memories and fears. Her father Lu Heng's warm smile—a beacon from a happier past—shattered before her eyes, transforming into a vision of Shen Yuzhu being consumed by an azure light, his form writhing, his face contorted in silent agony. He stood at the edge of a blizzard, smiling at her, his voice tender yet sharp as a blade:
"General, you can protect these borders, but can you protect me?"
The question was a poison dart to her soul. She had thought her fears were failure, betrayal, and emotions beyond command. But now, she finally understood—the most terrifying thing was never seeing him again, never hearing his calm voice cutting through her turmoil, never feeling the quiet strength of his presence at her side.
Her heart felt the weight of a sudden blow. Though she knew the illusion was false, she still reached out to grasp it—her fingertips brushed through that fading warmth—as if stabbing her own heart. The pain was real, sharper than any blade.
"If you dare die," she roared, the sound tearing from her throat, raw and primal, "I will tear this world apart!"
Silence answered, and the world trembled.
Crimson light erupted from the lock; the mechanism shuddered violently, the very stones around her groaning in protest. The illusion shattered like glass, fragments of light scattering into nothingness.
The stone wall slid open silently, revealing a chamber full of murals that glowed with an inner light. The images and texts recorded the truth of the "Wolf Soul Pact": an ancient, forbidden secret method used by "Border Keepers," drawing power from blood and soul resonance to protect the land, at a terrible, personal cost. If destinies were aligned, two people could "bind souls with blood," coexisting and sharing fate—a connection deeper than marriage, more permanent than death.
She traced the carved marks, her fingers trembling slightly. "So this," she whispered, the truth settling in her bones like a weight, "is the power you all fight over…"
And in that moment, standing in the heart of an ancient mystery, she asked herself clearly for the first time: "If I die here, what will become of him?"
The question struck her heart like a thunderclap, echoing in the silence. The answer was simple, and terrifying: she couldn't die. Not until she saw him again.
Inside the command tent, candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. Shen Yuzhu sat quietly playing the qin, the gentle notes a stark contrast to the tension coiling in the camp. His expression was as gentle and composed as ever, a mask of porcelain calm.
Gu Changfeng, following the plan they had woven in hushed tones, used false intelligence to lure out the spies lurking among the healers. When the last agent was brought before the tent, struggling against his bindings, Shen Yuzhu lowered his eyes with a light cough, his tone even, devoid of any emotion:
"Leave none alive."
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, passed through Gu Changfeng's eyes—was this still the weak, coughing strategist who advanced step by step with caution? This cold order spoke of a different man, one forged in a different fire.
Shen Yuzhu didn't look at him, only said mildly, "She's not here. Someone must clean this up for her." The unspoken words hung in the air: And I am the only one left who can.
Then, it happened. A sharp, searing pain seized his chest, so sudden and intense it stole his breath. An azure light, wild and uncontrolled, burst from his sleeve, twisting around his wrist like a venomous serpent seeking to strike. In the auditory hallucination that followed, Chu Hongying's whisper came through clearly, laced with a despair that chilled him to the bone: "If I die here…"
His face blanched, all color draining away. Azure light flared from his fingertips as he fought to suppress the raging mark, his body trembling with the effort, cold sweat beading on his brow.
"Hongying," he gasped, the name a prayer and a plea, "don't do anything reckless."
But the light grew brighter, hotter, as if her heartbeat, her very life force, was transmitting through his blood, a burning, tangible connection that both sustained and terrified him.
He glanced at the lone candle still burning in her tent—the one she had left behind, a silent testament to her abrupt departure. Its flickering flame resembled the glance she had cast back before riding into danger—a look of determination, and something else, something softer he dared not name.
He rose abruptly, the movement swift and decisive, grabbing his heavy cloak from its stand.
"Zhao Dashan," his voice cut through the night, "thirty mounted soldiers, ready to ride. The rest guard the camp."
Gu Changfeng stepped forward, his usual nonchalance replaced by a deep frown. "You're going yourself? In your condition? This is recklessness."
Shen Yuzhu didn't turn back, his voice dropping to a low, unshakable vow that brooked no argument:
"She entered the Heart Lock. If she doesn't return, I won't live to see another dawn."
Outside Wolf Throat Pass, atop an icy peak where the wind screamed its lament, Helian Sha stood as still as the mountain itself. His fingers lightly stroked the worn wolf-tooth pendant at his neck, a familiar, grounding ritual. Below him, the ice surface gleamed like a dark mirror, magically reflecting her every move within the labyrinth, a private performance for an audience of one.
He watched, captivated, as she broke through traps that had slain countless others, navigated illusions designed to break the strongest minds, and finally, with a courage that stirred something long dormant within him, unlocked the heart lock with her own blood. His gaze deepened, the icy blue of his eyes glinting with a mixture of respect and a burgeoning, possessive fascination.
When she roared "tear this world apart!" within the illusion, a raw, powerful sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the pass, he felt it—a distinct, unsettling tremor in the Wolf Soul Pact that bound him to this power. For a fleeting moment, his connection to it wavered, flickered, as if another will had challenged its dominance.
"You are not the key…" he murmured to the empty air, a slow, intrigued smile touching his lips. "You are the lock." The realization was a thunderclap. She wasn't just a tool to be used; she was a counterpart, a balance. If he could win her, truly win her to his side, then this northern snow plain, this entire world, would not just be conquered—it would be transformed. She could be the queen to his king, the lock to his key. Why couldn't these northern snow plains become their shared throne?
Deep in the labyrinth's heart, Chu Hongying, guided by her blood and a newfound resolve, watched as the murals blazed with light, the energy bathing her Splitting Wind spear in a fiery, crimson glow, making the metal seem alive.
Miles away, on the snowy path leading into the treacherous mountains, Shen Yuzhu urged his horse onward, the animal sensing its rider's desperation. An azure light, a mirror to her crimson, spread from his palm, illuminating the dark path like a trail of determined sparks in the dead of night.
In that exact moment, as if the universe itself held its breath, the red and blue lights intertwined invisibly high in the night sky. The distant ice layer trembled slightly. Then, from the deepest veins of the earth, a strand of brilliant violet flame shot skyward, a silent beacon of their connected fates. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause, holding its breath.
She whispered into the oppressive silence of the maze, her voice steady now, filled with a promise: "Shen Yuzhu, if I don't return—"
He responded through the howling gale, his words carried on the wind, a vow as solid as the earth beneath him: "I will follow you."
Chu Hongying's hand rested on the carved patterns of the mural, the stone cool beneath her touch. Her gaze, when she lifted it, was firm as forged steel, reflecting the fiery light. The weight of her legacy, her duty, and her love settled upon her shoulders, not as a burden, but as armor.
"So this is the power you all fight over…" she said, her voice low but clear. "Shen Yuzhu, wait for me to return." It was no longer a request, but a statement of fact.
Shen Yuzhu's carriage, flanked by his thirty riders, sped into the deepening gloom of the snowstorm. He lifted the curtain, his eyes, usually so guarded, now held a terrifying, resolute gleam, sharp as a honed blade pointed toward the heart of the storm.
"Hongying—" he whispered, the name a catalyst, "this time, it's my turn to find you."
High on his peak, Helian Sha's fingers tightened around the wolf-tooth pendant. The ancient relic, unable to withstand the surge of his anticipation, shattered with a crisp, final sound. He watched the violet flame pulse in the distance, a symbol of the bond he now sought to claim for himself.
"Heh..." a low chuckle escaped him, the sound devoid of warmth. "The hunt has finally become interesting."
The snow plains stretched endlessly white, a vast canvas of silence and isolation. Yet, against the overwhelming emptiness, the violet flame endured—a defiant, pulsating proof that somewhere between heaven and earth, someone still refused to let go, a love and a will strong enough to challenge fate itself.
Three threads of fate, spun from love, ambition, and ancient magic, intertwined deep beneath the snow that night. And the world, for one heartbeat, forgot to breathe.