The wind didn't ease when the masked man vanished.
If anything, it grew sharper—howling in sudden, jagged bursts, carrying with it the faint scent of something… wrong.
Ling Han caught up, hood whipped back by the gale. "You two done staring dramatically into the snow? Because I think we've got a bigger problem."
Xiyue's gaze cut to him. "What did you see?"
Ling Han didn't answer right away. He simply pointed down the slope.
At first, there was nothing—just the endless churn of white.
But then the veil of snow shifted, and Ruo Han saw them.
Faint, wavering shapes in the valley—dozens, maybe more—moving in perfect formation.
Each one wore the same pale masks.
"They've been here the whole time…" Ruo Han breathed.
"No," Xiyue said, jaw tight. "They weren't here before. They were brought here."
The wind shifted again, curling unnaturally around their feet. It didn't feel like weather anymore—it felt like breath.
A presence.
Ling Han swore under his breath. "Storm like this, you could march an army past an entire sect and no one would know."
Xiyue's eyes narrowed. "It's a cover. They're moving troops under the storm's veil—and the masked man's the one holding the leash."
As if to answer him, the clouds above rippled with pale light, and for a moment Ruo Han swore he saw it—an enormous shadow coiled in the sky, its body twisting like a serpent made of ice and wind.
Then the vision was gone, and only the storm remained.
"We can't fight an army in this," Ling Han said grimly. "We need higher ground. And we need to know what they're after."
Xiyue glanced at Ruo Han, something unspoken passing between them.
Whatever this was, they were already tangled in it.
And somewhere in the blizzard, the masked man was still watching.