The dawn in the Northern Frost Province did not arrive with a sun; it arrived with a groan of shifting ice.
Ye Feng stood in the center of the small courtyard behind his grandmother's lopsided cabin, his bare feet buried ankle-deep in the permafrost. Most boys his age—fifteen, with limbs just starting to stretch into manhood—would be shivering under three layers of wolf-fur. Ye Feng wore only thin, hemp trousers. His skin, bronzed despite the lack of sun, hummed with a heat that melted the ice around his toes into small, steaming puddles.
In front of him lay a trunk of Iron-Oak, a wood so dense it was used to reinforce the gates of provincial cities.
One.
He inhaled, a slow, dragging breath that pulled the freezing mountain air deep into his lungs. He didn't just breathe; he felt the air circulate, filtering through his meridians like liquid fire. He raised a dull, chipped kitchen knife—the kind used for peeling potatoes.
Two.
He didn't swing with his arm. He swung with his "core." The movement was a blur, a whisper of steel against the howling wind. There was no loud crack. Instead, there was a soft thud. The Iron-Oak trunk, three feet thick, split perfectly down the center as if it were made of warm butter.
Ye Feng wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He didn't feel strong. He felt... hungry.
"Feng'er! The porridge is catching!"
The voice was thin but carried the authority of a mountain. Ye Feng immediately dropped the knife—which hissed as it hit the snow, glowing faintly red—and sprinted toward the cabin. He didn't run like a normal boy; he moved with a "Pulse Spark," his feet barely touching the ground, leaving behind faint, golden footprints that vanished in a heartbeat.
Inside, the cabin smelled of home: dried herbs, old parchment, and the sharp, medicinal sting of ginger.
His grandmother sat by the hearth, her back hunched like a weathered willow tree. She was stirring a blackened iron pot with a wooden spoon that looked older than the province itself. Ye Feng took the spoon from her gently.
"I told you I'd handle the breakfast, Grandma. Your lungs can't take the smoke today."
"My lungs are fine, you brat," she grumbled, though she leaned back into her chair with a sigh of relief. Her eyes, clouded by cataracts but sharp with a secret intelligence, followed him. "You were at the Iron-Oak again. I heard the silence."
Ye Feng paused, the wooden spoon mid-air. "The silence?"
"When a normal man chops wood, the forest rings with the struggle," she whispered, her voice turning solemn. "When you do it, the forest holds its breath. You are getting faster, Feng'er. The seals I put on your heart... they are itching, aren't they?"
Ye Feng looked down at his chest. Beneath his shirt, he felt it—a rhythmic, golden throb that beat out of sync with his heart. It felt like a caged bird trying to shatter its bars. "It feels like I'm carrying a sun inside me, Grandma. Sometimes, when I get angry, or even just excited... the world feels too small. Like I'm going to break it just by standing here."
Grandma reached out, her calloused, cold hand grabbing his wrist. "That is why you must learn the 'Mortal Path.' The Gods in the Heavens, they are 'Pure.' They have no weight. But a Mortal... a Mortal carries the weight of grief, of hunger, of love. That weight is your anchor. Without it, your power will burn you to ash before you ever find your throne."
She pulled a small, grimy object from her pocket. It was a Rusty Iron Pendant, shaped like a broken gear.
"This belonged to your father," she lied, the words tasting like copper in her mouth. "He was a simple farmer, but he was a man who never let his fire go out. Wear it. It will help you hide. It will make you feel 'Normal' when the world tries to make you a monster."
As Ye Feng took the pendant, the room suddenly shook.
The front door burst open, carried inward by a boot made of fine leather. The Village Head's son, a pampered bully named Zhao, stepped inside, flanked by two thugs. Zhao carried a heavy iron mace and wore a smirk that radiated arrogance.
"Tax time, old woman," Zhao sneered, his eyes landing on the pot of porridge. "And I'll take that pot, too. My father says your family hasn't paid the 'Ice-Protection' fee in three moons."
Ye Feng didn't move. He stood by the stove, the wooden spoon still in his hand. But the air in the room changed.
The temperature plummeted. The steam from the porridge didn't rise; it froze in mid-air, forming a crystalline crown above the pot. Ye Feng's shadow grew, stretching across the floor, and for a split second, the shadow didn't look like a boy. It looked like a titan with a crown of stars.
"Leave," Ye Feng said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a "Sovereign Pressure" that made the wood of the cabin groan.
Zhao laughed, though his knees began to tremble uncontrollably. "Or what, trash? You're just a farmer's—"
Ye Feng took one step forward. He didn't hit Zhao. He simply tapped the wooden spoon against the air.
BOOM.
A shockwave of Golden Qi, invisible but heavy as a mountain, slammed into Zhao's chest. The bully was launched backward through the door, flying fifty feet across the snowy village square before landing in a frozen haystack.
His thugs stared at Ye Feng, then at the wooden spoon. They didn't wait for a second tap. They scrambled away, screaming about demons and ghosts.
Ye Feng sighed, the golden glow in his eyes fading back to a deep, calm brown. He looked at the spoon—it had shattered into splinters.
"I liked that spoon," he muttered.
Grandmother watched him from the shadows of the hearth, a single tear tracing a path through her wrinkles. "It's time, Feng'er. The Northern Frost can no longer hold you. Go find the Azure Cloud Sect. Find a home. And remember... no matter how many Gods you kill, always remember how to cook a decent bowl of porridge."
Ye Feng looked at the iron pendant in his palm. It felt heavy. It felt right.
"I'll be back, Grandma," he promised, his voice thick with an emotion that shook the foundations of the cabin. "And when I return, I'll bring the sun with me."