The ritual chamber was a place of cold, hard reality, a stark contrast to the ethereal beauty of the Celestial Vault. It was a circular room carved from the bedrock of the mountain itself, its walls unadorned and slick with a thin film of moisture. In the center of the floor, a complex array was carved into the stone, its lines glowing with a faint, silver light. It was the Soul-Weaving Array, a forbidden art that had not been used in a thousand years, for its cost was always too high.
Ying Yue stood at the edge of the array, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The white and blue robes of the Azure Sky Sect felt like a shroud. Beside her, Bai Zhen held a small, ornate dagger, its blade not metal but polished obsidian, sharp enough to cut through more than just flesh.
"The soul exchange is a violent act," the Elder said, his voice devoid of its usual gentleness. It was the voice of a master performing a difficult, dangerous surgery. "Your soul will be torn from your body and thrown across the river of time. It will be forced into a vessel that is not its own, a body that already has its own fading spirit. The process is… painful. And it will leave a mark."
"What kind of mark?" Ying Yue asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"A spiritual scar. A piece of your soul will be sheared off to power the journey. It is the toll. You will lose something. A memory, a talent, a part of your emotional core. It is the price of the passage. You will not know what you have lost until you need it most."
A cold dread coiled in her stomach. To lose a piece of herself was a terrifying prospect. But the alternative was to lose everything. She nodded, her jaw set. "I understand."
"Lie down in the center of the array," Bai Zhen instructed.
She did as she was told, the cold stone seeping through her thin robes. The silver lines of the array flared to life as her body settled into its designated spot, bathing the chamber in an eerie, clinical light. The Elder knelt beside her head, the obsidian dagger in his hand.
"Close your eyes," he said softly. "Focus on the face of the girl, Ye Qingwei. Let her image be your anchor in the storm."
Ying Yue squeezed her eyes shut. The pale, sad face from the vision filled her mind. She felt the cold tip of the dagger press against her temple. There was no pain, only a profound and sudden pressure, as if the entire mountain was pressing down on that single point.
Then, the world tore apart.
It was not a journey. It was a shredding. A thousand invisible hooks seized her spirit and pulled with impossible force. She felt a scream rip from her non-existent throat, a soundless agony that echoed in the void. The colors of the chamber bled into a chaotic swirl of light and dark. She was falling, flying, being stretched thin across an eternity of screaming winds.
The river of time was not a gentle stream. It was a raging torrent of memories, joys, and sorrows from a million lives she had never lived. She saw the rise and fall of dynasties in the blink of an eye, felt the heartbreak of lovers long dead, and heard the final breath of a dying star. And through it all, she clung to the image of Ye Qingwei's face, a single, pale rock in the middle of a maelstrom.
Then came the shearing pain. It was a clean, sharp, and horrifyingly final sensation. A piece of her was simply… gone. Ripped away. She didn't know what it was. She only felt the sudden, gaping emptiness where something important used to be. The loss was so profound it almost broke her focus, almost let her be swept away into the chaos.
But she held on. And just as she felt herself about to dissolve into nothingness, she slammed into a new reality.
Pain.
It was the first thing she knew. A dull, throbbing ache in her head and a sharp, stinging pain on her left cheek. The second thing was the cold. It was a damp, biting cold that seeped into her bones from the stone floor she was lying on.
She groaned, a sound that felt foreign in her throat. It was weaker, more fragile than her own voice. She tried to push herself up, but her arms felt like lead, and her body was strangely unresponsive. Her hands were small and soft, the nails unblemished. These were not a warrior's hands.
Memories that were not her own flooded her mind, a confusing jumble of fear and obligation. A lavish carriage, a stern father, the fear of being sent away to a frozen land to marry a monster. The despair of a life not chosen. The memory of a sharp slap across the face, a final, brutal farewell from a lady-in-waiting who had whispered, "May the gods have mercy on your soul, my lady."
Ye Qingwei. The name echoed in her mind, a ghost of a girl who had just given up.
Ying Yue—no, she was Ye Qingwei now—forced her eyes open. She was in a small, sparsely furnished room. The walls were made of dark, unpolished wood, and a single, high window showed a sky the color of dirty slate. A heavy, fur-lined cloak was thrown carelessly on a chair. This was not the opulent prison she had expected; it was more like a holding cell.
The door creaked open, and a woman entered. She was older, with a face as hard and pinched as the room itself. Her eyes, a flat, venomous grey, swept over Ye Qingwei where she lay on the floor.
"So, the little bride has finally decided to wake up," the woman sneered. Her voice was like grinding stones. "Get up. The prince does not like to be kept waiting."
Ying Yue's mind raced. This was her first test. She was Ye Qingwei, a timid, frightened girl. She needed to act the part. She pushed herself into a sitting position, wincing, and wrapped her arms around herself. "Where… where am I?" she asked, her voice trembling perfectly.
"You are in the Northern Wastes, in the palace of the man you are to marry," the woman said, taking a step closer. "I am Head Servant Liu. You will address me as such. And you will learn that in this court, weakness is a death sentence."
Head Servant Liu grabbed a handful of Ying Yue's hair, forcing her head back. The pain was sharp and real. "Listen to me carefully, little girl from Ye. Your family sent you here because you were useless. You are nothing. A political pawn. The prince has no use for a weeping, frightened child. He will break you. And I, for one, will enjoy watching it."
She let go with a shove, and Ying Yue fell back against the floor. The woman's cruelty was a stark, brutal welcome to this new life. This was the world Xue Lian had created. A world where the strong preyed on the weak, and kindness was a liability.
"Now, get up," Head Servant Liu commanded. "Bathe. Dress. You will be presented to his Highness at the evening meal. Do not disgrace us."
The woman left, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoed in the silent room. Ying Yue remained on the floor for a long moment, her heart pounding. The spiritual wound from the journey throbbed in time with the slap on her cheek. She felt a profound sense of loss, a hollowness that went deeper than fear.
She slowly got to her feet, her new body feeling clumsy and alien. A basin of cold water sat on a small table. She looked at her reflection in the water. The face that stared back was pale and lovely, with wide, terrified eyes. It was the face of a stranger. A sacrifice.
Her mission was clear. Melt the ice prince's heart. Prevent the apocalypse. But looking at her own frightened reflection, she felt a wave of despair. How was she, a soul wounded and incomplete, supposed to heal a man who was the very definition of broken?
She had to try. The fate of the world depended on it.
She washed her face, the cold water a shock to her system. On a stand was the wedding dress. It was a stunning creation of crimson silk and gold embroidery, but it felt like a shroud. As she dressed, her fingers brushed against a small, sharp object hidden in the folds of the fabric—a hairpin, carved from jade, with a wickedly sharp point.
A final gift from her "family" in Ye. A tool for a bride to end her own life before the monster could have his way.
Ying Yue stared at the hairpin. A part of her, the part that was still the disciplined immortal disciple, saw it as a potential weapon. But another part, the new, hollowed-out part, felt the dark allure of it. An escape.
She pushed the thought away and finished dressing. When she was ready, Head Servant Liu returned, her expression unreadable. "It's time."
She was led through long, echoing corridors of black stone and ice. The palace was not beautiful; it was imposing, a fortress designed for war, not for living. Every guard they passed watched her with cold, dead eyes.
Finally, they reached a pair of massive doors carved with scenes of battle and conquest. The guards pushed them open, and Ying Yue was ushered into the grand dining hall.
It was a vast, cavernous room, lit by torches that cast long, dancing shadows. A long table ran down the center, but it was almost completely empty. At the far end, a single figure sat on a massive throne-like chair.
He was not looking at her. He was staring into the fire in a massive hearth, his profile sharp and aristocratic. He was wearing black robes, embroidered with dark silver thread that seemed to drink the light. His hair was long and as dark as a raven's wing, falling over one shoulder.
This was him. Xue Lian. The Ice Prince. The Voidborn.
He did not look like a monster. He looked like a piece of the winter night had been given human form. There was a stillness about him that was more terrifying than any overt aggression. He was a predator at rest, coiled and waiting.
As she was led closer, he finally turned his head.
His eyes were not the cold, dead eyes of the guards. They were dark and deep, and in their depths, she saw not emptiness, but a swirling vortex of pain, intelligence, and a chilling, profound loneliness. It was a look that said he had seen the worst of the world and had become it.
Their eyes met across the vast, empty hall. The air crackled with tension. This was the beginning. The first step on a path paved with betrayal, sacrifice, and a love that was never meant to be.
And in that moment, Ying Yue knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that this was going to be far harder than she had ever imagined.