The wasteland finally loosened its claws only after Jared and Luther had flown south for what felt like forever. Each mile of cracked basalt gave way to darker ice, the horizon refusing to move. Wind howled through their protective wards, salty with minerals, cold enough to peel skin from bone had the aura faltered.
Jared kept half his focus on the barriers, half on Luther’s silent silhouette ahead. By the third morning, the air itself seemed to glow. Each inhale carried threads of energy so thick they tingled against his teeth.
Jared tasted pine and lightning—a density unimaginable back on Level Twelve—and the Focus Technique inside his core spun greedily, begging to drink deeper.
The closer they drew to Level Thirteen proper, the sharper the invisible lattice of laws pressed against his skin. It felt like walking into a cathedral whose pillars refused to tolerate the slightest misstep—magnificent, but merciless. Strangely, the pressure only clarified his breathing. Once his meridians aligned to the new pattern, each cycle of the Focus Technique surged clean and effortless, as though the realm itself applauded his rhythm.
On the third sunset, a white wall rose at the horizon, first a glint, then a mountain, and finally the unmistakable silhouette of a city carved from winter itself. Jared’s pulse skipped, not from fear, but from the relief of seeing something built by hands, something that suggested beds and soup and answers.
As they closed the gap, the wall resolved into blocks of midnight ice, each slab veined with pale blue runes that pulsed like sleeping eyes. The protective formation hummed against his eardrums, an unspoken warning that anyone who tried a shortcut over the parapet would leave pieces behind. Sentinels in ice-blue armor dotted the ramparts at measured intervals, statues until the wind shifted and he felt their collective breath. Even the least of them radiated the calm of the Heavenly Immortal Realm—a reminder that in Level Thirteen, gate duty was no apprenticeship.
Above the archway, three sprawling characters were carved so deep the frost smoked around them: Coldabyss City. The name alone chilled his molars, yet there was a fierce welcome in its austerity.
Luther stopped mid-air, voice low. “Mr. Chance, that’s Coldabyss City…”
Jared nodded before his mouth decided to move, the syllables echoing in his chest like he had rehearsed them in dreams.
“The place has stood for more than ten millennia,” Luther continued. “It’s the most important haven on the southern North Abyss Icefield. More than a hundred thousand cultivators call it home… City Lord Cyril is High Immortal Realm Level Five, a rogue who once unearthed an ancient inheritance. People say his strength is unfathomable, but he keeps out of the big power squabbles. That neutrality draws small sects and independents alike.”
Jared filed the names away, more interested in the word “neutrality” than the titles. A city that minded its own business could be the safest hiding place, or the easiest trap. He adjusted his cloak, motioned, and the two of them descended toward the main gate, feet touching down with the crunch of frost like breaking glass.
A cluster of armored sentries waited behind a waist-high barricade, their breath frosting the ironwood planks. Front and center stood a scar-faced man, muscles cabled, aura thick enough to tilt the snowflakes. Jared‘s senses pegged him at High Immortal Realm Level Two; here, apparently, that qualified him to check passports. Jared swallowed a laugh—in Level Twelve, a cultivator like that would be giving royal decrees, yet here he was counting heads at the door.
“Hold it!” The scar-faced man barked, his voice like gravel dragged over metal. He planted a gauntleted hand in Jared’s path. “New faces… Where from, and what business brings you here?”
Jared kept his palms visible. “Jared, itinerant cultivator. This is my companion, Luther. First time on the North Abyss Icefield. Looking to stay awhile, get the lay of the land.”
“Wanderers, huh?” The scar-faced man tilted his head, the suspicion almost playful. His gaze lingered on Jared’s robe seams. “City Lord’s orders! Every outsider gets vetted. Got any credentials, or someone inside willing to vouch for you?”
A subtle pinch gathered between Jared’s eyebrows. Identity papers? Of course the guard would ask. They had risen straight from Level Twelve; no one issues Level Thirteen tags to strangers passing through empty sky. Beside him, Luther hurried ahead, his posture folded in apology. From his robe, he produced a matte-black bone token and offered it with both hands.
“Sir, we come from the depths of the North Abyss Wasteland. Our family fell from grace generations ago and has trained in seclusion. This crest is all that remains. We left the wilds only to see the wider world, maybe earn a little fortune.”
The scar-faced man rolled the token between thick fingers, the hostility in his eyes easing but not leaving. He shook his head. “Without a proper jade plate of citizenship, the rule says I must hold you until the registry confirms who you are. The city’s on edge; someone stole one of the City Lord‘s prized artifacts. Outsiders top the suspect list, so every new face gets searched.”
Jared’s head snapped up. “What?”
The word slipped out before he could swallow it. An artifact heist sounded like a flimsy excuse, a net thrown wide enough to drag anyone. Still, a guard with orders was harder to argue with than a gate made of stone.
Luther leaned closer to the guard, voice lowered almost to a purr. “Brother, help us out, will you?” A small pouch of prime crystals slid from his sleeve into the guard’s palm. “We’re honest cultivators. Not a crooked bone between us.”
Greed flickered across the scar-faced man’s gaze; his thumb weighed the pouch, feeling the heft of its contents. Then duty won out, and his mouth flattened. “Orders from the top. Any outsider without clear papers gets held. If I let you pass, I’m a dead man. Don’t push me.”
He sliced a hand through the air. “Guards, take them to holding until the records office is done.”
Four cultivators in gleaming mail advanced, each toying with a length of iron-gray chain that glimmered with frost runes. A chill spark kindled behind Jared’s eyes, and the tide of chaotic force inside him rose in quiet answer. He could break those men and their toys before any of them drew breath. But storming a gate on his first day would brand him an enemy of the whole city.
Luther’s voice brushed his mind, soft as damp ash. “Mr. Chance, easy. Let’s go along for now. Cyril has a fair reputation; once the clerks see we’re harmless, they‘ll send us on our way.”
Jared drew a slow breath, letting the anger drain with the air. He extended his wrists, and the frosted iron rings closed with a hollow click. Freezing sigils crawled across the metal, seeking his power; the moment they touched the well of chaos, they unraveled like paper in rain.
Jared sagged theatrically, making a show of captivity. Across the line, Luther mirrored the act. A spear butt punched the small of Jared’s back, nudging him into the flow of midday traffic. He kept his gaze low, counting cobblestones as storefront chatter and rolling cart wheels tried to pretend life here was ordinary.
Coldabyss City sprawled in layers of color: jade-green awnings, copper talismans, and dyed silks fluttering like flags. Every doorway advertised something a mortal would call impossible—bottled pills that glowed, blades that hummed, manuals promising shortcuts to eternity. Men and women drifted past, their auras brushing his skin like sudden changes in weather. Even the weakest here would dominate Level Twelve.
The escort turned west, stopping at a compound whose walls rose like a frozen cliff. Sentinels lined the gate shoulder to shoulder. Above the archway, lacquered characters declared the place: “Inspectorate Division.”
Inside, hallways narrowed into gloom. After three turns, a door grated open and the guards shoved Jared and Luther into a cavernous cell. Dozens occupied the chamber—old, young, men, women. Their cultivation sat between first and second grade High Immortal Realm, yet fear leveled them all.
Sigils crawled across every wall like frostbite scars, draining sound and courage together. Even the air felt padded, as though someone had wrapped the room in thick cloth to stifle any rising hope.
