A shadow of uncertainty skimmed Vermilion Demon Lord’s face, yet resolve blazed behind his eyes. “I thank you, Mr. Cloudridge. Even if hope is a single thread, I will walk through blades and fire to seize it!”
Jared looked up, fingers tapping the arm of his chair. “Mr. Cloudridge, do we know any landmarks that point to this pool? And when is the next blossoming expected?”
Linden closed his eyes, drifting through centuries of scroll dust. “The old texts are vague,” he said at last, “But they speak of a place ringed by three titanic ice peaks arranged like the corners of a glyph.”
He counted backward in silence, lips barely moving. “Last recorded bloom, two hundred eighty years ago. By the hundred-year cycle, the next awakening comes within the next twenty years… Could be this winter… Or the winter after the next dozen.”
Hope flared brighter in Vermilion’s gaze. Twenty years, to a cultivator, was no more than a drawn breath.
“I wield primordial flame,” Jared said, confidence ringing clear. “And after merging with the ice nascence, that fire has only grown. I even command a fragment of ice law. If a mere frozen pool bars the path, I have nothing to fear.”
The ice plains, a Frostpool, a flower—compared with worlds I have burned and storms I have endured, they are insects beneath an avalanche…
Linden’s hand drifted over his beard again; this time, the motion felt like a warning bell.
“Sir Chance,” he murmured, “Even if cold, wind, and lurking beasts cannot dissuade you, one obstacle remains, more troublesome than any blizzard or serpent.”
Jared’s eyes narrowed. “What obstacle?”
Linden’s voice dropped to a hush that filled the chamber with frost. “The Eternal Ice Plains are not unclaimed tundra. Its core has long been considered sacred ground by a singular, aloof people: the Northern Abyss Celestial Clan.”
He allowed the name to hang like falling ice.
“The Northern Abyss Celestial Clan? They’re all Celestials?” asked Jared. This was the first time he heard something like that.
“Yes,” he continued, answering Jared’s unspoken question. “They carry ancient god-blood, born to the language of ice. Their bodies rival star-steel, their lifespans stretch beyond imagination…”
“From their palace, Northmere Hall, they oversee nearly every resource the icefield offers, especially the hidden sanctums. The Bloodshade Ice Pool is almost certainly under their guard.”
Linden’s eyes hardened. “They are proud, frigid hearts. To them, all who dwell beyond the ice are lesser, unclean. Trespassers receive no warning—at best, expulsion; at worst, obliteration…”
His final words tolled like iron on stone. “Countless masters thought their cultivation high enough to ignore that decree. The snow still keeps their bones.”
Jared listened in silence, piecing together the revelation Linden had just offered.
The so-called Northern Abyss Celestial Clan, he now understood, was nothing more than a proud tributary of the vast Celestial race. Yet every member of that offshoot, he learned, carried the same sickness of arrogance. They drifted through life like self-crowned emperors, their gazes skimming over lesser souls as if the world were personal property.
Jared almost laughed. People behaved that way only when life had not yet bruised the vanity out of them.
A handful of decisive beatings, he mused, and even the loftiest tiara would learn humility. After all, he himself bore the legendary Golden Dragon Bloodline, yet had never felt the urge to parade it about.
Beside him, the Vermilion Demon Lord’s crimson face darkened a shade; clenched fists grew so tight the knuckles shone white.
The situation was turning into sleet on frozen ground: treacherous terrain, elusive treasure, and now a local tyrant unwilling to yield.
Jared’s voice remained level, yet iron lay beneath it. “So they are Celestials—what of it? I have never hesitated to strike the Celestial race. Offshoot or heartland, if their bastion blocks my road, I will tear it open…”
“Rest easy, Mr. Cloudridge. I swore to bring back the Blood-Lotus, and I will. But blunt force alone will not suffice; cunning will carry us through the gate.”
Bold words aside, Jared truly feared no Celestial. He still intended to face their patriarch and demand the freedom of Maxwell.
Linden read the resolve blazing in Jared’s eyes; trying to dissuade him further would only seem patronizing.
He clasped his hands behind his back, pondered for a heartbeat, then spoke. “Sir, your sense of honor humbles me… Our Mystic Sky Sword Sect seldom deals with the Northern Abyss Celestial Clan, yet we do possess charts of the Eternal Icefield’s outer and midlands—weather shifts, hidden pitfalls, regions best avoided… You are new to Level Ten and know none of this. Allow a familiar guide to lead the way; it could spare you needless blood and conflict.”
Turning toward the archway, Linden called, “Clara, come inside!”
The doors parted, and Clara stepped forward, snow-white training leathers whispering against the floor. Her presence was as cool and precise as falling frost.
“Father… Sir Chance…” she greeted, bowing respectfully.
Her gaze hesitated on Vermilion for a single heartbeat—no surprise, she had overheard enough in the corridor.
Linden continued, “Clara, Sir Chance and Vermilion here are bound for the Eternal Ice Plains in search of a lifesaving herb. You once crossed Level Ten’s landscape beside the Flame-Sword Venerable. You know the land well. Guide Sir Chance and aid him with your whole heart.”
Trust shone in the master’s eyes, though a pinprick of worry hid beneath the surface.
Clara pressed fist to palm without hesitation. “Yes, Father… I will devote myself fully…”
She turned to Jared. “Sir, both our sect and I owe you more than we can repay. Whatever you ask, I will attempt gladly, even at the cost of my life.”
She meant every word; had Jared not intervened, the Mystic Sky Sword Sect might have been ashes, and she perhaps another casualty.
Her devotion ran so deep that she would not have flinched at even the most personal of requests; to stand beside Jared was, to her, an honor beyond measure. To serve a hero of such stature, she thought, would be a privilege few were granted.
The very notion of sharing in his trials filled her with fierce, unspoken pride.
Jared caught the shine of admiration in her eyes, the quiet willingness to sacrifice without complaint.
He had seen that look before; sooner or later, most women he encountered found their hearts tilting toward him. Clara would, evidently, be no exception.
At least the trek across the ice plains will not be lonely… A companion to talk with, and perhaps cultivate alongside, will make the white silence bearable. He bowed toward Linden. “My thanks, Mr. Cloudridge, and to you, Clara, for your forthcoming help.”
The Vermilion Demon Lord sprang upright. Crimson robes hissed around his boots as he bowed deeply to Linden and Clara.
“Words cannot repay such kindness. Vermilion engraves this debt upon his heart,” he said, voice gravelly yet earnest.
