They left the mountain as dawn peeled the sky open.
No farewell was spoken. No marker left behind. The air had grown still, as if the wind itself respected what had transpired upon the peak.
Jian walked forward with a blade-shaped silence in his step.
Frostveil followed—her posture transformed, her aura condensed like breath drawn through the narrow eye of a needle. Two inner worlds spun within her body in harmonic tension, no longer warring.
She had changed.
But not as much as he had.
There was something colder now in his gaze. Not rage. Not grief.
Something older.
Something sharper.
---
They reached the foothills by nightfall. The first signs of civilization slithered in with the sound of bells and coin merchants hawking salt-spiced roots near the roadside. A spirit town clung to the riverbend ahead, its bridges lit with low-floating soul lanterns.
Frostveil's eyes shimmered in the glow, her hand brushing a passing child's sleeve as she smiled softly for the first time in days.
She didn't notice the shadow forming above the tavern roof.
But Jian did.
He didn't speak. He simply turned his head to the side, ever so slightly.
Frostveil froze.
Because his expression changed.
Not in fury.
Not in fear.
But in disgust.
---
A spear of light ripped through the clouds. Seven robed figures descended on beams of sacred fire, landing with the synchronized silence of professional killers. Each bore a crimson sash etched with golden embroidery:
> THE DIVINE INQUISITION OF ORDERED SPIRITS
All anomalies of soul and frost are to be purified.
A voice followed—cold and sure.
"You there. The girl."
Jian's back was turned, but Frostveil took a step behind him.
"She is marked by dual Dao resonance. Soul and Ice. That union is forbidden by the Heavenly Charter of Natural Laws."
The lead inquisitor, a pale man with bone-like armor fused into his limbs, stepped forward and unsheathed a blade longer than his own torso.
"You will hand her over. Now."
Jian still did not speak.
His fingers moved once—barely noticeable—but the dirt beneath his sandals cracked like split glass.
"She is a danger," another inquisitor said. "Your refusal to comply is treasonous. Are you her father, her master, her lover?"
"No," Jian whispered.
"I am her blade."
---
The first inquisitor charged.
The crowd screamed.
A blinding arc of gold fire lanced through the air, spearheaded by Dao-etched formations spiraling around the inquisitor's sword. The flames tore through the tavern, splitting stone lanterns and trees as if they were dry grass.
He aimed to strike through Jian and capture Frostveil in one blow.
But he never reached them.
Because Jian moved.
Only once.
---
There was no sword in his hand.
Just the shape of one.
A phantom edge of Dao Sword Aura, so refined it had no color—only absence.
As if space itself had been cleaved to accommodate its presence.
And in one breath, the inquisitor's body split cleanly down the center.
Not in gore.
But in rejection.
As if Heaven itself denied his existence.
The two halves fell apart soundlessly, dissolving into white ash as they hit the ground.
Jian exhaled.
"Your flame is false," he said to the others. "She is real."
---
The remaining inquisitors staggered back, drawing weapons—one pulled a paper talisman laced with divine blood-ink; another summoned a formation array beneath their feet.
"You—" one spat. "That technique—"
The second-in-command's face drained of color.
"That's impossible. That sword aura is forbidden. That belongs to the traitor of a thousand years ago—"
Jian stepped forward.
His footsteps didn't crunch.
They cut.
Each step left a seam in the earth, as if the world itself was being unzipped.
"I buried that name long ago," Jian said.
"But if Heaven still remembers me..."
He raised his hand.
And the aura returned.
No blade.
Just truth.
"Then let it learn fear."
---
The inquisitors ran.
Three died before they could even scream—halved by the air near him.
Two escaped, one vomiting blood.
Frostveil stood behind him, trembling—not in fear, but in awe.
Because she understood now.
He didn't need to draw his blade to kill.
He was the blade.
---
Later, as night reclaimed the silence, she finally dared speak.
"You said you weren't my master," she said.
"I'm not."
"Then why?"
He looked to the sky, where Heaven still smoldered with cracks in its cloud.
"…Because you're the only soul I've seen who didn't beg for power."
She lowered her eyes.
And whispered, "Thank you."
He said nothing.
But the wind bent slightly toward him.