The door opened.
Elder Heng stood there, his thin figure silhouetted against the corridor's formation light.
"It is time," he said.
He turned and walked away.
The eight followed.
They emerged from the ancient passages into the grey northern light. The stronghold spread before them, unchanged—blacksmiths hammering, soldiers training, alchemists moving between halls. Life went on. It always went on.
But today, the air felt different. Charged. Waiting.
At the eastern gate, a crowd had gathered.
Clan elders in formal robes. Sect representatives with cold, assessing eyes. Merchants who had materialised from the frozen wastes, drawn by the promise of witnessing history. And among them...
Twelve figures.
Young. Poised. Radiating the kind of confidence that came from bloodlines and training grounds far removed from the border's brutal reality. They stood in a cluster, their fine robes immaculate, their auras carefully controlled. The other twelve. The ones from distant powers, ancient bloodlines, and hidden sects.
One of them—a young man with silver hair and eyes that held the cold of deep winter—glanced toward the eight as they approached. His gaze swept over them with a casual assessment.
Then he looked away.
Lu Chenyi's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The eight took their place opposite the twelve.
Twenty people.
Twenty slots.
Twenty souls who would walk into the realm and face whatever waited.
Elder Heng stepped forward.
He paused, his gaze sweeping across them all.
"Remember what you have learned. Remember what you have survived. Remember that the realm does not care about your bloodline, your wealth, or your pride. It cares only about one thing."
His voice dropped.
"Whether you are strong enough to live."
He turned and walked away.
The twenty stood in silence, facing the eastern gate, waiting for noon.
Chu Feng looked at the sky.
Still grey. Still cold. Still the same north that had tried to break him every day since his arrival.
But today, it felt different.
Today, it felt like a beginning.
Noon quickly approached.
The twenty stood in silence before Northwatch's eastern gate, waiting. The crowd behind them had fallen quiet—merchants, elders, soldiers, all watching with the same expression. They had seen this before. Young cultivators marching toward death. Some would return. Most would not.
Chu Feng stood near the centre of the group, observing.
The silver-haired young man who had glanced at them earlier now held a position at the front of the group. His eyes were the colour of winter ice, his features sharp and refined. A prince of some northern clan, by the look of him.
Beside him stood a woman in flowing robes of deep crimson, her hair bound with golden pins that pulsed with formation light.
The others were similar.
A horn sounded from the watchtower.
The eastern gate groaned open.
Beyond it lay the frozen plains—endless white stretching to the horizon, broken only by distant ridges and the jagged peaks of the northern mountains. The wind rushed in immediately, sharp enough to cut, cold enough to kill.
An elder stepped forward.
"The entrance lies three hours north," he announced.
He walked through the gate without waiting for acknowledgement.
The rest followed.
The journey was silent, but tension coiled like a spring of minds preparing for what lay ahead. The frozen plains stretched endlessly, broken only by the crunch of boots on snow and the occasional cry of distant beasts.
Chu Feng walked near the middle of the group, Miao Ying at his side. The border soldiers had naturally gravitated toward each other, their years of patrol forging an unspoken bond. Lu Chenyi walked ahead, his presence unmistakable. The Frostcloud girl walked behind, her steps steady, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
The twelve walked in their own formation, not looking at the border survivors. They did not need to. In their minds, these eight were already beneath them.
Soon, they got close to the location.
A woman—or what appeared to be a woman. Her form was tall and elegant, her features sharp and beautiful in a way that felt wrong, like a mask carved by someone who had only heard descriptions of human faces. Frost patterned her skin in delicate whorls, and her eyes held the flat, ancient gaze of something that had watched civilisations rise and fall.
An Ice Fox
Beside her stood a mountain of a figure—broad-shouldered, thick-necked, his skin the colour of weathered stone. A Boulder Bear, perhaps, or something from that lineage. His eyes were small and deep-set, burning with barely contained violence.
Further back, a lithe figure draped in shadows watched with eyes that reflected no light. A Shadow Panther.
And there were others. Dozens of others. Each in human form, each radiating power, each watching the approaching humans with expressions that ranged from cold curiosity to open contempt.
The human group slowed as they approached.
The elder leading them raised a hand, and they stopped fifty paces. Close enough to see clearly.
From the beast group, a figure stepped forward.
He appeared as an old man—white-haired, stooped, leaning on a staff carved from bone. But his eyes gave him away. They held the depth of centuries, the weight of countless kills, the patience of something that had learned to wait.
He smiled as he approached. It was not a friendly smile.
"Welcome," he said. His voice was rough, layered, as if multiple tones spoke at once. "The humans have arrived. We had begun to wonder if you would lose your nerve."
The human elder's expression did not change. "We are here. Are we not?"
"Indeed." The old beast's smile widened. "Twenty slots. Twenty humans. Such generosity from my kind." He chuckled, a sound like stones grinding together. "I hope your young ones appreciate the gift."
He stepped aside and gestured
"The gate opens at sunset. You will wait until then."
He turned and walked back toward the beast group.
The humans settled into a loose camp nearby.
The afternoon wore on.
The sun—pale and distant this far north—began its slow descent toward the horizon. Shadows lengthened. The cold deepened. The beasts watched in silence, their eyes following every movement, every breath.
And as the light began to fade, the tension sharpened.
From the beast side, voices rose.
"—should be ours. All of it. Why do we share with them?"
"—humans. They'll die anyway. Why waste the slots?"
"—look at them. Soft. Weak. They won't last a day."
The words carried across the frozen ground, deliberately loud, deliberately insulting. Young beasts—those in human form but not yet disciplined enough to hide their contempt—glared toward the human camp with undisguised hatred.
One of them, a broad-shouldered youth with the markings of a Frost Wolf across his cheeks, stepped forward.
"Twenty humans," he called out, his voice carrying to every corner. "Twenty corpses waiting to happen. Why don't you save us the trouble? Kneel now, beg to withdraw, and maybe—just maybe—we'll pity you enough to spare you from death."
Laughter rippled through the beast ranks.
In the human camp, faces hardened. Fists clenched. But no one moved. No one responded.
The Frost Wolf youth grinned, encouraged by the silence.
"That's right. Know your place. This realm was never meant for—"
Pressure descended on him like a mountain.
The Frost Wolf youth's eyes went wide.
His knees buckled.
Blood erupted from his nose, his ears, the corners of his mouth. He collapsed to the ground, writhing, gasping, his human form flickering as his beast nature fought to emerge.
Around him, other young beasts staggered back, caught in the edge of the pressure wave. Some fell. Others clutched their heads, screaming. One vomited blood onto the snow.
In the human camp, the silver-haired prince stood motionless, his aura blazing.
His eyes were cold as winter graves.
"Insects should learn to hold their tongues," he said quietly. "Before they are crushed."
For a long moment, no one moved.
The beasts stared at their fallen comrade, at the blood spreading across the snow, at the human who had done this without lifting a finger. Rage burned in their eyes—but beneath it, something else. Fear.
Then, from the depths of the beast formation, a figure emerged.
He moved with the fluid grace of a predator—each step precise, controlled, utterly confident. His form was human, but barely. Silver hair fell past his shoulders, and his eyes held the vertical pupils of a serpent. Scales shimmered faintly along his jawline, catching the dying light.
A Serpent Prince. High bloodline with ancient lineage.
He walked past the fallen Frost Wolf without glancing down, without slowing. His gaze was fixed on the silver-haired human, and his smile was cold as the northern wind.
He stopped ten paces from the human camp.
"Bing Wenhai," he said. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant. "I had heard you would be here. I confess, I did not believe it."
The silver-haired prince—Bing Wenhai—met his gaze without flinching. "Shen Jiu. Still wearing that ridiculous smile, I see."
Shen Jiu's smile widened. "It suits me." He glanced at the fallen Frost Wolf, still writhing in the snow. "Though I wonder—was this necessary? He is young. Stupid. He spoke without thinking."
"He spoke without respect," Bing Wenhai replied.
"Ah." Shen Jiu nodded slowly. "Well."
His aura flared.
The pressure that had crushed the Frost Wolf met an equal force— containing it, pushing it back, holding it at bay. The air between them shimmered with the clash of invisible forces.
Bing Wenhai's eyes narrowed.
Shen Jiu smiled.
"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" he asked softly.
For a long moment, neither moved. The pressure war continued—silent, invisible, more deadly than any blade.
Then, slowly, Bing Wenhai's lips curved.
"Funny," he said. "I was just thinking the same thing."
His pressure surged.
Shen Jiu's wavered—just for an instant—then stabilised. But that instant was enough. Enough to show the watching beasts had the upper hand.
Shen Jiu's smile did not waver, but something shifted behind his eyes.
"Impressive," he said. "You've grown since the last time we met."
"And you haven't."
A pause. Then Shen Jiu laughed—a genuine sound, warm and cold at once.
"Perhaps not," he admitted. He let his pressure drop. Bing Wenhai followed suit. The air between them stilled.
Shen Jiu glanced at the human camp, his gaze sweeping across the twenty. When it reached Chu Feng, it paused—just for a fraction of a second—then moved on.
"Twenty of you," he said. "And twenty of us. This will be... interesting."
He turned and walked back toward his own kind.
The sun soon touched the horizon.
Suddenly, a column of light tore into the sky, heralding the opening of the realm gate.