The Xi River, which ran through the Taikun Mountain Range, had frozen solid in the heart of winter. A group of young disciples from Qingxiao Sect lay sprawled across the thick ice, peering through small holes they'd made to watch the rushing water beneath—eyes wide with fascination.
Not far from them, on a rocky ledge, stood a male disciple practicing his sword. It was Liu Jie, one of the famed Seven Sons of Qingxiao.
These children came from the villages at the foot of the mountain, all distantly related to the Seven Sons. Today, Liu Jie had brought them out for some relaxation—and if they managed to catch any fish, that would count as a contribution to the sect as well.
Snowflakes danced in the air as Liu Jie moved through his sword forms, his technique fluid and effortless, each strike like flowing water. There was a quiet grace to his movements.
Among the Seven Sons, Liu Jie had never stood out. Even now, within the growing sect, he held no real prestige. Yet he bore no resentment. He genuinely enjoyed this simple, peaceful life.
He wasn't as capable or determined as Huang Shan or Yu Lin. He preferred stability, disliked danger, and rarely took part in mountain expeditions. On most days, he would only visit his hometown village and then return.
The title of Seven Sons of Qingxiao had long since faded, replaced by new legends and new heroes. Within the sect, few remembered his name. Only the village children still admired him—still spoke his name with awe.
As Liu Jie practiced his sword, he noticed a lone figure emerging from the swirling snow in the distance.
At first, he didn't pay it much attention. But as the person drew closer, an uneasy feeling settled in his chest.
It was only one person—and judging by the size and posture, it wasn't an adult.
'A child? Up here alone in this weather?' he thought, frowning.
Liu Jie sheathed his sword and called out, "That's enough, everyone! Time to head back up the mountain."
But the children ignored him, still focused on the ice, eagerly trying to catch fish.
"Enough!"
This time his voice boomed, infused with vital energy, echoing across the frozen river. The sudden outburst startled the children; they turned to him in fear.
Liu Jie's gaze remained fixed on the distant figure. His tone grew serious. "Go! Back to the mountain—now! Head straight to Qingxiao Mountain! Quickly!"
The children looked toward the snow-filled horizon. Seeing the shadow of someone approaching, they immediately turned and ran uphill.
They didn't know if the stranger was dangerous, but they trusted Liu Jie. He would never frighten them without reason.
As they ran past him, one of the boys glanced back and asked, "Cousin, should we call for help?"
Liu Jie hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. "Do it."
If he was wrong, he'd only have to endure the scolding of the Law Enforcement Hall. But if he ignored this and something happened, it could be catastrophic.
It was a chaotic time. Even Jiang Zhaoxia's family had been slaughtered. He couldn't afford to take chances.
The children's faces turned pale at his words. They ran faster, disappearing into the thick veil of snow.
Liu Jie's eyes stayed locked on the figure ahead. Soon, he could clearly see the person—a young boy with white hair, moving calmly through the storm. His clothes were soaked with blood.
Relief flickered briefly through Liu Jie's chest. He hadn't overreacted.
But then came dread—because now he had to face this boy alone.
The youth looked perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, yet that unnaturally white hair and the blood smeared over him made the sight deeply unsettling.
Instinct screamed that this person was dangerous.
At that moment, a voice from his memory rose unbidden—Senior Brother Huang Shan's familiar tone:
"Xiao Jie, a man needs fighting spirit. Don't waste your days wandering idly. One day, you'll regret not trying harder when you still had the chance."
As the white-haired boy suddenly broke into a sprint, charging straight toward him, Liu Jie gripped his sword tightly and took his stance.
"Today," he murmured under his breath, sweat beading on his forehead, "I won't be the one who regrets it…"
Fear clawed at his chest, but he refused to retreat.
He was one of the first disciples to join the rebuilt Qingxiao Sect—one of the Seven Sons. He might lose, but he could not flee.
At this moment, all he could rely on was his sword.
"Stop right there! This is Qingxiao Sect territory! Who dares trespass?!"
Liu Jie's shout echoed through the mountains, his voice ringing with both fury and desperation. He wasn't shouting out of fear but out of purpose—hoping someone, anyone, would hear.
The ground around him was flat, so he didn't worry about triggering an avalanche. If his cry reached nearby disciples, there might still be a sliver of hope.
Of course, if he could defeat the intruder himself, that would be even better.
But deep down, he knew—he had never been strong in combat. Even among his peers, he had rarely won a match.
The boy's shadow closed in rapidly. Liu Jie forced himself to breathe steadily, replaying every sword form he'd ever learned in his mind.
The white-haired youth moved faster and faster, gliding over the snow like a ghost.
When only seven steps separated them, Liu Jie struck. His sword flashed with all the strength and precision he had honed over ten years of training.
A sharp sound split the air.
Bang!
A spray of blood burst forth.
Liu Jie's head flew from his shoulders, his body collapsing to the snow below—exactly like Jia Yi before him.
The white-haired youth didn't even slow down. He tore past Liu Jie's fallen body, eyes gleaming with hunger, racing toward the direction where the children had fled. His lips twisted into an eager, savage smile.
"Fresh flesh and blood…"
His voice was more beast than human, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
He moved at terrifying speed. Before long, the children Liu Jie had protected came into view.
They turned and saw him—and their terrified screams shattered the stillness of the frozen world.
Whsshh!
A sharp whistle cut through the storm. The white-haired youth's eyes widened as he twisted aside.
A sword wreathed in sword qi sliced past him, so close it drew a thin line of blood across his cheek.
He turned sharply and saw a group of Qingxiao Sect disciples approaching—each riding on flying swords.
At their head was none other than Xue Jin.
That day, Xue Jin had brought a group of disciples from the Training Hall to patrol several nearby peaks. They were also scouting for potential locations to establish sub-halls.
From a distance, he faintly heard Liu Jie's shout. Without hesitation, he and the disciples under him rushed toward the sound—only to witness a horrifying scene.
The white-haired youth turned the instant he noticed them, eyes flashing with feral excitement. He lunged straight at Xue Jin and the others.
Xue Jin was the fastest to react. He flicked his wrist, and the long sword he had thrown earlier arced through the air, slashing toward the boy's back.
But the youth only tilted his head slightly, avoiding the strike with unnatural ease. As the sword brushed past his ear, his hand shot up and caught it cleanly.
In that instant, Xue Jin felt his spiritual link with the sword sever—cut off completely.
Before he could even process what happened, the boy was already upon him.
Xue Jin leapt into the air, forming hand seals. The sword beneath his feet trembled, then surged forward like a silver streak aimed at the youth.
Clang!
The boy's palm slashed through the air like a blade, cleaving the sword aside with raw force. Then he lunged forward and appeared right before Xue Jin.
The white-haired youth gripped Xue Jin's own sword and swung. Xue Jin twisted aside to dodge, but before he could recover, a powerful palm smashed into his abdomen.
He spat a mouthful of blood, his body hurled backward, crashing violently into the snow.
Seeing Xue Jin defeated with a single blow, the other Training Hall disciples froze in terror. But before fear could even take hold, the youth was already moving again—charging straight at them.
If even Xue Jin couldn't stop him, the rest of them stood no chance.
The mountains echoed with screams as blood sprayed through the falling snow, painting red blossoms across the white ground.
Xue Jin's body struck the snow hard, his internal organs twisting painfully. Through blurred vision, he saw his disciples being cut down one after another. His pupils widened in horror.
Ignoring the agony that wracked his body, he forced himself to his feet, staggering forward toward the slaughter.
With every step he took, another disciple fell.
Thud!
The last Training Hall disciple's neck was snapped in the boy's hand, the corpse tossed aside like trash. Fifteen disciples—all dead.
The white-haired youth licked the blood from his hand, then turned his eerie gaze to Xue Jin. "You're still alive?" he asked with genuine surprise.
His grin twisted, voice dropping to a dark chuckle. "What a pity. This body isn't my true form. Otherwise, I'd devour your blood and cultivation along with the rest."
Xue Jin looked at the lifeless bodies scattered across the snow. His mind went blank. The world seemed to tilt. He had killed before—many times—but never had he witnessed so many of his own sect brothers die before his eyes.
A crushing helplessness flooded his chest.
The white-haired youth began walking toward him, each step deliberate.
Xue Jin clenched his trembling hand and pulled a broken sword from the ground using his remaining vital energy. His pace quickened, blood dripping from his face.
There was only one thought left in his mind.
Revenge for my brothers.
Crackle!
A sharp, piercing sound split through the air. The boy's expression shifted. He turned his head and saw a streak of lightning ripping through the snowstorm, burning away the mist in its path. Behind that thunderbolt, a figure was charging toward him.
It was Xu Ning.
Bolts of lightning coiled around her like serpents, her silver hairpin flashing with reflected thunderlight. She was as swift as a thunderbird, her sword stabbing straight for the youth's heart.
The boy slapped his palm onto the snow-covered ground. Instantly, wooden vines burst upward like snakes, lashing toward Xu Ning from every direction. She twisted and leapt back, narrowly avoiding them.
Seeing her arrive, Xue Jin finally exhaled and dropped to one knee, his strength completely spent.
Xu Ning cut through the writhing vines and rushed forward, closing the distance between them. Her sword strikes came one after another—swift and fierce like a storm.
But the white-haired youth's hands were harder than steel. He blocked her blows with ease. Her blade struck his skin and left not even a scratch.
His expression shifted, a glint of genuine surprise flashing across his eyes. 'So strong… her cultivation has reached this level? No wonder the Qi Clan couldn't take down Qingxiao Sect.'
Instead of fear, excitement filled him.
Boom!
With one brutal kick, he struck Xu Ning's blade. The force blasted through her defenses, sending her tumbling backward.
The boy charged forward again.
Xu Ning struggled to stabilize herself. Pain burned through her palms; blood trickled between her fingers. Still, her gaze stayed locked on the youth.
She realized with chilling clarity—this was an unprecedented crisis.
Since the day she stepped onto the path of cultivation, this was the first time she had truly felt the presence of death—even after only a few exchanges.
Yet even faced with that terror, she didn't retreat.
'All my years of cultivation… all my training… this is what it's for.'
She drove her sword into the snow, anchoring her momentum. Her body jerked to a stop just in time, bending backward to dodge a vicious kick that sliced through the air where her head had been.
As they crossed paths, a vine shot out from the boy's flowing white hair.
Her instincts screamed—she twisted aside, but not fast enough. The vine pierced clean through her waist.
Blood sprayed into the snow.
Xu Ning reacted instantly. Her left hand sliced through the vine, cutting it in two. Then she stomped down, activating the Heavenly Thunder Step. Lightning flashed under her feet, and in the blink of an eye, she retreated across the snow like a streak of blue light.
She landed ten zhang away, one hand pressed to the ground. Looking down, she saw a vine still embedded in her right side, blood gushing freely from the wound.
When she looked up, her eyes were filled with grim resolve.
The white-haired youth turned slowly toward her, a hint of amusement flickering in his gaze. "Your reflexes are remarkable. I've never seen anyone with your level of talent."
Xu Ning stood, her face pale, her breathing steady. She grasped the vine with her left hand and pulled it from her waist in one smooth motion—without even frowning.
Xue Jin, watching from a distance, felt his heart sink. If even Xu Ning—the one he respected most after the Sect Master—was injured, then the situation was dire beyond words.
Wind and snow howled across the mountain. Xu Ning's robes whipped violently in the storm.
As she stared at her opponent, the youth's white hair began to lengthen, drifting upward like smoke. From his back, dozens of wooden vines unfurled and writhed in the air like serpentine tails.