The horn's cry had not yet faded when the valley split open with motion. The second surge of beasts poured from the darkness like a storm front breaking free of the clouds. Frost wolves vaulted over carcasses, shardbacks thundered with armored shoulders down the ice, and the ur-elk stamped forward with antlers gleaming like frozen trees. The earth itself seemed to groan beneath the endless pounding of claws and hooves.
Formations trembled. Explosives roared again, hurling fragments of ice and flesh skyward, yet this wave was thicker, heavier, hungrier. It did not break where the last had broken. It pressed.
Haotian's eyes tracked every line at once, his mind painting fractures and gaps before they tore wide. His voice, calm as iron, snapped orders that carried across the chaos like a drumbeat: "Shift right! Brace the hinge! Keep the satchels spread—don't cluster them!"
The lines bent. They did not break.
And then—a scream cut sharp through the thunder.
Near the inner bend, Yin Shuyue fought with breath misting around her like white fire. Her shorter spear moved with precision, thrusting through wolf skulls, parrying with deadly efficiency. But numbers pressed against her—one wolf after another, their red eyes gleaming with ice-hunger. She drove the butt of her spear into the ice to vault herself back, twisting in the air to cut another down. Her landing staggered the line, but she held.
Until the frost beast appeared.
It burst from the cracked ice beneath her feet, scales jagged with frozen ridges, a predator of the rivers—its body longer than a cart, jaws lined with crystalline fangs that glittered in the rune-light. With a hiss, it lunged, snapping her footing away. Shuyue stumbled. Her spear lodged in the beast's shoulder, but its momentum hurled her backward into the snow.
She rolled, boots scrambling for traction, blood on her lip. The beast surged again. Her fellow disciples screamed her name, but the line was too tight, too pressed—they could not break rank to reach her.
Shuyue's eyes narrowed. She pulled her weapon free and raised it in both hands, ready to thrust even if it meant her death. Her breath was steady, her form unshaken. If she was to fall, she would fall standing.
The beast's jaws opened, a cavern of frozen fangs descending.
"Shuyue!"
The word cracked like thunder.
A golden blur split the smoke and snow, faster than eyes could follow. Fenglong Spear struck first—its haft a streak of light, its point a star. The tip pierced through the frost beast's jaw, shattering bone, driving through the palate and erupting in a spray of ice and blood from the back of its skull. The beast convulsed and collapsed in a heap that steamed into the frozen ground.
Haotian stood where its corpse fell, his stance rooted, aura blazing with fury that sent ripples across the air. Steam rose from his shoulders as if the world's frost could not cling to him. His golden eyes burned with a cold, cutting anger—anger not for himself, but for the sight of one of his own nearly torn away.
The disciples nearest gasped, some clutching at their chests. Others shouted his name, voices breaking with renewed fervor.
Shuyue, still kneeling, blinked once at the hand extended toward her. His hand. She grasped it. He pulled her to her feet with a strength that steadied the ground beneath her boots. Her spear was returned to her grip before she realized he had drawn it free.
"You hold the line," he said, voice low, yet every disciple near enough to hear felt the weight of it. "You do not fall. Not while I stand."
Shuyue's breath caught. She bowed her head in silent acknowledgment, but the faintest flush of color crept across her cheeks despite the freezing wind. She took her place again at the line, her spear now trembling not with exhaustion, but with a renewed, burning will.
Rumors began to stir instantly, whispered beneath battle-cries and the clang of steel.
"Did you see—he called her name—""He moved for her like lightning—""Perhaps…" a disciple muttered, breathless even as he loosed another explosive talisman, "…perhaps there is more between them than battle alone…"
The words spread like wildfire, tangled in admiration and awe. To save someone was one thing. To save them with such fury—it carried weight.
Haotian ignored the whispers. His aura pulsed heavier with each breath, his eyes fixed on the valley's mouth where deeper shadows now stirred. Yet even as he moved again, even as his spear danced through wolves and shattered plates, a single truth took root in every heart present:
He was not only their shield. He was their storm.
And for Yin Shuyue—though she stood silent at her station, cutting down beasts with precise strikes—the heat in her chest refused to fade.
Above the crashing tide, another roar came. Deeper. Older. The ground shook with it. Snow avalanched from the cliffs in long white curtains.
The valley itself seemed to stiffen.
The Snow Beast Ape was coming.
The roar tore through the Frozen Valley like the rending of heaven's own veil. It did not echo—it pressed, every wall of ice and every rib of bone vibrating beneath its weight. Disciples clapped hands over their ears, some crumpling to their knees as blood trickled from their nostrils. Elders gritted their teeth, their qi rising instinctively to shield their cores. The beast tide itself faltered for an instant, as if bowing to the call of something greater.
Then the valley shook.
Snow avalanched from the cliffs in white sheets, burying corpses, covering stakes, muffling the earth's pulse for the span of a breath. Through the falling snow, a silhouette loomed—vast, hunched, impossibly broad. Each step was a drumbeat. Each inhalation, a furnace's growl.
The Snow Beast Ape emerged.
Its fur was a blizzard made flesh—white so bright it shimmered blue beneath the rune-light, matted with frost and glistening shards of ice. Its shoulders were taller than the valley's outer ridges, arms thicker than tree trunks, each movement accompanied by the grinding sound of stone splitting. Breath steamed from its maw like a furnace venting, curling in the air before the next roar sent shockwaves rippling through the valley.
And behind that roar—its aura.
Soul Transformation.
It rolled out like a tidal wave, pressing into the marrow, sinking claws into every dantian. Disciples gasped, some collapsing outright, their qi scattering in panic. Even elders staggered beneath the pressure, their faces blanching as their protective barriers quivered.
"That—" one elder choked, clutching at his chest, "—that beast… it has broken through…"
The valley knew. Every soul present knew. This was no longer a tide. This was annihilation, walking on two legs.
The ape's eyes glowed like frozen moons, and it bared fangs longer than swords. With a single swing of its arm, it smashed into the ice wall of the valley, sending chunks the size of houses raining down. A dozen disciples screamed as they scattered, formation lines breaking in the blast of falling stone and snow.
Elder Bai's voice cracked like a whip through the chaos. "All sects—reform! Elders forward! NOW!"
Figures blurred. Nine sects' Soul Transformation elders leapt from their positions, robes snapping like banners as they flared their qi. Cold River's grand elder struck first, thrusting his palm outward—an entire glacier's worth of frost condensed into a spear of ice the length of a cart. It streaked through the air and struck the ape's chest.
The spear shattered.
The ape did not flinch.
Cloudveil's matriarch followed, ribbons of silver light weaving into a lattice of blades that wrapped the ape's arm and sought to sever it. The beast flexed once. The ribbons snapped like threads of cobweb. Her eyes widened before she was forced to twist aside, blood flying from her mouth as the wind of its backhand alone nearly split her ribs.
The other elders joined, torrents of ice qi, chains of frost fire, and crashing sword intent converging into a storm around the giant. The valley blazed with light, a false dawn illuminating the night. Snow and smoke turned the battlefield into a blinding haze.
When the light faded, the ape stood untouched.
Not a single mark. Its fur shimmered, denser than armor, each hair a fortress of spiritual frost. The elders, panting, staggered back, their robes tattered, blood wetting their lips.
The ape roared again. This time the shockwave shattered the ground. The entire second ring buckled, disciples tossed like leaves in a gale. Several coughed blood and fell, unable to rise.
Haotian's eyes narrowed. His spear was steady, his stance unshaken, but within his chest, fire licked against steel. If it cannot be stopped here… then nothing behind us will survive.
He stepped forward.
"Haotian—!" Elder Bai's voice cracked, alarm and desperation twined. "Do not—"
But Haotian's voice cut across him, low and unyielding, carrying through the valley as if the mountains themselves bore his words.
"Fall back."
Disciples froze mid-motion, turning as if they had misheard. Elders staggered, eyes wide.
"Retreat," he said again, golden eyes burning beneath the snowstorm. "Your strength cannot break it. If you remain, you will only feed it your lives."
The elders' faces twisted—pride warring with reason. Cold River's grand elder spat blood into the snow. "Boy—this is not your place! You cannot—"
Haotian raised Fenglong Spear. The runes along its length burned like a dragon's spine, casting a golden halo against the white.
"I will hold it."
The words struck like a blade into stone. Elders fell silent, every disciple's chest tightening until breathing became an act of will.
Haotian's aura surged—not frantic, not reckless. Solid. Inevitable. His steps left impressions in the ice that glowed faintly with light, each one deliberate, as though the valley itself acknowledged the path he walked.
The Snow Beast Ape turned its glowing eyes upon him. Its roar this time was not just sound—it was challenge. The valley's walls quivered.
And Haotian answered by planting Fenglong into the snow, his voice low but carried on the qi of the storm.
"This line… is mine."
The Snow Beast Ape lowered its massive shoulders, claws flexing against the ice. Each talon was longer than a spearhead, gleaming with condensed frost that hummed under the pressure of its qi. The air around it thickened, crystallizing into shards that floated like broken glass suspended in the wind. Its Soul Transformation aura pressed harder, smothering every breath, rattling the marrow in every disciple's bones.
"Hold formation!" Elder Bai roared, his voice cracking against the roar of the storm. "Together! Strike as one!"
The elders moved.
Nine figures leapt into the sky, robes snapping, qi blazing as banners of ice, snow, and light. Cold River's grand elder summoned the glacier spear once more, this time threefold, spinning the weapons into a spiral drill that howled as it dove for the beast's chest. Cloudveil's matriarch wove silver ribbons into an interlocking web, threads shining like stars as they sliced down toward the ape's shoulders.
The other sect masters unleashed their full strength: blades singing arcs of pure intent, frozen meteors crashing down from conjured clouds, talismans igniting into streaks of blue-white flame.
The valley itself seemed to glow with the storm of power, their combined might enough to scour an army. The air burned with frost and qi, every strike a blow meant to pierce the heavens.
The Snow Beast Ape took a single step forward.
It swung its arm.
The glacier drill shattered into shards of ice. The ribbons snapped apart, their silver light scattering like broken moonlight. One elder's blade struck fur and snapped in half; the shockwave hurled him back like a doll, blood spraying across the snow. Another's conjured meteor burst against the ape's shoulder, exploding into harmless sparks.
The ape bellowed. Its roar was a wall of force, and the storm of qi the elders had woven simply unraveled.
Then came its fists.
The first blow cracked the air like thunder, smashing through the Cloudveil matriarch's web and hurling her against the valley wall. She spat blood, silver light guttering from her hands. The second fist plowed into Cold River's grand elder, his chest guard shattering, ribs snapping with a sound that silenced every disciple nearby. He flew backward, landing in a skid that carved a bloody trench in the snow.
One by one, the elders fell. Their techniques flickered and died, their bodies broken, their breaths shallow. They had struck with everything their sect legacies had given them—and none of it left a mark.
The disciples cried out in horror, voices shattering with panic. "Elder!" "Master!" "They're—he's—"
"Fall back!" Elder Bai's command ripped through the despair, but even his voice carried strain, his knees buckling beneath the oppressive aura. He coughed blood into the snow, staggering as he forced himself upright. His eyes locked on Haotian, sharp and desperate.
Haotian had not moved.
He had watched. His grip on Fenglong Spear was steady, his stance unbroken. Golden eyes burned as he measured the beast, reading its rhythm, its weight, the depth of its aura. His chest rose once, slow, as if he had breathed in the valley's fear and turned it into stillness.
The disciples' gazes, panicked and wild, swung to him. Their elders lay broken. Their line buckled. And only he stood untouched, steady as the pillar of the valley.
Elder Bai staggered forward, blood dripping from his lip. "Haotian… don't—"
Haotian's voice cut through the chaos, calm and absolute.
"Fall back."
Every disciple froze. Every elder stared.
"You cannot pierce it," he continued, stepping forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. "Your blood will only be wasted. Retreat."
"Boy—" Cold River's grand elder wheezed, clutching his shattered ribs, "—you will die—"
"I will stand." Haotian's gaze locked on the ape, his aura flaring with sudden, searing brilliance. The runes along Fenglong Spear ignited in golden fire, crackling with power that hissed against the frost. The pressure pouring from him clashed against the ape's, shattering the snow between them into mist.
The Snow Beast Ape snarled, recognizing the challenge. It slammed both fists against its chest, the shockwave shaking cliffs and dislodging avalanches that thundered down the ridges. Its glowing eyes locked onto Haotian as if the rest of the valley no longer existed.
The disciples whispered, voices trembling:
"He's… stepping forward alone.""He told the elders to fall back—""Senior Brother Haotian… is he…?"
Elder Bai clenched his fists, but his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of truth. He could not stop him. None of them could.
Haotian took another step, his aura surging higher, brighter, until even the banners of the sects snapped toward him instead of the wind.
"This battle is mine."
The declaration struck like thunder, searing itself into every heart present.
And then he moved—straight toward the Snow Beast Ape, spear blazing, aura burning against the storm of annihilation.
The air between man and beast split with pressure. Every breath steamed white, every heartbeat thundered in the ears of those watching.
The Snow Beast Ape bellowed, slamming its fists into the frozen earth. The impact shattered the ice for dozens of feet around, fissures racing outward like lightning across glass. Shards of frozen stone leapt into the air, falling in deadly arcs. The disciples flinched, raising shields, scrambling for cover.
Haotian did not move.
The instant the first shard would have struck him, his body blurred—vanished—reappeared a breath away. His steps were soundless, swift, each movement too sharp for mortal eyes to follow.
Cloudveil Steps.
He wove through falling ice as if walking a winding stair no one else could see, each placement of his feet too precise, too deliberate, for chance. A shard large as a cart hurtled toward him—he shifted one inch, letting it whistle past his hair, his body dissolving into mist for that heartbeat.
The ape lunged, swinging its massive arm, a wall of muscle and fur that would have crushed an ox herd flat. Haotian's form bent with the movement, his spear flashing, his steps carrying him just beneath the sweep. His cloak snapped in the wind of the blow.
"Strike him down!" a disciple screamed, voice breaking with desperation.
Haotian moved. His spear turned once, twice—then spun into a whirling arc of light.
Rotating Spear.
The rotation was so fast it became a blazing disc, deflecting the beast's second strike, redirecting its monstrous force outward. The collision cracked like a thunderclap, shockwaves blasting snow in concentric rings. The ape stumbled half a step, its strike bent away by a weapon far too small to have carried such weight.
But Haotian was already moving, pressing in.
He dropped low, spear narrowing, golden runes pulsing along its length. His aura surged, channeling into the point.
"Pierce."
Ninefold Thrust.
The spear snapped forward—once, twice, thrice—each strike faster than the last, until in the blink of an eye, nine thrusts had landed. The first struck the ape's arm, rebounding with sparks. The second pierced a gap between the fur. The third dug deeper, and by the ninth, blood erupted in a spray of frozen mist from the joint of its elbow.
The Snow Beast Ape howled, its roar shaking cliffs loose. For the first time, its massive frame faltered, its movements slowed.
The disciples cried out, their voices a storm of awe and disbelief. "He wounded it—!""He drew blood—Senior Brother Haotian drew blood!"
But Haotian's eyes remained cold, unyielding. His breath poured into the spear, every line of his body burning with focus. He knew: this was not enough. To stagger a beast was one thing. To break it required the heart.
The ape's massive hand swung down, a strike that carried the weight of a falling mountain. Haotian exhaled, stepped forward instead of back, his spear rising in a spiral.
Heart of the Spear.
The world narrowed to the line of the strike—the purest essence of spear intent, sharpened until heaven itself seemed to pause. Fenglong Spear blazed with golden fire, its tip cutting a path through the air that carried inevitability.
The blow met the strike.
The ape's fist split. The spear point drove through the flesh between its knuckles, exploding out the back of its hand in a spray of ice, blood, and broken qi. The force of the impact hurled the beast backward, its howl splitting sky from stone.
The valley erupted.
Disciples screamed his name. Elders, battered and bloodied, stared wide-eyed, unable to reconcile what they saw with what they knew of cultivation.
Haotian's chest rose, slow, steady. His golden eyes burned like twin suns beneath the snowstorm, fixed on the towering monster before him. His arms did not shake. His spear did not waver.
"This spear," he said, voice carrying through the roar of the storm, "was not forged to bow before heaven. Nor beast. Nor fate."
The Snow Beast Ape roared, clutching its torn hand, aura surging higher, the air freezing to jagged crystals.
Haotian lifted his weapon once more.
The battle between man and giant had only begun.