Banners marked with the emblem of the Border Legion snapped stiffly in the wind atop the highest towers. Beneath the walls, smaller structures sprawled outward in uneven clusters — supply depots, barracks, and what looked like makeshift markets catering to mercenaries and wandering cultivators who passed through in search of contracts or shelter before venturing farther into the frozen wilderness beyond.
Even from miles away, Mo Xuan sensed the weight of the place pressing down on him.
"This place... is different."
There was no elegance here. Only survival, carved into every stone and reinforced by every soldier standing watch along the wall. Men and women carrying scars deeper than the snow. Veterans who had killed more beasts than most could imagine. Merchants with blades hidden under their cloaks. Children practising dagger techniques on wooden dummies before they'd even grown tall enough to hold a proper sword.
This was the border. Where the strong endured, and the weak were devoured.
Mo Xuan inhaled the freezing air and stepped forward.
The gates stood half-open, guarded by elite soldiers. Mercenaries, traders, and cultivators formed long lines at the entrance, each person observed with sharp, suspicious eyes that missed nothing.
As Mo Xuan approached, several guards shifted their stances, their gazes cold and assessing, trained to spot fear and falsehood in equal measure. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a wolf-shaped tattoo on his wrist, stepped forward.
"Purpose of entry?"
Mo Xuan cupped his fists respectfully and presented a letter alongside a token. "I am here to join the Northern Border."
The guard raised an eyebrow and scanned him from boots to hair, his expression tightening slightly at the sight of Mo Xuan's calm, steady eyes. "You don't look like someone who belongs here," he said in a flat tone.
Mo Xuan said nothing.
A few of the nearby guards exchanged glances, visibly surprised at the lack of reaction. Most newcomers either bristled at the comment or scrambled to explain themselves.
The wolf-tattooed guard finally grunted, pointing at what Mo Xuan held. "Take that to Ironwind Barracks. Registration is inside."
Mo Xuan cupped his hand and stepped through the towering gates. Entering Northwatch Stronghold felt like stepping into the jaws of a colossal beast, the walls rising high enough on either side to blot out most of the pale winter sky.
He did not slow down.
Inside the Stronghold, noise struck him immediately. The pounding of metal on anvils. The roar of soldiers training in open courtyards. The crackle of beast cores being refined somewhere nearby. The sharp scent of smoke, sweat, and blood all tangled together in the cold air.
Armoured warriors sparred fiercely across the courtyards, exchanging blows with ferocity. Veteran cultivators sat cross-legged in meditation, weapons resting across their laps even in stillness. Merchants shouted over each other as they bargained over pills and talismans laid out on makeshift tables, haggling with the same intensity soldiers brought to their sparring matches.
A city built entirely on the edge of conflict, with nothing here that wasn't shaped by the constant nearness of death.
Mo Xuan watched quietly as he walked, cataloguing the layout without comment.
Following the directions from the gate, Mo Xuan arrived at a sprawling complex of barracks and training fields. A grand building bearing a tempest insignia — a swirling storm carved in iron — marked the entrance: Ironwind Barracks.
Recruits ran laps around the perimeter, dragging heavy metal logs behind them, their breath ragged in the cold. Officers shouted orders sharp enough to cut through the wind itself, and veterans stood nearby with their arms folded, eyes as sharp and unblinking as hawks watching for the smallest sign of weakness.
Mo Xuan stepped into the registration hall. Behind a desk sat a scarred officer reviewing documents, and he looked up, raising his brows slightly at the sight of Mo Xuan.
"You are here to join the Northern Border Army?"
"Yes," Mo Xuan replied, presenting the same letter and token he'd shown the guards at the gate.
The officer collected it and read through the letter carefully, studying Mo Xuan for a long moment afterwards, trying to reconcile the calm young man standing before him with whatever the letter claimed about his background. Then he handed Mo Xuan a scroll.
"Steel Frost Cadet Quarters. Training starts at dawn." His voice carried a stern, practised edge. "If you cannot meet the requirements during training, do not expect to be sent home. You will be reassigned to the kitchens or lesser labour duties. There is always something to do here until your years are up."
Mo Xuan accepted the scroll, cupped his hand, then turned to leave.
The officer clicked his tongue. "...Insane. Brave. Or foolish. This border will decide."
Snow thickened as Mo Xuan walked toward the Steel Frost Quarters. Torches flickered along the barracks walls, their flames struggling against the wind, yet warriors continued training even through the storm.
Mo Xuan looked up at the darkened sky. Behind him lay the Azure Sword Sect, his master, and everything he'd known. Ahead lay transformation or death — a place where he would either rise from the ashes like a phoenix or simply be buried beneath the snow along with everyone else who hadn't been strong enough.
He tightened his grip on the scroll. Then he stepped into his tent.
Before sunrise, a horn blast tore through the barracks, rattling the wooden frames and shaking frost from the eaves. Mo Xuan's eyes snapped open instantly. His breath misted in the frigid air. Outside, soldiers were already moving, dark silhouettes against the white horizon.
He stepped out with the other new recruits, dozens of them emerging from their own tents in various states of readiness, some clearly more prepared for the sudden wake-up than others.
The Steel Frost Quarters training ground stretched endlessly ahead, lined with iron pillars, frozen pits, weighted chains, and stone platforms slick with ice. Cold winds swept through the open field, sharp enough to cut skin through even the thickest cloak.
An iron-blooded officer stood before them, bald, scarred, and utterly expressionless. Without a word, he raised a jade plaque overhead.
A crushing force ripped through the air. In the next instant, every recruit staggered as their cultivation was forcibly sealed away, the sudden emptiness leaving them reeling in place. Every recruit felt, for the first time in years for some of them, exactly what it was like to be a mortal again — a sensation long since forgotten beneath layers of accumulated Spiritual Energy.
The officer did not wait for reactions. "Move." That was the only command they received.
Dozens of recruits were driven toward a track carved along the base of a frozen cliff. They did not step on soil, but on ice that cracked and shifted underfoot with every stride, threatening to send anyone careless enough sprawling.
The command flag dropped. They ran.
Breath steamed in ragged clouds. Muscles screamed in protest. Without cultivation to ease the burden, every step felt like dragging stone uphill. The ice tore at their shoes, and the cold stabbed straight into their bones, indifferent to whatever endurance any of them had built up as cultivators. Some slipped and fell, scraping their palms raw against the unforgiving surface.
Mo Xuan ran with steady breaths, his heartbeat calm despite the cold burning in his lungs with every inhale. The experience reminded him, oddly, of the insane training his master had once put him through — different in shape, but familiar in the way it demanded everything from him without offering any comfort in return.
Ahead of him, a recruit collapsed mid-stride. A guard dragged the unconscious body off the track without a word of acknowledgement, the run continuing around the fallen recruit as though nothing had happened.
There were no second chances here. Only forward.
He wasn't the fastest among them, but he kept going at a steady, unbroken pace, refusing to let the cold or the exhaustion dictate his rhythm. The run continued until legs shook uncontrollably beneath every recruit still standing. By the time they completed the full circuit, half of them could barely remain upright, and the rest heaved for breath, Mo Xuan included.
But this was only the beginning.
The following morning brought no relief. Massive boulders, each one inscribed with weight-increasing arrays, were placed before the recruits in a long, uneven row. No instructions were given, as none were needed.
The recruits understood immediately what was expected of them. They lifted.
Arms shook violently under the strain. Tendons stretched to their limit. The cold bit into exposed skin like thousands of needles driven in all at once. Mo Xuan tightened his grip, feeling the crushing weight press down onto his bones, forcing his stance lower with every passing second.
One recruit screamed as his fingers dislocated under the pressure. Another collapsed entirely, his arms trembling uncontrollably even after officers removed the weight.
The officers didn't intervene until someone could no longer lift. Their expressions were as flat and unmoved as the frozen ground beneath everyone's feet. Here, weakness wasn't corrected. It was culled.
Mo Xuan's breathing grew heavier, yet his eyes showed no panic despite the pain in his shoulders. He lifted the boulder to his chest, sweat streaming down his face and neck as he fought against the weight, determined not to yield.
When the horn finally blew, many recruits fell to their knees, exhausted and trembling, unable to hold themselves upright a moment longer.
Mo Xuan lowered the stone carefully, his hands numb and quivering from the effort. Then, as if on cue with everyone else around him, he collapsed to the ground, his muscles burning, his body entirely spent.