The Frost That Binds
The appearance of the two ten-thousand-year soul rings was not merely a display of power; it was a silent, earth-shattering proclamation. In the sudden hush that gripped the plaza, the meaning echoed louder than any roar: This man operates on a different plane of existence.
Guang Biao's combat instincts, honed on actual battlefields, screamed a primal warning. The ten-thousand-year spirit ring wasn't just a trophy; it was a testament to surviving an encounter with a being of apocalyptic power and wresting its essence for your own. One was the mark of a peak genius. Two were the signature of a monster from the legends, the kind bred only in places like Shrek Academy. The arrogant certainty that had propelled him here began to freeze and crack.
"Who. Are. You." The question was no longer a demand, but a strained plea for context, for a way to categorize the threat before him.
Wu Zhangkong's dark green eyes held no pride, no anger. They were simply cold, like lenses focusing absolute zero. "Withstand one strike. Then you may ask."
Before the final word faded, Wu Zhangkong moved. His third spirit ring, a deep, potent purple, flashed.
There was no grand leap, no thunderous charge. It was a displacement. One moment he was ten paces away; the next, he stood before Guang Biao, the Heavenly Frost Sword having already completed its arc. The technique was the Heavenly Frost Slash, but its execution was a seamless merger of motion and intent. A crescent of condensed, pale blue light, so cold it burned the eyes to look upon, hissed through the air. It didn't seem to cut space so much as bleach it of warmth and vitality along its path.
Guang Biao's senses were assaulted. It wasn't just the visual threat of the blade. It was a sensory deprivation. The roar of the crowd vanished. The hum of his mecha's core dulled. A profound, soul-deep chill latched onto his spirit, threatening to numb his will before the sword even struck. He felt like a rodent staring up at the descending talon of an ice-feathered raptor—a primordial, helpless fear.
Yet, he was a Soul Emperor. A veteran. With a guttural shout that was half terror, half defiance, he triggered his defenses. Spirit rings blazed. His iron-gray scales glowed with a metallic sheen, and a dome of concentrated earth-attributed soul power, textured like overlapping dragon scales, solidified before him. It was a defense that could weather the sustained barrage of a dozen Soul Kings.
It lasted for the span of a single, agonized heartbeat.
The Heavenly Frost Slash touched the scaled dome. There was no colossal impact sound. Instead, a horrific, high-pitched SCREECH filled the air, like glaciers shearing against continental plates. The formidable shield didn't shatter; it sublimated. It flared with frantic light, then dissolved into a shower of frozen, grayish particles that drifted away like ash.
Momentum uninterrupted, the sword light pressed on.
Time seemed to stretch for Guang Biao. He saw the blade approach, a line of inevitable winter. His chest plate, a masterpiece of thousand-refined metal inscribed with defensive spirit guidance arrays, was next. The arrays flared in a final, desperate protest, then died as the frost permeated their circuits. The metal itself didn't bend or crumple; it became brittle and cleaved with a clean, crystalline snap.
Then, the edge met his famed Iron-Armored Tyrannosaurus scales. The pride of his bloodline, harder than tempered steel. They parted. Not with resistance, but with the quiet submission of grass before a scythe. A searing line of cold, not pain, traced across his pectoral. He looked down, expecting a gush of crimson. There was none. The wound was pristine, the flesh and capillaries instantly cauterized by the absolute cold. A grotesque, frozen canyon lay across his chest, steaming with frigid vapor.
In that endless instant, his life didn't flash before his eyes. Only one thought, crystalline and desperate: 'This is death. I brought this. For pride? For a thuggish brother?' The regret was a bitter flood.
Then, the pressure vanished. The sword was gone, sheathed at Wu Zhangkong's side as if it had never been drawn. The chilling aura receded, though the physical cold lingered in the air and in Guang Biao's bones.
"You have lost." Wu Zhangkong's voice was the same as before—calm, dispassionate, a statement of fact. "I have no desire for your life. Take your brother and your men. Leave this place. Now."
Gasping, his mechanical systems whining in protest from the internal frost damage, Guang Biao stumbled back a step. The phantom cold was still in his veins, his soul trembling. He looked at his shattered mecha, at the frozen wound, then at the impassive man in the white robe.
"That technique… that sword…" he rasped, understanding dawning with horrifying clarity. The legendary Ice Fairy, the prodigy of Shrek who wielded the Heavenly Frost… rumors said he had come east. "You… you are from…"
Wu Zhangkong cut him off, his gaze like two chips of arctic ice. "It does not matter who I am. It matters what I say. My students have informed me of your brother's… profession. I find their intervention to be a commendable act of civic duty. If I see your face, or your brother's, near my students or this academy again, the next line will not stop at your skin. Am I understood?"
The threat was delivered without heat, which made it all the more terrifying. It was a simple prediction of cause and effect.
"Y-yes! Understood! Perfectly!" Guang Biao's voice was a strangled whisper, all bluster dissolved. He was no longer a brigadier general, a mecha captain. He was a beaten man whose life had been spared by a whim. He turned, barking orders at his stunned, terrified men, his voice cracking. "Move! Now! Get the stretcher! Go!"
The retreat was not orderly; it was a rout. The intimidating wall of armed men dissolved into a shuffling, hurried mass, carrying their wounded leader and his groaning brother, disappearing around the street corner within minutes. The only evidence they left was the cracked plaza, the fading frost, and a profound, ringing silence.
Then, the dam broke.
A collective exhale, followed by a torrent of sound. Cheers, shouts, disbelieving laughter. "Teacher Wu! Teacher Wu! Teacher Wu!" The chant was thunderous, raw with relief and burgeoning hero-worship. Male students looked at him with blazing eyes, a new ideal of stoic, unstoppable strength seared into their minds. Female students whispered, their admiration purely for the awe-inspiring power and protective stance he embodied—a respect untarnished by romantic fantasy. The teachers simply bowed their heads slightly, a gesture of profound professional respect and gratitude. He had shouldered the sky, just as he said he would.
Twenty minutes later, in the stark, orderly quiet of Wu Zhangkong's office, the air still felt cooler than the hallway.
"We apologize, Teacher Wu. Our actions caused you significant trouble." Yao Xuan spoke for the group, his tone respectful. Gu Yue stood beside him, her silence eloquent. Xie Xie and Tang Wulin nodded vigorously, their faces a mix of guilt and lingering excitement.
Wu Zhangkong stood by the window, looking out at the now-calm campus. "There is no apology necessary for upholding basic decency against predation," he said, his back to them. "You did not seek the fight; it was brought to you by a corrupt element. Your error was only in not anticipating the depth of the corruption."
He turned, his gaze sweeping over them. "I am not angry. However, the world is not a clean arena. To mitigate further… unsporting retaliation, your off-campus privileges are now restricted. No leaving academy grounds after sunset except on official rest days. This is not a punishment. It is a tactical perimeter."
"Yes, sir!" they chorused, the order feeling not like a constraint, but a layer of strategic armor.
Xie Xie, unable to contain himself, blurted, "Teacher Wu, you were… incredible! That sword! The way his shield just… vanished!"
A flicker of something—not a smile, but perhaps the ghost of one—passed through Wu Zhangkong's eyes. "It was a confrontation. It is over. Do not let it inflate your focus. Your next opponents will not be so easily impressed by my achievements. Dismissed."
The message was clear: the spectacle was behind them. Their path forward was their own to walk.
The rhythm of academy life, relentless and absorbing, quickly reasserted itself. Classes, cultivation, Wu Zhangkong's grueling team drills. The next afternoon, they faced Class 2 in the promotion tournament.
The atmosphere around the arena was palpably different. The crowd had tripled. Now, mingled with the intermediate division students were curious faces from the senior grades, their eyes not on the competitors, but constantly flicking to where Wu Zhangkong stood, an island of calm. They were there for the legend, but they stayed for the show his students put on.
Against Class 2, Yao Xuan, Gu Yue, and Xie Xie moved with a chilling, practiced efficiency. There was no need for dramatic ice-throwing or grand elemental displays. Yao Xuan's presence alone, after the rumors of his street battle and his teacher's display, seemed to weigh on their opponents. Gu Yue's precise, minimalistic elemental disruptions created openings Xie Xie exploited with clinical speed. The match was over in three minutes. It was less a battle and more a demonstration of superior cohesion.
The victory, paired with the reflected glory of their teacher, cemented their status. The "Zero Class," the "Rejects of Class 5," were dead and buried. In their place was Wu Zhangkong's Class, the dark horse sensation of the intermediate division, a team wrapped in an aura of mysterious power and unflappable cool.
The next match, scheduled for after the rest day, was already the talk of the academy. On one side, the dark horse phenoms. On the other, the established powerhouse of Class 1, boasting the only other Great Soul Master in the freshman year. The contrast was perfect narrative fuel.
As the rest day arrived, bringing a pause from the tournament, Tang Wulin approached Yao Xuan in their dorm with an uncharacteristic nervousness. "Brother Xuan… I was wondering. There's an auction house in the city. I… I need to go. There might be something there I need."
Yao Xuan looked at his friend, reading the subtle tension in his shoulders, the slight hunger in his eyes that had nothing to do with food. 'The bloodline stirs,' he thought with inward certainty. 'The Golden Dragon King's seal, however slowed by my influence, is not static. His body is seeking resources, instinctively craving the energy to fuel its awakening.' It was a pivotal moment, but a controlled one. With Yao Xuan here, Tang Wulin wouldn't be driven to desperate, seal-breaking trials prematurely. He could guide this awakening, steer this formidable power to become a pillar of their strength, not a chaotic threat.
"An auction house?" Yao Xuan replied, his face showing mild interest. "That could be interesting. A rest day is a good time for it. We should all go. A change of pace, and we might spot something useful." He included Xie Xie and Gu Yue in his glance, framing it as a team outing. He would keep Tang Wulin safe, and observe this next step in his brother's destiny—a destiny Yao Xuan was carefully, deliberately helping to reshape.