Ice Proud Sky

The smoke of battle rose within the royal city, staining the dark stone walls with a layer of ashen gloom. The sound of chaotic footsteps echoed, accompanied by the flickering shadows of figures darting across flying swords.

Disciples of the Ice Profound Palace weaved through the streets and alleys, clad in frost-colored robes. With a casual flick of their fingers, pale blue ice blades formed, freezing unsuspecting rogue cultivators into crystalline statues. Though their cultivation barely reached the late Foundation Establishment stage, and their spiritual energy paled in comparison to sect disciples of the same level, this very group had thrown the royal capital into utter chaos.

"This is too much!"

A rogue cultivator charged forward, his spirit-infused weapon glowing faintly—only for his wrist to be pierced by an ice needle shot from an Ice Profound Palace disciple’s fingertip.

"Ignorant fool."

The weapon clattered to the ground with a crisp metallic ring. The rogue cultivator staggered back, clutching his bleeding wound, eyes filled with despair. His severed hand lay on the ground as he let out a blood-curdling scream, "My hand! MY HAND!!"

The surrounding ordinary cultivators trembled, their grips on their weapons unsteady. No one dared step forward again.

The world often spoke of the freedom of rogue cultivators—unbound by rules, unrestrained. But when it came to resources, sect disciples had the upper hand. They trained from childhood in spirit-rich environments, armed with top-tier techniques and guided by masters to break through bottlenecks. The purity of their spiritual energy alone was something rogue cultivators, who relied on luck and scraps, could never match.

And the Nascent Soul realm? It was an insurmountable chasm for countless rogue cultivators. Yet in even moderately large sects, it was merely the threshold for becoming an elder.

How many rogue cultivators remained stuck at Foundation Establishment, exhausting their lifespans without ever reaching Core Formation, only to turn to dust in the end? Let alone attaining Nascent Soul.

Since the founding of the Western Luo Kingdom, only ten cultivators had ever reached Nascent Soul. Each was enshrined in the royal ancestral temple, revered as legends.

But now, within the palace’s grand hall, the few Nascent Soul elders who had guarded the royal family lay lifeless on the white jade steps outside. Their chests bore gaping holes still crusted with unmelting frost—their Nascent Souls slaughtered before they could even flee.

Inside the hall, the gilded pillars were veiled in a thin layer of ice. The throne, meant to symbolize imperial authority, was now occupied by a single figure—

The Ice Profound Palace’s sect master, Bing Aotian!

Clad in flowing white robes, Bing Aotian’s expression was frigid. His ice-attribute spiritual energy drifted onto the armrests of the throne, crystallizing into delicate frost flowers. Beneath him, the black dragon throne slowly whitened under the oppressive weight of his power.

"..."

The king of Western Luo lay sprawled on the cold golden tiles, his imperial robes sullied with dust. A trail of blood from his temple mixed with the icy shards on the ground.

"Sect Master Bing..." He tried to lift his head, but an invisible force pressed him firmly against the floor. A muffled groan escaped his throat—the spiritual pressure of a Spirit Transformation cultivator weighed on him like a towering mountain, making even breathing a struggle.

The ministers lining the hall fared even worse. Many collapsed outright, faces deathly pale, their spiritual energy churning uncontrollably within them. Standing was impossible.

"I never thought..." Princess Ademi, too, was pinned under the crushing pressure. Her lavender dress clung to her, soaked with cold sweat, yet she kept her spine straight.

Beside her, Cang Wu gripped his sword hilt so tightly his knuckles turned white. Rage burned in his eyes, but the Spirit Transformation pressure bound his spiritual energy like chains, locking it within his dantian. He couldn’t even muster the strength to draw his blade.

He hadn’t been able to defeat the Ice Profound Palace’s Holy Son—let alone Bing Aotian, whose Spirit Transformation cultivation was the stuff of legends.

Every gaze in the hall was fixed on Bing Aotian. Fear and hatred simmered in those eyes, but not a shred of defiance.

"Sect Master of the Ice Profound Palace..." The king’s voice was hoarse, trembling with suppressed emotion. "Your Holy Son slaughtered my people in Cang City and tried to abduct my daughter as a cultivation cauldron. He brought this upon himself. Why must you punish all of Western Luo?"

Bing Aotian slowly lifted his gaze. His ice-blue eyes held no warmth—only the cold detachment of one observing ants.

"Western Luo’s people?" His spiritual energy surged abruptly, plunging the hall’s temperature below freezing. Intricate frost patterns spiderwebbed across the golden tiles. "A mere mortal kingdom. My son could slaughter them all, and it still wouldn’t be your place to judge."

His voice was soft, yet each word struck like an ice spike to the heart.

"One last time. Where is the demonic cultivator who killed my son?"

Silence. Only the sound of stifled breaths and the killing intent radiating from Bing Aotian filled the hall.

Bing Aotian’s fingers tapped lightly on the throne’s armrest. "No answer?"

A cruel smile curled his lips. "Then Western Luo shall bury my son with its ruin."

The king shuddered, despair flashing in his eyes before being swallowed by hatred.

He knew the truth—Bing San, the Ice Profound Palace’s Holy Son, had targeted Ademi for her rare physique, seeking to turn her into a cultivation cauldron. If not for that mysterious demonic cultivator’s intervention, his daughter would have been lost.

That hatred was carved into his bones.

This was his most treasured child.

Yet even now, he was powerless. Western Luo had no Spirit Transformation experts. Their few Nascent Soul elders had fallen in a single strike, reduced to frozen corpses.

The laws of the cultivation world were merciless. The gap between realms was an abyss. Nascent Soul cultivators might be godlike in mortal eyes, but before Spirit Transformation, they were nothing more than children to be crushed.

"I don’t know." Ademi suddenly spoke, her voice shaking but resolute.

She lifted her head, meeting Bing Aotian’s icy stare. "Bing San was a monster who deserved death. If you seek vengeance, take it on me. Western Luo is innocent!"

Bing Aotian’s gaze sharpened. "Oh? The princess has spine, it seems."

In a blur, he appeared before her, his speed leaving no afterimage. Before Ademi could react, his hand closed around her throat. A freezing sensation spread through her body, stealing her breath.

"Do you think I spared you out of mercy?" Bing Aotian’s voice was glacial.

"Your Heavenly Profound Yin physique is rare. I’m keeping you alive as an offering to appease the sacred land."

"You are nothing but a cauldron."

Ademi’s face flushed crimson. Her hands clawed at Bing Aotian’s wrist, but she couldn’t budge him an inch. She could feel his spiritual energy seeping into her meridians, freezing them solid. Her consciousness began to fade.

Cang Wu’s eyes nearly burst from their sockets. He strained with every ounce of strength, forcing his dantian’s energy to resist the pressure. But the moment his spiritual energy stirred, Bing Aotian’s aura lashed back, sending agony through his meridians. Blood sprayed from his mouth.

The ministers recoiled in terror, but none dared speak. The hall’s atmosphere was suffocating.

"Why are you grabbing my Princess Ademi?"

A voice rang out. Bing Aotian turned—just as a beam of light shot straight toward him!