The freezing didn’t land right; at least Lixue felt the winter net had holes.

A strange power had been layered again and again, hardening the horde like iron frost.

Stronger dead now rose within them, threats like jagged reefs under a black sea.

So her Thousand-Mile Freeze, costly as a glacier’s march, barely slowed them instead of ending them.

It only bound their steps for a breath, like chains of rime on a storm tide.

We must end this before they break the ice, she thought, heart tight as a drawn bow.

She skipped rest and unstoppered a vial, the potion cool as moonlight slipping down her throat.

A shard of cold flashed in her beautiful eyes, like starlight on a midnight lake.

Back in the Dragon Realm, Xinyin had preached thrift, a blade like rain that wastes no drop.

Spend little, strike true, and keep the body tuned like a zither in battle.

She had frozen 13,502 undead, a winter forest of bone and smoke.

To erase most in one breath, she needed ruin and reach, like thunder across a plain.

Wide-area sword arts were her home ground, a field of snow where she danced.

No choice, she murmured; we use that one, though the cost burns like frostbite.

Frost surged along her twin short blades, white breath coiling like dragons around steel.

The air plunged in temperature, and translucent rime bloomed like glass ferns in midair.

The sky, still holding a smear of dusk, went black, like a lid over a well.

A killing cold sank into the bones, a night wind off a high glacier.

Icemoon: Fury.

Frost within the air turned to snow, and a gale howled like wolves over ice plains.

The flurry gathered and rose, shaping a crystal tornado that pierced heaven and earth like a spear.

Wherever it went, all froze to hoarfrost, a new ice age writing its creed.

The undead, just free of ice, hadn’t found their feet before that crystal storm ate them.

Their screams tore the air in ragged waves, like crows ripping a winter field.

The tornado showed no mercy, a grinding mill of ice that marched straight ahead.

Only a few high-ranked shades held on; the rest were dragged, torn, and ground to shards.

Seconds later, the crystal tornado reached the end of the freeze and erupted like a collapsing star.

The blast rolled wide, a white tide that erased every undead nearby.

Even the dozen elites who had endured the wind died in that glittering detonation.

Whew—so tired.

Her face went pale, and the ice-blue glow around her dimmed like a waning moon.

Yet she smiled, a thaw of spring, because the outcome beat her hopes.

Thank the Supreme Divine Elixir for leaving no backlash; without that, this war of attrition was a dream.

If there were only a handful of foes, she could dance and spend little, like a leaf in rain.

But against a million, maneuver meant nothing; only a head-on clash like rams on a cliff worked.

She uncorked another vial and drank; her state rallied like a fire catching dry tinder.

As she braced for the next wave, a bad omen rose, like shadow under ice.

Not good.

She didn’t think; she slid into Mirror Calm Water, mind flat as a still pond.

Her body tilted right a hair, and a black-misted arrow slipped by like a ghost.

It ignored time and distance, appearing from nowhere and shaving past by a hair’s breadth.

Too close, she thought, a knife of cold pressing the nape.

In Mirror Calm Water, her perception stretched far, like moonlight pouring across a lake.

She could feel the assassin that had taken a shot at her heart.

Not bad, came a rasp, that you dodged in this mess like a fish in rapids.

The hidden undead hunter revealed itself, a poacher stepping from fog with a hunter’s patience.

Black mist cloaked it head to heel like stormcloud, and it held an umber demon bow.

It looked ancient and secret, a fossil pulled from night.

Its strength wasn’t far above Lixue’s, yet it radiated danger like a knife under silk.

Who are you, really, she asked, brows knit like a drawn string.

A petty squad leader, it said, voice dry as dead leaves.

Then it vanished again, a shadow diving into reeds.

But that trick couldn’t fool Mirror Calm Water; ripples still gave it away.

It didn’t help much; the hunter’s aim was to stall her, a thorn in snow.

Its speed and footwork were sharp, a swallow cutting wind, and it was vexing.

More undead kept spilling from the teleportation array, like ants from a cracked nest.

She was pinned by the hunter, and the tide darkened like a stormfront.

Lingsaki and Lingxiao seem in trouble too, she felt, like threads tugged from far.

She had wanted their help, but elites had them tangled, like hawks in nets.

At this rate, a hundred thousand would soon near the pillar of crystal, a glacier toward a shrine.

If that happened, the aftermath would be unbearable, like flood through a temple.

She counted the time: about an hour and a half left, a candle with little wax.

Maintaining Heavenly Snow Dance Burial ate energy like a furnace; only the Mizumi Clan’s Supreme Divine Elixirs kept her standing.

Even so, to break this deadlock, she had one last card, the Icemoon Bow.

Once she drew it, even a pile of elixirs wouldn’t restore her within ten minutes, a fatal lull.

Ten empty minutes would kill momentum, like ice forming on a blade, and burden the sisters.

If I can’t cross this step, she thought, the Icemoon Bow won’t see a later stage.

No more hesitation; she chose to dodge the hunter and free the bow, like unsealing winter.

Suddenly, Wanling’s voice rang in her mind, calm as a bell over snow.

Don’t burn your trump card yet; you can end that hunter in five seconds.

How, she asked; its trail is sly, its speed like lightning, and my strikes miss.

In speed, it’s far below you, Wanling said, like a fox against a wolf.

Your flaw is prediction; you don’t read its next step clearly enough to counter.

What should I do, she asked, breath a thin thread in the cold.

You have one minute, no more; after that, draw the bow, a last bridge.

Simple, Wanling said; fuse Mirror Calm Water with Mirror Flower, Water Moon, and enjoy the surprise.

... Thank you, Wanling, she said; I see the path, like a track in fresh snow.

She breathed deep, and when the next black-mist arrow came, she neither blocked nor fled.

Her figure became a still surface; the touch made ripples, then her form dissolved.

Petals bloomed where she vanished, falling slow like spring over frost.

Powder snow drifted, fragrant and soft, a hush to the battlefield.

A pure white moon lifted, and gentle light filled the sky like gauze.

Starlight pricked through cloud, hidden sparks revealed by that silver mirror.

Such beauty lured the heart, like a poem rising unbidden.

What—?!

Swordlight flashed; beneath the high moon, the black silhouette split clean in two.

When the pink snow cleared, only a hoarse, startled echo scraped the empty air.

...