“Up. You here to play? Both hands on the spear, all slack—trying to mess with gods and fiends?” Xuewei’s glare was winter frost laying flat over Yanfengle.

Yanfengle’s early excitement ebbed like a tide; now he looked ready to bolt like a rabbit under hail.

Wasn’t he the protagonist in a different world? Why did fists rain on him every day like monsoon?

From the start, Yanfengle lunged with his spear, wind in his feet, and saw Ling Xuewei poised to flick his weapon aside.

He remembered that footwork from before, gripped with both hands, and stopped like a stag at a cliff.

He didn’t expect Teacher Ling Xuewei to flick him up like a leaf in a gust, then chop down and pin him to the earth like a stake.

“…Why is a 1.6-meter pretty girl hitting harder than a 2-meter slab of muscle?” Even giant Goblins hadn’t rag-dolled him like a kite in a storm.

“Up. Again. Take your… fight!” Xuewei’s voice rang like a bronze bell in cold air.

“…You were about to say ‘take a beating,’ right?” His words rustled like a dry leaf skidding across stone.

He swallowed his dread like bitter tea and had to go in, neck stiff as a turtle shell in rain.

The scene turned ugly, thunder under a tarp: Yanfengle got flicked, kicked, and rolled, crawling like a crab in surf.

Teacher Ling Xuewei never planned to send him down; her gaze stayed sharp as a hawk over barley.

At last, Yanfengle walked off blue and purple like bruised twilight clouds, pockets full of advice he didn’t want to touch yet.

This wasn’t the otherworld he wanted; over here, beauties were bruisers, a garden of thorns in silk.

Keep this up and he’d catch a phobia of pretty girls, like seeing snow and thinking of knives.

“Next.” Fresh from a bout, Ling Xuewei’s mood was a breeze after rain.

This time, Qianya stepped forward, calm as a willow in spring.

“Qianya, female. Pleased to learn.” She dipped her head, eyes clear as a still lake, and met Xuewei’s gaze.

Xuewei found that attitude acceptable, a mild wind over hot tea.

“Then let’s begin.” She flicked her long spear, the shaft flowing behind her like a dragon’s tail.

“Mm, pardon my offense.” Qianya began to chant, syllables like beads rolling on a silk string.

If the teacher wanted to pose, she’d stack a few buffs first, mist swirling off a river.

Ling Xuewei wouldn’t give her the chance; she flash-stepped in with a whoosh, spear sweeping like a crescent of wind.

Judging from Yanfengle’s flight, this sweep would throw her three meters, like a net casting fish.

But the sweep cut empty air, a blade through fog; it didn’t land.

Her shaft passed straight through Qianya’s phantom, a mirage like heat over sand.

“Interesting…” Ling Xuewei turned toward Qianya behind her, cat’s eyes catching moonlight. “Your reaction’s quick.”

“Not really, Teacher, you flatter me.” Qianya’s smile was soft rain on stone. “It’s just a trap spell, not teleport.”

“…?” Ling Xuewei blinked, then sighed and tapped her brow, resigned as snow on a sleeve.

Boom—an explosion blossomed at her feet like thunder cracking a frozen pond.

“Forget it, you pass.” Ling Xuewei dusted her hands, chalk drifting like pollen; Qianya’s experience matched a proper mage’s.

She likely had a good teacher in the past; in a crowd test like this, Ling Xuewei chose to skip heavy lectures, a sparrow saving breath.

“Thank you for your hard work, Teacher.” Qianya bowed, a willow bending to wind, and returned to the line.

“Next…”

The students after that—Lan’er among them—went up one by one and took their bitter medicine, hammered like steel in a forge.

They looked ragged as travelers after a sandstorm, but they learned the real stuff; that beating sat straight in their bones.

So, it was my turn, a pebble sinking in a deep bowl of water.

“…What are you doing? No self-intro?” Xuewei’s look tangled like thread; she’d met this girl many times and held words back like smoke.

“Qingsheng Tangxue. A student.” My face stayed calm as covered snow while I looked at my once-little sister.

Truth is, I didn’t know how to face her; old scenes rose like lanterns, too familiar, too tender, aching.

A dozen years had flowed like a river; what had I been doing, and what had she been doing?

“Really… that simple? Fine, let’s start.” Xuewei set her spear, storm coiled tighter than before.

“Mm.” I let silence fall like frost; some things are best spoken in the language of strikes.

I planted both hands and laid down an ice floor, glassed winter spreading like a mirror across the ground.

I’d already noticed: Xuewei was in high heels, stiletto needles clicking like cicadas on stone.

She was just a child in my memory, but she wore those things; heat pricked my chest like a thorn, and I’d teach her proper.

Heh—let’s see you fight me on ice in high heels, moonlight skating under your feet.

I was born to the far north; ice floors are home, a road of silver. Xuewei wasn’t the same, steps catching like a deer on slick rock.

She’d never thought a student would snag her high heels and turn them into shackles, frost chains glittering underfoot.

I couldn’t use a sword; that would give me away like a stamp on wet clay. So, spear it is.

Perfect time to try the Merfolk royal spearwork Dreamsound taught me, tides singing in the wrist.

I condensed an ice spear in my right hand, white breath whirling like winter smoke.

Faces around me shifted, color draining like rain from paper; Yanfengle looked torn, pity salted with mischief.

Off to the side, Xuewei’s expression darkened, clouds gathering low; a spear and an ice floor—what was this mess?

“Teacher… about my spearwork, please advise~” Qingsheng Tangxue smiled, playful as a crescent moon peeking through drifting snow.