The winter wind howled through Dong'an's concrete canyons as Zhao Rui and Dun Che descended from leaden skies. Their arrival went unnoticed by bundled pedestrians shuffling beneath—mortals oblivious to cultivators walking among them. Zhao Rui's breath didn't fog in the -10°C chill, his threadbare jacket flapping like a banner of defiance against nature's laws.
Sun Xiaolan's parents nearly spilled their oolong tea when answering the door. "Xiao Rui!" The aging couple swarmed him with hugs, their wrinkled hands patting his arms as if verifying reality. Through their excited chatter—questions about his health, work, nonexistent girlfriend—Zhao Rui pieced together the mosaic of Xiaolan's life: chief resident at Dong'an First Hospital, still unmarried, still waiting.
He found her emerging from the hospital's glass doors at dusk, laughter trailing like cherry blossoms from her colleague group. Six years hadn't dimmed her radiance—if anything, maturity had refined her beauty into something timeless. The moment their eyes met, Xiaolan's medical charts slipped from nerveless fingers.
"Xiao... Rui?" Her whisper carried across the parking lot. Colleagues gaped as the hospital's "Ice Queen" launched herself into the arms of a man dressed like a vagrant.
Zhao Rui caught her mid-flight, inhaling the jasmine shampoo scent he'd carried through a hundred battlefields. Her tears seeped through his shirt, warm against skin hardened by celestial strikes. "I thought you were dead," she choked into his collarbone. "Three years without word... Do you know what that does to someone?"
Dun Che shuffled awkwardly nearby, his hulking frame drawing nervous glances from nurses. When a passing child pointed and screamed "Monster!", the ancient demon sighed, muttering about modern aesthetics.
Over hotpot that evening—Xiaolan insisting they visit her favorite hole-in-the-wall—Zhao Rui unveiled his purpose. The broth bubbled crimson between them as he described the Soul Rebirth Pill's requirements: Phoenix marrow from Southern Wastes, Frost Lotus roots guarded by Yeti clans.
Xiaolan's chopsticks froze mid-air. "You'd truly risk such dangers... for me?"
"Risk?" Dun Che snorted, devouring his fifth plate of lamb. "Last month he dueled Li Lingfeng in the Stratosphere. You're getting off easy with yetis."
The hospital resignation next morning unfolded like a theatrical drama. Colleagues gaped as their star diagnostician filed papers with dreamy detachment. In the staff lounge, whispers swirled—"Eloped with that delinquent-looking guy?" "Must be mafia!"—until Head Administrator Wang, upon seeing Zhao Rui's visitor pass, turned sheet-white and stamped approval without reading.
Yun Manor's gates rose before them at noon, steel jaws in a fortress of tradition. Security guards initially scoffed at the trio—until Zhao Rui murmured his name. Panicked radio static preceded a procession: Old Master Yun emerged flanked by heirs, his tailored suit at odds with the cultivator's frayed jeans.
"Little Friend Zhao!" The patriarch's grip trembled slightly. "Had we known of your return..."
Zhao Rui's smile didn't reach his eyes. The manor's qi felt wrong—stagnant, threaded with decay. Portraits along the hallway showed recent gaps where ancestral paintings should hang.
Tea ceremony formalities dissolved when Yun Xiong accidentally overfilled a cup. Amber liquid spread across rosewood like bloodstain.
"Where's Yun Fei?" Zhao Rui asked casually, noting the patriarch's flinch.
"Visiting cousins in Shanghai," came too-quick reply. Behind Yun Xiong, a young nephew mouthed help before an elder elbowed him silent.
Dun Che's nostrils flared. "Lies reek worse than hellhounds."
The temperature dropped. Servants froze mid-pour as Zhao Rui set down his cup with crystalline tink. "Honored Uncle Yun," he began, using childhood address, "does the Yun Clan remember who erased the Black Tiger Syndicate?"
A porcelain vase shattered. Some truths needed no cultivation to sense—the missing daughter, the guarded corridors, the fresh bullet pocks camouflaged beneath courtyard ivy.
Yun Xiong's facade crumbled. "They took her," he whispered. "The Violet Thunder Sect demands the Dragon-Phoenix Seal as ransom... the heirloom you entrusted us to guard."
Outside, winter's first snow began falling—innocent flakes obscuring bloody footprints leading to the estate's sealed east wing.