He laughed at a joke someone made, the sound melodious and clear, throwing his head back with an unburdened grace that spoke of a life devoid of shadows.

Standing just behind his right shoulder, like a protective shadow cast by that brilliant sun, was Wen Shiru.

The Heir of the Merchant Guild fanned himself slowly with his golden fan. His smile was painted on, elegant, refined, and completely impenetrable.

To the onlookers, he appeared to be a devoted friend basking in Gu Zhiwei’s glory. But to a keen observer, his eyes never left Gu Zhiwei’s profile.

He watched the way the wind caught Gu Zhiwei’s hair, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he laughed. His gaze was heavy, possessive, and meticulously hidden behind the silk of his fan.

But in the far northwest corner of the arena, under the shade of an ancient Pine Spirit Tree, there was a patch of winter that refused to melt.

Xie Wangchen leaned against the rough bark, arms crossed over his chest. He wore the same white uniform as the others, but on him, it looked starker, colder.

The white tassel on his sword, Winter’s Sigh, danced in the breeze.

He was alone. The other disciples gave him a wide berth, instinctively repelled by the freezing aura that naturally leaked from his Flawless Ice Spirit Root.

They whispered about him, the "Monster" who had summoned an Ice Dragon, the terrifying genius taken in by the reclusive Elder Qin.

Wangchen didn’t care. He didn’t even see them.

His dark eyes were unfocused, staring at a patch of moss on the ground, but his mind was miles away, specifically, drifting back to the events of the previous night.

The memory washed over him, warmer than any sun.

Last night had been brutal. Elder Qin Changxu was a Master who believed in "breaking before building." He had thrown Wangchen into a medicinal bath that felt like boiling acid mixed with liquid ice.

It was designed to purge the remaining mortal dust from his pores and stabilize his new foundation.

Wangchen had dragged himself back to his room on the Eternal Cloud Peak, every inch of his skin raw and stinging, his muscles trembling with exhaustion.

He had collapsed onto his bed, staring at the bleak, icy ceiling of his new quarters, feeling the crushing weight of loneliness.

’Three months,’ he had thought, despair clawing at his throat. ’I have to be here for three months without him.’

And then, a soft creak had come from the window.

Wangchen had grabbed his sword instantly, killing intent flaring.

But the figure that tumbled through the window wasn’t an assassin. It was a slender youth in the gray robes of a servant, carrying a massive, multi-tiered food box on his back like a turtle shell.

"Oof! Talk about high security," Lin Ji’an had whispered, dusting off her knees. She looked up and grinned, that blinding, mischievous grin that shattered Wangchen’s defenses effortlessly. "Hey, Little Puddle. Miss me?"

Wangchen had frozen. He thought he was hallucinating from the medicinal fumes.

"Young... Young Master?" he had croaked. "How? The barrier... the peak guards..."

"I bribed a crane with premium birdseed and used the ’Void Step’ technique you hate so much," Ji’an dismissed the impossible infiltration of a restricted peak with a wave of her hand. She marched over to his bed and dumped the food box. "But never mind that. I saw your stats... I mean, I felt a disturbance in the force. You looked hungry."

She opened the box.

The smell of Spicy Spirit-Lamb Hotpot instantly overpowered the sterile, medicinal scent of the room. It was rich, fiery, and smelled like home.

"Eat," she commanded, handing him a pair of chopsticks. "It’s got Angelica Root and Wolfberry. Good for post-bath recovery."

Wangchen had sat there, stunned, while she fussed over him. She ladled the soup, blew on it to cool it down, and practically shoved it into his hands.

As he ate, devouring the food with a hunger he didn’t know he possessed, Ji’an had sat on the edge of his bed, swinging her legs.

"You look terrible," she had said cheerfully, reaching out to poke a bruise on his arm. "Old Man Qin is working you hard."

"I must get strong," Wangchen had murmured between bites. "To bring you here. Master said if I win the tournament in three months, I can choose my own attendants. I will bring you to the Inner Sect."

Ji’an had stopped swinging her legs. She leaned in close, dangerously close.

"Silly Puddle," she had whispered, flicking his forehead.

The distance between them had vanished. Wangchen could smell the faint scent of star anise and soap on her skin. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body.

"I’m not a piece of luggage waiting to be picked up," she had said, her eyes sparkling with a fierce, independent light. "I told you, I’m going to open a bakery. But before that... I’ll secure my own spot. Don’t underestimate the Kitchen Staff. We control the food supply. We are the true shadow rulers of the Sect."

She had leaned closer still, inspecting his face.

"You have soup on your lip."

Before Wangchen could move, she reached out with her thumb and wiped the corner of his mouth. Her skin was rough from work but warm. Her breath hitched in his throat.

She didn’t pull back immediately. She stayed there, her face inches from his, staring at his lips with a strange, contemplative expression.

"You know," she had teased, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "You’re getting too handsome, Wangchen. If you keep looking at me like that, with those wet puppy eyes... I might forget we’re brothers."

Wangchen’s brain had short-circuited. His blood, already hot from the medicinal bath, had surged.

His heart hammered so hard he was sure she could hear it. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to close the gap, to trap her against him, to—