Starting as the heir of a marquis's mansion, I gained access to a summoning system.

The frozen tundra of the North. The biting wind.

There is no wind on this ice field—the wind is frozen solid, and it only comes alive when you walk over it, cutting along every inch of your exposed skin.

The icefield defense line defended by the Marquis of Weeping Blood had stood for over two hundred years in the wind and snow, now broken and dilapidated like a broken sword that had been repeatedly hacked and thrown into the snow. The black iron chevaux-de-frise, which originally stretched for dozens of miles, was now less than a tenth of its length remaining, with icicles and scraps of cloth hanging from the fallen iron stakes.

The marks of knives and axes on the ice wall overlapped one after another, new ones covering old ones, and new ones appearing before the old ones had even healed. A layer of dark brown blood had congealed on the surface of the frozen soil, layer upon layer, like some kind of lichen that would never dry.

Behind the defensive line, the remnants of the three thousand Bloodstained Army soldiers were still arrayed.

Everyone was wounded, their armor shattered. Some used strips of cloth to bind their broken arm guards to their arms, while others used their scabbards for support to keep their balance. But their formation remained intact; everyone's boots were firmly planted in place, and their breathing was synchronized.

Sixty-seven days of siege, sixty-seven days of shift changes without sleep, yet they still identified with the person standing at the very front.

Dongfang Wudi stood on the ice rock at the forefront of the defense line, his right hand resting on a jet-black battle sword.

That knife was called "Shattering Mountain," with a back of the blade three fingers thick and seven cuts on the edge.

He plunged the knife into the ice, using it to support the weight of half his body. His left hand was draped in a cloth strip across his chest, wrapped around his shoulder and wrist a dozen times. The blood that seeped from the very end froze into dark red ice crystals in the wind before it could even drip, hanging from the hem of the cloth strip like a string of silent bells.

His entire right arm was glowing. Dark golden lines started from his palm, climbed upwards, circled his wrist, ran along the outside of his forearm, passed through his elbow, and extended all the way to the middle of his upper arm. The hazy golden light could be seen through his sleeve, like a burning fuse buried under his skin.

His face was expressionless. His lips were chapped, his eyes were sunken, and a layer of gray stubble grew on his chin, but his eyes remained open, staring at the three figures standing in a triangular formation three miles ahead.

In the center stood a figure clad in golden armor, the edges of which gleamed with a dull luster in the wind and snow.

A scar ran diagonally across his left cheek to behind his ear, the flesh turning up to reveal a fleshy, reddish ridge after healing—a mark left by Dongfang Wudi six months ago. Heavenly Khan, Lord of the Golden Clan, at the initial stage of the Celestial Realm.

Half a year ago, he was slashed three times and retreated to the Golden City to recuperate for half a year. Now, his injuries have recovered to 70%. Although his aura is not as strong as it was at its peak, his divine power has not diminished in the slightest.

The man on the left was tall and thin, like bamboo, wrapped in a whole bearskin cloak that hadn't been skinned, with the fur side facing out, and bloodstains mixed with snow that had congealed into a hard shell.

Chief Chile broke through the threshold of the Celestial Realm in the Northern Ice Cave three months ago. He was a newcomer and his aura was still unstable. When his true energy flowed in his body, it still carried the raw feeling of someone who had just begun to understand the Celestial Realm. However, being able to step into this realm meant that he was no longer an existence that mortals could contend with.

The person on the right was completely different. He was dressed in a long black robe from head to toe, with not a single inch of skin exposed. His face was covered by a smooth bone mask, revealing only his eye sockets.

His eyes were a pair of lifeless, grayish-white pupils, unfocused and unfocused, looking at people as if they were lifeless objects.

The demonic energy surrounding him was alive; the black wisps of energy constantly entangled, tumbled, and inhaled around him, occasionally letting out a strand that seeped into the frozen ground, leaving a small patch of scorched black on the ice beneath his feet.

The three of them had been surrounding the Marquis of Weeping Blood's residence for a full sixty-seven days.

They attacked in shifts, day and night without rest. The Heavenly Khan attacked the left flank, Chi Le attacked the right flank, and the black-robed men specialized in breaking through the central defensive line. They changed shifts every six hours, giving the Blood-Weeping Army no respite.

Dongfang Wudi straightened his back with his battle sword, stood at the highest point of the icy cliff, and exhaled a breath of stale air. The white mist he exhaled was torn apart by the wind before it could dissipate.

He glanced down at his right arm. The dark gold patterns had spread seven inches above his elbow, another seven inches above that was his shoulder, and three inches beyond that was his heart. The backlash from the Demon-Sealing Bloodline never lied. Every inch the patterns spread, he was one inch closer to being "swallowed by the bloodline."

He swallowed hard, suppressing the metallic taste that welled up inside him.

Then he heard a voice.

"father."

The two words traveled close to the ground in the wind and snow, without being shouted, but the force was like a knife piercing through the entire wall of wind from behind, landing steadily and precisely in his ears.

Dongfang Wudi's shoulder trembled slightly.

He turned around.

Amidst the swirling snowflakes, a figure in dark ink is treading on the ice.

Her cloak was torn into a vertical flag by the north wind, and her long hair, reaching her waist, spread out in a patch of black behind her.

The boy's face hadn't changed much compared to six months ago; his jawline had hardened a bit, and his brow bones were higher. But what had truly changed were his eyes—those eyes now held a layer of dark golden light, not reflected, but emanating from the depths, like two bronze lamps that had been submerged in an abyss for a thousand years without going out.

His steps were slow. But with each step he took, the ice beneath his feet cracked in a spiderweb pattern, and the snow within a hundred feet radius was shaken by the energy, rising three feet into the air, like a snow wall clearing a path for him.

Grandmaster, peak of the ninth level.

Dongfang Wudi watched his son approach and a slight twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. He wanted to laugh, but sixty-seven days of fierce fighting had left his throat so dry that he couldn't utter a sound of laughter.

Finally, he squeezed out a "hmm" from his nose. It was short and deep, like a stone falling into water, making no splash but still producing a sound.

Dongfang Weiwo walked to his father's side and stood still, without bowing or speaking. His position blocked the wind, shielding his father from about 70% of the oncoming snow. His gaze passed over his father's shoulder and landed on the three figures on the opposite side of the icy plain.

It paused for a moment on the Heavenly Khan. It paused for a moment on Chile. Then it settled on the man in black robes.

"Demons."

He said. It's not a question.

The black-robed man's gray-white eyes rolled, like two round pebbles being poked around.

The gaze lingered on Dongfang Weiwo for a moment, still devoid of emotion—like a cat sizing up an approaching mouse and then noticing that the mouse's size was a bit off.

The Heavenly Khan spoke first. His voice was deep and resonant, like a drum covered in tin that had been struck heavily: "Young man from the Dongfang family."

He looked down at the boy on the ice cliff, the golden armor plates rustling softly in the wind and snow. "Your father held out for two months. What use is a mere brat like you? Go back and call your ancestors out—"

"Shut up."

Two words. No high notes, no cracking, just a steady, even delivery from Dongfang Weiwo's lips, as ordinary as placing a cup on a table.

But everyone present heard what was implied in those two words.

The three-foot-wide ice surface collapsed silently beneath his feet. A dark golden aura condensed into a visible ripple around him, spreading outwards and evaporating the snow in its path into white mist.

Dongfang Weiwo drew his sword.

The moment the Frostbite Sword was drawn, the wind and snow within a hundred feet radius suddenly stopped. The sword was as clear as ice, yet its blade flowed with a dark golden light, casting a faint bronze hue over the entire world.

There are no superfluous carvings on the blade, only a thin line running from the guard straight to the tip, like a solidified blood vessel.

He took a step forward, sword in hand. With that step, the frozen earth beneath his feet caved in, creating a three-foot-deep crater with a muffled sound, like a hammer striking a nailed coffin. The dark golden aura suddenly expanded, transforming into a tangible wave that pressed directly towards the three people in front of him.

The Khan's expression changed.

He had seen the invincible blade of the East, and all the things that could kill in the snowstorms of the North.

But the aura that the young man in front of him was pressing down with a sword contained a kind of pressure that he had never felt before—the sharpness of a Grandmaster at the peak of the ninth level, just half a step away from touching the Celestial Realm, plus the power of the Demon-Sealing Bloodline that all demons instinctively rejected.

He took a step back.

The heels of the golden armor crushed the ice beneath their feet, but the step back was real, shifting the body's true center of gravity backward.

The Heavenly Khan fought on the battlefield for decades, rising from a tribal chief to the supreme ruler of the Golden Clan, never easily retreating even a single step. But this time, he did retreat.

Chile did not retreat, but his bone staff trembled.

The three eerie green beads embedded in the staff head flickered wildly, like three insects trapped in amber crashing against a wall. His knuckles gripping the staff turned white, and veins bulged on his forehead—a warning sign from the newly ascended Celestial Being whose unstable state was being suppressed by the aura of a stronger being.

The demonic energy surrounding the black-robed man suddenly contracted. The black wisps of energy that had been swirling and twisting wildly suddenly clung to his body the moment the aura of the Demon-Sealing Bloodline rushed towards him, curling up like living creatures, like snakes encountering fire.

He took a big step back, and for the first time, his gray eyes focused, locking onto Dongfang Weiwo.

But it was too late.

Dongfang Weiwo swept across the narrow gap of only five feet between the Heavenly Khan and Chile.

The Frost Sword slashed out diagonally from his hand at an almost unreasonable angle—the blade grazed the tip of the Crimson Bone Staff, leaving a white mark on the three eerie green beads on the staff head, before passing through the gap and piercing straight into the black-robed man's chest.

The man in black robes opened his mouth. A crack appeared at the jaw of the bone mask, from which a hoarse, short syllable was squeezed out, like the last word cut off in some ancient language.

He formed a shield of black energy in front of him with both hands.

But the moment the dark golden light on the Frost Sword touched the demonic shield, the entire shield melted away like thin ice under the scorching sun.

The black wisps of air hissed and evaporated completely, while the sword pierced through the shield, the black robe, and his left chest without any resistance, revealing a three-inch gleam from behind.

A drop of black blood clung to the tip of the sword. The blood didn't freeze in the wind and snow; instead, it slowly trickled down the spine of the sword, as if it were alive.

The world was silent for three full breaths.