The mountain roads swarmed with color.
From valley passes and frozen ridges, from abbeys cut into stone and halls suspended above rivers, the disciples and elders of the Nine Northern Sects converged upon Seafrost. Each came beneath the sky's strange pallor, the pale ring above the ocean turning fraction by fraction, dripping faint light onto the sea like melted moonstone. The bell-hum of yesterday still haunted the bones of the land; it made conversation hushed, glances sharp, footsteps quickened.
At the gates of Seafrost, banners were raised for each sect, catching the morning wind like the strokes of an immense painter's brush. Cold River's jade-green standard with its endless-water motif. Glacier Gate's crystalline sigil sharp as a spearhead. Cloudveil Spirit's white banner, wisps of gray ink flowing like drifting vapor. Frost Tide's storm-blue pennant embroidered with crashing wave-crests. Snowpetal Hall's plumes of white silk dotted with scattered blossoms. Ice Mirror Pavilion's silver-white, a mirror glyph fractured into nine shining lines. Moon Lotus carried only a simple flag of deep midnight blue with a white lotus at its heart—quiet, spare, yet striking. The smaller but proud Winter Reed Court and White Torrent Monastery flanked the circle with banners more modest but no less solemn.
The sect masters themselves entered last.
Shuyue, standing with Moon Lotus disciples, tightened her fingers around her sleeves as she watched them. Each bore the aura of a frozen storm held in check—immense cultivation compressed until it felt like the air itself bent to accommodate them.
Cold River's master stepped with deliberate patience, each footfall like the measured drip of water into a cavern. Glacier Gate's master was tall, skin pale as snowstone, eyes so calm that disciples bowed their heads to avoid being pierced. Cloudveil Spirit's matron glided like mist, leaving behind a faint fragrance that disoriented the senses. Frost Tide's elder looked as though he had walked straight out of the sea, beard still damp with brine, shoulders broad enough to carry a gale. Snowpetal Hall's mistress trailed petals of qi that fell and vanished before they touched the stone. Ice Mirror's leader looked no different from a scholar, yet even the lantern-light bent faintly around her, reflecting not what was there but what might be. The masters of the Reed Court and White Torrent were smaller presences, but their loyalty to the Accord was iron.
At the circle's center, Seafrost's columns stood bare against the pale morning sky. The elders formed a half-ring, nine points around an invisible axis.
Cold River's master spoke first, voice slow, water-like:
"The Bridge wakes. We must decide what answer the North gives to the sea."
Glacier Gate's master inclined his head. "No answer would shame us. To claim silence now would be to bow to fear. We must enter."
"Enter, yes," Frost Tide growled. "But not alone."
The Cloudveil matron's lips curved faintly. "You speak of our guests?"
Snowpetal's mistress spread her sleeves lightly, petals scattering. "The West comes whether we wish it or not. Their sails have already been sighted. Azure Dragon Sky Sect does not send envoys idly."
At those words, silence fell. Even the disciples arrayed behind the circle stilled, eyes flicking uneasily toward the sea.
Shuyue felt her stomach tighten. She had heard the stories: Azure Dragon Sky Sect, hegemon of the West, whose strength eclipsed entire Northern alliances. Elders there who bent lightning as easily as reeds. Masters who could flatten mountains by exhaling. And their Saint Realm patriarch, a legend who had not moved from his seat in decades because none dared threaten his dominion.
"They ask for parley," Ice Mirror's mistress said, her voice like clear glass. "They offer to cooperate, not invade. Should we spurn them, we invite their suspicion. Should we bow too deeply, we invite their command."
Frost Tide snorted. "And if their 'cooperation' is but a chain hidden in silk? Shall we let them set terms and divide our waters?"
Cold River's master raised one palm, quieting the argument. "Then we treat with them as equals. No more, no less. The Bridge has not opened for a thousand years. If the sea itself calls more than one shore, who are we to declare it our sole inheritance?"
Glacier Gate's voice was stone scraping stone. "And yet, we must not yield the right of first step. The Bridge rises in the North. It belongs first to us."
Disciples shifted, murmuring low. Shuyue kept her head bowed, but her ears drank every word.
Then Cloudveil spoke, gaze half-veiled as if listening to wind. "There is one thing we cannot ignore. Our strength is scattered, divided among nine banners. The West sends one. A single banner, but one that outweighs any of ours alone. If we are to meet them, we must do so in unity."
Her words stilled the murmurs. The Nine Northern Sects were rarely united in anything but shared dislike of interference. Yet now, faced with Azure Dragon Sky Sect, none could deny the truth.
Moon Lotus's elder stepped forward at last. His voice was soft, measured: "Unity, then. A pact. A set number of disciples chosen equally from each sect. None to claim more than another, none to bend the Bridge entire to their own hand. Let it be sealed here, under Accord witness."
The other masters exchanged long looks. The suggestion had weight.
"How many?" asked Frost Tide, folding his arms.
"Twenty," Glacier Gate rumbled after a pause. "Twenty per sect. No more, no less. Enough to honor strength, few enough not to drain our foundations."
Cold River nodded slowly. "Twenty. And if the West wishes to share, then twenty they may also send. No more."
The council's hum deepened, argument still thrumming beneath the surface but moving toward agreement.
Behind Moon Lotus's elder, Shuyue exhaled in quiet relief. Twenty. It meant she might be chosen. It meant she would see the Sea Bridge with her own eyes.
But it also meant risk.
From the corner of her vision she saw him again. Haotian stood apart, a masked figure half in shade, silent as always. Yet even through distance, his presence pressed like the weight of an unsheathed blade. She wondered—would he take one of the twenty? Would the elders dare stop him if he chose to go?
And if he went… what storms would follow?
The banners snapped overhead, hard in the salt wind. The sea boomed below.
The pact was forming.
And the Bridge waited.
The council had barely adjourned when whispers leapt like wildfire through the courtyards.
Disciples scattered to their sect lodges in Seafrost, carrying fragments of overheard words and half-finished sentences. By the time Shuyue reached the Moon Lotus compound, rumor had already grown teeth.
"They say Azure Dragon's Great Elder split a mountain with one palm," a Frost Tide youth muttered as she passed. His eyes were wide, his voice trembling between awe and fear.
"That's nothing," a Snowpetal girl countered, her sleeves heavy with faint lotus perfume. "I heard their Saint Son once fought ten demon beasts alone and bound their cores into a single spear. His strike turned a valley upside down."
A Cold River novice shook his head. "Foolish talk. The West exaggerates their legends." Yet his hand gripped his prayer token so tightly the wood creaked.
Shuyue lingered at the edges, pretending to be occupied with folding her sleeves, listening. Every sect carried its own version of the Azure Dragon's shadow, and all of them painted the same picture: overwhelming, untouchable.
She found herself at the edge of the Moon Lotus courtyard pool. The water had stilled unnaturally, its surface glass-flat despite the restless wind. Lanterns reflected back faintly warped, like visions caught in broken mirrors. Disciples knelt along the stones, speaking in urgent, hushed tones.
"They will take command the moment they arrive," one said bitterly. "And we will be nothing more than attendants."
"Better attendants than corpses," another replied. "Do you think we can oppose them if they demand the Bridge?"
Shuyue turned her gaze to the far pavilion. Haotian stood there, silent as always, his masked face unreadable. He had chosen a place apart, away from the babble of fears. Yet she noticed—disciples' eyes slid to him, even when they tried not to. As though his mere presence drew a thread of tension tighter.
Her breath quickened. Did they know? Did they suspect? He was no common disciple; even veiled, his bearing betrayed him.
A sudden voice rang across the courtyard, breaking the low murmurs.
"Cowards, all of you."
The words belonged to a Glacier Gate disciple, tall and severe, arms folded across his chest. "If the West is so mighty, then let them prove it on the Bridge. I will not bow before them like frightened sheep."
Murmurs surged louder. Some nodded grimly, others scoffed, but the Glacier Gate youth pressed on.
"I heard their delegation brings no weapons," he sneered. "Do you know what that means? They think their fists alone will suffice. They don't even need blades to subdue us. And you—" his gaze swept the northern disciples gathered—"you quiver before their arrival as if already defeated."
For a moment, silence. Then a Frost Tide disciple spat at his feet. "Easy words until you face one. When their aura crushes your bones, remember your arrogance."
The courtyard buzzed like a hive.
Shuyue's heart pounded. The fear was real, thick, and bitter. Azure Dragon Sky Sect had not yet set foot upon Seafrost, and already their presence distorted the air, dividing the North with nothing but rumor.
"Enough."
The word cut like a blade.
Every head turned.
Haotian had spoken.
His voice was not raised, yet it carried, steady and cold, across the courtyard. The Glacier Gate disciple stiffened under that gaze, though Haotian had not even lifted his chin.
"Legends," Haotian said, each syllable deliberate, "are weights for those who bend their necks. If you fear them, they have already won."
His masked face turned slightly, and Shuyue swore the very air grew denser. "If you stand on the Bridge, you stand. If you cannot, then step aside."
The Glacier Gate youth swallowed and said nothing.
Silence rippled outward, crushing the argument. Disciples shifted uneasily. None dared answer.
Shuyue's fingers curled against her sleeves. Her chest tightened. She had heard courage before, bravado shouted in training grounds—but this was something else. There was no boast in Haotian's tone, only inevitability. As though he were not speaking to reassure them, but to remind them of a truth already carved into stone.
She could not explain why the words burned inside her, equal parts comfort and unease.
The sea wind swept through the courtyard, chilling and sharp.
By the time she looked up again, Haotian had already turned away, vanishing back into shadow.
But the whisper that followed him clung to every disciple's tongue:
"Who… is he really?"
The wind changed at midday.
One moment it carried only the brine of the cliffs and the resinous bite of pine. The next, a new current slid across the air—charged, heavy, laced with something sharp that made disciples' skin prickle as if a storm crouched just beyond sight. The signal towers lit in rapid succession, flares rising from the cliff beacons and dissolving into pale arcs. A runner shouted through the courtyards:
"Azure Dragon sails sighted!"
Every sect moved at once. Elders filed to the Seafrost columns, robes stirring like storm clouds, their disciples arrayed behind them in uneven lines. The courtyard that only an hour ago had thrummed with rumor now felt like the pause before lightning strikes.
Shuyue took her place among Moon Lotus. She pressed her hands together at her waist, nails biting into her palm, trying to keep her breath even. But her heart would not slow.
The first glimpse came from the cliff's edge: a pale sail cut against the horizon. Then another. Three total, moving in formation, hulls low and sleek, each prow carved into the shape of a coiled dragon with eyes set in polished blue stone. As the ships cut closer, waves heaved aside not with noise but with eerie precision—as if the sea itself yielded to their passing.
Lanterns strung across Seafrost's columns chimed faintly in the gathering wind.
"Look at the discipline," a Snowpetal girl whispered behind Shuyue. "Not even a ripple wasted."
Shuyue said nothing. Her gaze fixed forward. She told herself she was only curious—yet the tightness in her chest betrayed her.
When the Azure Dragon ships anchored beyond the black tooth rock, their gangplanks lowered in silence. No heralds, no drums. Only a column of figures ascending the mountain path, steady, unhurried, like tide climbing stone.
The first sight of them made the disciples of the North fall utterly silent.
There were twelve in all. Nine disciples, their hair bound in silver cords, movements so synchronized that they looked like mirrors of one another. Their steps fell in the exact same rhythm—heel, ball, toe—each imprint spaced like a measured pattern. Their eyes were lowered, but the air around them shimmered faintly, as if the mountain itself bent out of their way.
Behind them came three elders. The first two carried plain spears across their backs, wrapped in azure cloth. Their cultivation leaked only in hints—ripples of qi that slid under the skin like cold water. The last elder walked alone at the head.
His hair was white, not with age but burnished by qi until it gleamed like static. His face was carved with lines of composure, no wasted expression, no flicker of amusement or disdain. His hands were clasped behind his back, sleeves shifting with the wind. He bore no weapon. He needed none.
When they stepped into the Seafrost circle, the sea itself seemed to hush.
Cold River's master lifted a palm. "Under the Accord, be welcome."
The Azure Dragon elder returned the bow without flourish, bending low, hands open. When he spoke, his voice carried with the weight of steady rain striking stone, filling every ear without force.
"Under witness, we come. Not to contest. To share."
The words rolled like thunder contained in a jar.
Around the circle, sect masters shifted. Frost Tide's shoulders twitched, but he said nothing. Cloudveil's matron's smile deepened almost imperceptibly.
Behind the elders, disciples whispered.
"They brought so few."
"Few? Look how the ground bends where they walk!"
"Is it true what they say—that even their Saint Son bows to no sect?"
Shuyue kept her lips sealed, but her chest tightened. The stories felt suddenly small compared to the reality of their presence. These were not boasts. These were not exaggerations. This was power distilled into discipline so refined that every gesture seemed inevitable.
She glanced aside—and found Haotian watching, masked, still as ice. He neither bowed nor turned away. His stance alone seemed to resist the atmosphere pressing over the circle. For a heartbeat, the air between him and the Azure Dragon elder quivered, as though two unseen lines had crossed.
The Azure Dragon elder's gaze swept slowly across the Nine. His eyes lingered only briefly on each master, weighing, assessing. Then, unexpectedly, his gaze passed over the disciples behind them. For the barest flicker of an instant, it caught on Haotian.
Something changed. Not in the elder's face—it remained perfectly composed—but in the silence around him. His step faltered half a beat before he recovered.
Cold River's master gestured to the stone table in the circle's heart. Salt and water bowls waited there. "Let us seat and speak of the Bridge."
The Azure Dragon elder inclined his head. He stepped forward, the other two elders following, their disciples falling back like shadows.
As they crossed the threshold, the lanterns strung between the columns all chimed at once. Their glass mouths sang discordant notes, sharp and warning. Shuyue flinched. Others did too.
The pale ring above the ocean burned brighter, lowering by another finger-width.
The Sea Bridge was closer.
And the West had set foot on Northern stone.
The circle of Seafrost seemed smaller with the Azure Dragon elders seated inside it. The pale ring above the ocean bled faint light across the columns, so that even the oldest stone bore a sheen like frozen steel.
Nine sect masters sat opposite three azure-robed figures. Between them lay the low table: bowls of water, salt, and sand—witnesses of the Accord. The disciples of the North stood rigid behind their masters, eyes lowered but ears straining. The Azure Dragon disciples stood even stiller. They might have been statues carved of storm and cloud, only their breathing betrayed that they were flesh.
Cold River's master broke the silence. "The Bridge stirs. None can deny it. The Nine have gathered to speak with one voice. The West has come. So let us place all words on the table and measure them cleanly."
The Azure Dragon elder inclined his head. "Then hear ours first. We did not sail with swords drawn. We did not come to command. We come to walk the Bridge with you. Together."
His tone was steady, unforced, but the weight of it filled the air.
Frost Tide's elder leaned forward, his cloak flaring slightly. "And what proof have we of this restraint? Azure Dragon's name carries thunder, but thunder is not mercy. Do you claim you will not overrun us when the Bridge stands open?"
A flicker of something like amusement passed through the elder's eyes. He rested one palm flat on the table. "If we meant to overrun, the Nine would not be enough to stop us. You know this. We come not as conquerors, but as seekers. Let the heavens judge whether my words ring false."
The lanterns strung between the columns trembled in the wind. Their chiming fell into sudden harmony, as if the air itself affirmed his claim. Murmurs shivered among the disciples.
Cloudveil's matron laughed softly, the sound like mist brushing stone. "Well said. But words alone are paper sails. They need mast and cord to carry. How do we bind this intent so none may twist it later?"
Cold River's master set his hand upon the salt bowl. "By number."
Glacier Gate's master followed, his voice granite-deep. "Each sect sends twenty. No more. No less. The Bridge opens to shared steps. Thus balance is maintained."
For a moment, silence. Then Frost Tide growled, "And the West? Do they also take twenty?"
The Azure Dragon elder met his gaze without flinching. "No more than you. No fewer. Twenty we send, and not one beyond."
The words fell like iron.
Snowpetal's mistress folded her hands, petals drifting from her sleeves and dissolving before they touched the stone. "And if a sect attempts deceit? To smuggle more beneath another banner?"
"Then they break the Accord," Ice Mirror said coldly. "And the Accord does not forgive."
All eyes turned to the bowls. Each master took a pinch of salt and water, mingling them into the sand. When the Azure Dragon elder followed suit, the grains hissed faintly as though scorched by invisible fire. The pact sealed itself into the silence.
From the terraces above, the disciples of nine sects drew in sharp breaths. Some were relieved, others resentful, but none dared speak against it. Twenty was law now.
Shuyue's heart pounded. Twenty. A slim chance, yet real. She could feel the weight of it pressing against her ribs. If she was chosen, she would walk the Bridge itself. If not… she might never see it again.
Her gaze slipped, unbidden, to where Haotian stood at the rear of Moon Lotus's contingent. Masked, silent, he seemed carved from shadow. And yet—when the pact was declared, when the bowls hissed with mingled sand—she thought she saw the faintest shimmer of light ripple through his aura, gone as swiftly as it came.
Did he mean to take one of the twenty?
The thought left her throat tight.
The Azure Dragon elder rose at last, bowing once more. "Then it is done. Twenty and twenty. Let the Bridge judge us worthy."
The sea boomed far below, echoing his words.
And above, the pale ring lowered another fraction, its edge nearly kissing the horizon. The Sea Bridge's awakening was no longer rumor—it was promise.