The snow muted everything — the clash of steel, the grunt of exertion, even the thud of boots shifting for position. Xiyue moved like water under ice: smooth, relentless, cold enough to cut through stone.
Ling Han's glaive whirled in great sweeping arcs, forcing Xiyue to give ground before he could close the distance. But Xiyue's eyes never left him, calculating with every heartbeat.
Ling Han: "You've improved."
Xiyue: "You haven't."
A feint, a pivot, a downward slash — steel met steel, the shock biting into Xiyue's arms. He slid in under the haft of the glaive, elbow striking hard against Ling Han's ribs. The man staggered.
Xiyue didn't give him the breath to recover. His sword flashed, disarming him in a shower of sparks, the glaive spinning into the snow.
One step more and the tip of Xiyue's blade rested just below Ling Han's throat.
Xiyue: "Ruo Han. Now."
Ling Han's smile was thin, almost… satisfied.
Ling Han: "Take him, then."
He stepped back, hands raised, as if conceding. The surrounding riders parted — and Ruo Han moved forward, still mounted.
Xiyue reached for him—
The horse reared violently. A sharp crack rang out — the hidden crossbow bolt burying itself in the snow by Xiyue's boot. In that split second of distraction, the riders surged between them, shields locking.
Xiyue: "Ruo Han!"
He saw it — the hesitation in Ruo Han's eyes, the way he twisted in the saddle as the battalion wheeled and broke for the opposite slope.
By the time Xiyue cut through the last shield, they were gone. Again.
Ling Han's voice echoed down the gorge, carried on the wind.
Ling Han: "Victory means nothing if you can't hold on to what you've won."
Snow kept falling, soft and endless, as Xiyue stood alone in the white silence, sword still drawn.