The first strike came without warning.
Lan Xiyue's blade sliced through the snow-laden air, a gleam of cold steel aimed straight for Ling Han's throat. Ling Han twisted, parrying with a flash of his own sword, the impact ringing like a struck bell. Sparks fell between them before fading into the frost.
The fight was not a dance—it was a storm.
Xiyue pressed forward, each step heavy with controlled fury. His strikes were precise, deadly, the kind that left no room for mistakes. Ling Han countered with deceptive grace, letting the Alpha's rage drive him before slipping in with swift, almost playful thrusts.
Inside the cabin, Ruo Han stood frozen, bound wrists pressed against the window frame. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. He could see it in both of them—neither was fighting to kill outright. No… they were testing, measuring, each blow saying mine without ever speaking it.
Xiyue: "Release him. Now."
Ling Han: "Why? So you can take him back to the Sect that will break him?"
The words landed harder than any blade. Xiyue's strike faltered for a fraction of a heartbeat—just enough for Ling Han to twist in, his sword tip grazing the Alpha's cheek.
Blood bloomed scarlet against the snow.
Xiyue's eyes darkened. The thin cut might as well have been a declaration of war.
Ruo Han slammed his bound wrists against the cabin frame.
Ruo Han: "Stop it, both of you!"
Neither stopped.
They moved too fast for snow to settle on their shoulders, blades clashing again and again. Every blow was heavier, closer, their breaths mixing in short, heated bursts. Somewhere between the steel and the silence, the fight became something else—an unspoken battle for the right to stand at Ruo Han's side.
And in the storm's heart, Ruo Han realized something dangerous.
He didn't know who he wanted to win.