The formation pocket tightened like a fist closing.
Blue lines beneath the snow flared brighter in a web pattern, thin threads of light running outward from the center of the depression. The cold density surged again—clean, brutal, and suddenly heavy enough that even breathing felt like pulling air through ice.
Lin Tian didn't move at first.
Not because he froze, but because he listened.
The snowfield had changed. The wind that had been whipping across the ridge now avoided this hollow, curling around it as if the air itself refused to pass through. The pressure inside wasn't just spiritual energy. It was regulation. A controlled storm.
Zhao Yuming stumbled one step, boots slipping on froststone hidden under powder. His eyes widened as his breath fogged thickly in front of his face.
"What—"
Xu Wen's hand snapped up, fingers forming a quick seal as he tried to read the formation lines.
