The Jade Frost Pavilion's inner corridors were carved from stone that seemed older than memory—pale blue, veined with threads of silver frost. Every step echoed softly, as if the walls themselves listened. Lauri walked between Mei and Yanmei, guided deeper into the mountain's cold heart.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Even the disciples watching from shadowed alcoves held their breath. Their presence was a silent judgment, sharp and heavy as winter ice.
Yanmei's steps faltered for just a moment. Her injuries weren't healed—only contained by force of will. Lauri touched her elbow lightly.
"You don't have to—"
She shook her head before he finished.
"I brought you here," she said. "I won't abandon you now."
The words struck him unexpectedly hard.
Finnish silence answered on instinct—just a nod, steady and grateful.
Mei noticed, her gaze softening.
They reached the Inner Hall.
It was not a room.
It was an arena of frost and faith.
A circular chamber opened into a vault of shimmering air. Runes glowed faintly along the floor—snowflake patterns repeating in spirals, spinning slowly like constellations caught in ice.
At the center stood a tall figure cloaked in robes that shone like polished winter. Every fold carried both weight and grace.
The Pavilion Master.
Elder Yao knelt.
Disciples knelt.
Even Yanmei lowered her head.
Mei did not.
Neither did Lauri.
The Pavilion Master's voice was soft but resonant, like wind passing over frozen lakewater.
"You are the one who carries the northern anomaly."
Lauri didn't know whether to bow or speak. He chose honesty.
"I'm Lauri," he said simply.
A few disciples hid startled reactions.
Mei smiled—small, proud.
The Pavilion Master tilted their head slightly. "And your qi… refuses obedience. It moves like ancient frost—slow, patient, resilient. That is dangerous."
"Dangerous to who?" Lauri asked.
"To anyone who stands near you during your awakening."
The air temperature dropped a few degrees.
Yanmei stepped forward. "Master, with respect—his meridian awakened under attack. He hasn't had time to stabilize—"
"That is why the Trial is necessary," the Master replied.
Mei stiffened. "What kind of trial?"
The Master turned to Lauri.
"The Trial of the Silent Meridian. A test not of power, but of control. Fail, and your qi will rupture. You will die, and the Pavilion with you."
The disciples did not gasp.
They had expected this.
Mei grabbed the Master's sleeve—an act that caused every disciple to tense.
"You can't force him into this! He's barely stepped into cultivation—"
Lauri touched her wrist gently.
"It's okay."
"No, it isn't," she whispered, voice trembling. "You're not ready."
He looked at her, really looked: the jade light in her eyes, the fear behind her calm, the unspoken bond between them that grew stronger with each chapter of their strange fate.
"I don't have to be ready," he said quietly.
"I just have to try."
Finnish sisu.
Finnish stubbornness.
Finnish heart.
The Pavilion Master raised their hand. Frost‑runes ignited across the floor, spiraling into light.
"Step into the circle, Lauri Kallio. The Trial begins when you take your place."
Yanmei moved to join him—but the Master stopped her.
"He must enter alone."
Yanmei froze. Mei's fingers tightened around Lauri's hand, unwilling to let go.
"Please," she whispered.
He squeezed back. "I'll be back."
She didn't believe it. But she loved the strength in his voice.
He stepped into the circle.
The moment his foot crossed the boundary, the runes pulsed—white, sharp, resonant.
A deep hum filled the hall.
Frost‑light rose around him like gentle snow.
The air thickened.
The Pavilion Master spoke:
"The Silent Meridian tests three things:
Your breath.
Your will.
And the truth you cannot hide."
Lauri closed his eyes.
Silence wrapped around him—not emptiness, but a silence full of meaning.
He recognized it.
It felt like home.
Like walking alone through a Finnish forest before dawn.
Like listening to the crackle of sauna stones beneath the hiss of water.
Like the heavy quiet after heartbreak, and the fragile quiet before hope.
Then—
A voice echoed in the silence.
Not the Master's.
Not Mei's.
Not Yanmei's.
"Lauri…"
His eyes snapped open.
The frost‑light shifted. Shapes formed within it—shadows that moved like memories.
A woman stood before him.
Tall.
Pale.
Beautiful in the way winter can sometimes be beautiful—sharp, cold, aching.
His mother.
But not as he remembered her.
Her eyes glowed with faint aurora‑light.
Her silhouette flickered.
She wasn't a memory.
She was a trap.
"Lauri," she said again, stepping closer. "Come with me."
His breath caught.
His chest tightened.
The first meridian pulsed painfully.
Mei shouted from outside the circle: "Lauri, don't listen—it's not her!"
The Pavilion Master's voice thundered:
"Confront the illusion or be consumed by it!"
The figure extended her hand.
"My son," she whispered.
"Come home."
His knees buckled.
Cold tore through him.
He whispered: "Mother…?"
The illusion smiled—too wide, too perfect, too hungry.
And then Lauri understood.
This wasn't his mother.
It was the enemy that killed her.
From outside the circle, Yanmei shouted:
"LAURI—OPEN YOUR EYES!"
He did.
And the illusion changed.
Not into his mother.
But into something much, much darker.
Black tendrils rippled beneath a skin of frost.
Eyes like broken stars.
A voice like a collapsing world.
"…You cannot hide from me."
Mei screamed.
Yanmei drew what remained of her sword.
The Pavilion Master stepped forward, frost flaring.
But they were too far.
Only Lauri could face this.
His meridian pulsed.
His breath steadied.
Silence filled him—
Not fear.
Not despair.
The silence of a man who refuses to break.
He straightened.
The illusion—his mother—no, the enemy—reached for him.
He lifted his hand.
White frost bloomed across his palm.
A circle formed.
A boundary.
A horizon.
"I'm not coming with you."
The illusion shrieked.
The runes ignited.
The Trial surged into its second stage.