The Northern Peak was a realm of ice and stone, a towering behemoth that stood against the sky like an ancient sentinel. Unlike the temperate lands below, this region was harsh, its air crisp and thin, biting at the lungs of the unprepared. The wind howled endlessly through the jagged cliffs, carrying with it flurries of snow that danced like restless spirits. The path leading up was treacherous, a winding trail of frostbitten rock and sheer drops that could claim the life of any fool who misstepped.
Nestled high within this frozen domain was the Ironhide Sect, a fortress carved directly into the mountain itself. Where other sects favored grand palaces or sprawling courtyards, the Ironhide Sect was a citadel of endurance and discipline. Its walls were not built with wood or ornate stone, but reinforced with the very mountain it stood upon—its corridors chiseled from the rock, its foundations rooted deep into the earth. Unlike the decorative gates of southern sects, the entrance to Ironhide was a colossal metal door, thick and unyielding, standing like a guardian to those who sought entry.
The sect's training grounds were brutal—wide, open spaces exposed to the elements, where disciples trained their bodies to withstand both the bone-chilling cold and the force of their opponents. There were no luxuries here, no soft beds or silk robes. Everything was designed to harden its members, to forge warriors with bodies as tough as the frozen cliffs they called home.
At the heart of the sect stood The Unyielding Pillar, a massive stone monolith embedded with countless scars—marks left behind by generations of disciples who had struck it as part of their training. It was said that no one had ever managed to crack it, and to do so would mark the disciple as someone destined for greatness.
Batu, the one who had integrated with the Green Tortoise, was a product of this unforgiving land. His body was built to endure, his resilience a reflection of his homeland. Here in the Ironhide Sect, survival was not just about strength, but about patience, discipline, and the ability to withstand any hardship.
The patriarch and the elders stood atop the training grounds, their gazes fixed on the rows of disciples enduring the harsh drills beneath them. The sharp clang of fists striking stone, the rhythmic stomping of feet against the frozen ground, and the occasional grunt of exertion filled the air.
Amidst this, the elders murmured amongst themselves.
"We sent the invitation, but... do you really think they will come?" one elder asked, his breath forming wisps in the cold air.
"Highly unlikely," another elder responded with a sigh. "The terrain leading here is treacherous. It would take a great effort to make the journey. Truthfully, we should be the ones traveling to them."
"The patriarch did go himself," a third elder chimed in. "But let's be honest—he wasn't exactly welcomed. Then again, no one is granted an easy audience with the young master of the Immortal Sect. We could only leave an invitation and hope for their interest."
The elders fell silent as Batu stepped forward, having just completed his training. His breath was steady despite the exhaustion in his muscles, his chest rising and falling with practiced control. He bowed deeply toward the patriarch, his respect unwavering.
The patriarch gave a small nod. "Well done, all of you."
DONG!
DONG!
DONG!
A sudden, thunderous banging echoed from the iron gates. The sound sent a jolt through the gathered disciples, their heads snapping toward the entrance. The elders exchanged wary glances, their breaths momentarily caught in their throats.
The Ironhide Sect rarely received visitors.
Who would dare to knock with such force?
The Ironhide Sect's elders turned their heads toward the entrance, their expressions shifting between curiosity and wariness. The colossal metal gates, reinforced with layered steel and mountain stone, had not been disturbed in such a manner in years. The rhythmic, forceful pounding echoed through the entire sect, sending a ripple of unease through the disciples.
Batu, still catching his breath from his rigorous training, frowned. The sect's location atop the Northern Peak made unexpected visitors nearly impossible. No common traveler would dare make the journey through the treacherous ascent, and certainly not alone.
One of the elders, a burly man with frost in his beard, furrowed his brows. "Who in their right mind would come knocking at our gates instead of sending word ahead?"
The patriarch, Toghon, a broad-shouldered man with arms as thick as tree trunks, remained silent. His piercing eyes watched the gates, as if trying to discern whether this was an arrival of significance or an intrusion. He finally spoke, his voice deep as the mountain itself.
A lone boy, clad in a dark robe, his hair slightly tousled from the journey. He was relaxed, his hands in his sleeves, yet his presence carried an undeniable weight. His striking blue eyes scanned the Ironhide Sect's warriors with the sharpness of a blade.
Kazel.
Batu's breath caught in his throat. This was the only prodigies out of all, the only one, that made him fear his bone breaking in a single fist. And now, that same boy stood at their doorstep.
Kazel tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a smirk.
"Well? Aren't you going to let me in?"
The disciples stood frozen, their breaths misting in the frigid air. But it wasn't the cold that stilled them—it was him.
Some had been there at Scale Dalgona, where they had witnessed the impossible. Two sects erased in a single day. A battle that defied reason.
But for those who had only heard the stories, skepticism flickered in their eyes.
Was this truly him?
The boy standing at their gates was young, barely half the size of Batu, their strongest disciple. He didn't radiate an oppressive aura, nor did he carry himself with the overwhelming presence of a monster. Instead, he simply stood there, hands tucked into his sleeves, his sharp blue eyes calmly surveying them.
But for those who had seen his power firsthand, there was no doubt.
"Kazel?!"
The deep voice of Toghon, the patriarch of the Ironhide Sect, shattered the silence.
He didn't hesitate.
Stepping forward, his gaze locked onto the boy that had rewritten history. The young master of the Immortal Sect—the Tyrant of Scale Dalgona.
Behind him, the elders stirred, their expressions shifting from curiosity to shock. They quickly followed their patriarch's lead, stepping forward with respectful bows.
For the Ironhide Sect, strength was everything, both mind and body.
And today, at their gates, stood a force greater than strength itself.
"Welcome to the Ironhide, young master Kazel of the Immortal Sect!" Toghon's voice echoed through the training grounds, carrying both respect and intrigue.
Kazel offered a slight nod. "Thank you. I received your invitation, so I came." His eyes, however, shifted toward Batu, locking onto the strongest disciple of the sect. The Green Tortoise's host.
A smirk curled at Kazel's lips. "Batu, would you like to spar with me?"
The air froze.
Disciples stiffened, their gazes darting between Batu and Kazel, while elders exchanged uneasy glances. This was no ordinary request. This was a challenge.
Batu, still catching his breath from his earlier training, hesitated. A battle against him?
Toghon stepped in smoothly, breaking the moment of tension with a chuckle. "Ah, young master Kazel, we can certainly arrange that for another time. Surely, you must be tired from your journey. The Ironhide Sect will gladly accommodate you while you stay."
Kazel exhaled a light chuckle. "Of course. I'm not asking to spar right this second. But I figured I'd pitch the idea while I had the chance."
Batu let out a small, relieved laugh. "Hahaha, fair enough."
An elder stepped forward. "Young master, allow me to handle your horse. Rest assured, we have the finest—"
"No need," Kazel interrupted. "I came here on foot."
Silence.
Toghon, the elders, the disciples—everyone—stood stunned.
On foot.
Through the treacherous ascent of the Northern Peak.
This wasn't mere foolishness—it was madness. And yet, looking at Kazel now, the only sign of his journey was his slightly wind-tossed hair. No wounds. No exhaustion. Not even a wrinkle in his robes.
"A-Ah… I… Well, let's get you to your room first," Toghon managed, shaking off his disbelief. "It's astonishing that you're completely unscathed. The spirit beasts around these parts are relentless."
Kazel laughed, walking beside the patriarch, as if it was just another casual stroll.
Meanwhile, the elders were still struggling to process what they had just heard when a caravan arrived at the gates.
A disciple rode in on horseback, dust clinging to his clothes from the journey. Batu turned toward him, watching as the rider dismounted. "Thanks for the warm welcome… guys?" The disciple blinked at the stiff expressions around him.
The elders merely sighed and walked off, too drained to process any more surprises.
But Batu stepped forward. Something felt off. "Did you see anything strange on your way back?"
The disciple paused, eyes narrowing. "Funny that you say that." He swallowed before continuing. "This was the most peaceful and most terrifying journey I've ever had coming home."
Batu frowned. "Explain."
The disciple took a deep breath. "The entire path was littered with the corpses of spirit beasts. I suspect a higher-rarity beast was roaming the area. The whole way back, I was preparing for the worst, expecting to get attacked at any moment. But… nothing."
Batu's breath hitched. His gaze snapped toward Kazel's disappearing figure, walking leisurely beside the patriarch.
"Perhaps…" Batu muttered, his fists clenching. "It was worse than just a powerful beast."