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Lin Feng sat atop a weathered stone lion at the entrance of the empty fortress, his fingers tracing the frost-covered hilt of the Winter’s Sigh . He wasn’t a prince, and he wasn’t a saint. He was the son of a disgraced general, left behind to watch a border that the capital had long since forgotten.

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A lone rider emerged from the white haze. The horse’s breath came in ragged plumes, and the rider’s armor was shattered, held together only by frozen mud and sheer will. Lin Feng sat atop a weathered stone lion

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With a single strike, he carved a line into the frozen earth—a boundary no man would cross and live. As the horizon darkened with the silhouette of ten thousand enemy banners, the "useless" son of Beiliang stepped into the blizzard, his sword glowing with a cold, pale light that promised a winter the world would never forget.

"The capital thinks Beiliang is a wall of stone," Lin Feng whispered, his voice cutting through the gale. "They forget that Beiliang is a wall of men. If they want this land to be a grave, we will make sure it belongs to the invaders."

"The Northern Barbarians... they've crossed the Black River," the rider gasped, collapsing before the fortress steps. "The capital... they sent no reinforcements. They want us to die here, Lin Feng. They want the snow to bury the shame of their betrayal."