From the looks of it, he had been summoned to the Clan Head's quarters—but hadn't woken up since to respond to the call. It had already been six days. Yes, he'd been found in the icy outer regions a week ago by the searchers dispatched solely for him. Oddly enough, they only began looking for him nearly three months after his disappearance—and yet, they managed to find him at just the right moment.
Afterward, he was returned to the clan's estate: an enormous, castle-like structure built from materials that did little to keep out the cold entirely. Icy draughts often found their way into the innermost chambers.
To a passerby, the fortress would appear abandoned—ancient, imposing, and unwelcoming. But from the inside, it told a different story.
As he stepped out of his room and walked along the corridor, he was immediately joined by Young, who had quickly recovered from the heavy kick he had taken earlier.
The two were the only male youths in the entire clan. There was one other youngster, a female who was a year older than them—barely twenty-one. Of course, none of them shared the same parents, but by blood, they were bound. The clan was more a tight-knit family than a formal organisation, with just twenty direct members. The outer circle consisted of another thirty individuals, bringing the total to fifty—excluding the sparse workforce.
Even so, they remained the strongest clan across the Seven Continents. And one secret no one beyond their gates had ever discovered was that...
"Why aren't the windows shut today?" August asked curiously, eyeing the tall windows lining both sides of the corridor. They were usually draped in thick velvet blindfolds, but now those had been drawn back, letting cold air whisper through the stone hall.
Yet neither his body nor Young's showed the slightest reaction to the chill. Young rubbed his ankle with a frown before replying:
"I think today's for Cold Synthesisation—to develop the second baseline of our souls…"
August simply gave a nod as he walked ahead of Young.
Cold Synthesisation was a rare and ancient method used in their clan to fortify the soul. According to their beliefs, the soul had several baselines—invisible thresholds or foundations that determined one's spiritual resilience and power. The first baseline was formed at birth and shaped by one's natural affinity. The second, however, required deliberate awakening—usually through exposure to intense elemental forces such as extreme cold or heat. Developing this second baseline meant elevating the soul's capacity, allowing it to carry more essence, endure greater burdens, and connect deeper with its own potential.
They believed this process wasn't necessary for August. His soul was thought to be broken from birth—cracked beyond repair. And yet, the Clan Head held a different theory: that Cold Synthesisation might somehow mend his fractured soul. Strangely enough, this wild belief was turning out to be true.
They turned a corner and descended a set of massive double staircases, the steps were frosted lightly with specks of ice. At the foot of the stairs stood a grand double door—at least ten metres tall. They knocked using the iron hinge designed for that purpose and, upon receiving permission from a familiar voice, pushed open the door and stepped into the Grand Hall. It was largely empty.
Most of the clan, naturally, remained on the other side of the fortress. Only four individuals resided in this wing: Young, August, Carla, and the Clan Head himself. While the Clan Head's quarters lay deeper within, the three youths shared chambers above, in the level they had just descended from.
Finally, they approached another door—smaller than the former—after taking a short walk deeper inside. The familiar voice from earlier once again permitted them entry.
It was an office—sparse, yet spacious. At its centre stood a large mirror placed directly on the floor. Against the far wall sat an enormous desk, atop which rested a few worn books and a broken computer. Behind the desk was a single chair, and in front of it, two modest couches. Aside from these, the room was bare. A tall window on the left wall allowed a shaft of dull light to pour in, casting a pale beam across the floor and lending the space a quiet, almost forgotten atmosphere.
Inside, the Clan Head was engaged in his usual, peculiar ritual—praying to the mirror. His back was turned towards them, hands clasped in silent reverence. Once he concluded, he rose to his full height and turned to face them.
The two boys bowed respectfully with a slight dip of their heads, meeting the gaze of the shadow mask—the mask the Clan Head wore at all times. Since their birth, neither had seen his true face, yet there was no mistaking that a man stood behind it.
The mask was distinctive—formed of deep, overlapping scales, matte black in tone, and shaped with narrow, almond-like contours where the eyes should be. These eye slots, however, revealed nothing beneath. Among kin, he was casually referred to as Mask, but out of reverence, he was formally addressed only as Clan Head.
The mask bore no mouth opening, yet his voice passed through it clearly, as though the material itself resonated with his words.
"Good morning, my children. Where is Carla, by the way?" Mask asked, scanning the room for the young woman.
Young pursed his lips and shifted his gaze to the floor.
Carla had a notorious habit of arriving late—regardless of how urgent the summons. Whether she was still flamboyantly asleep or just beginning to wake, none could say. The water in their territory was often freezing, and even when heated, it returned to icy temperatures within moments. As a result, bathing was done quickly or not at all, and the clan had long since adapted to it. The cold elicited little to no response in their bodies.
August, however, had not bathed in over two weeks.
And yet—he did not reek.
This was not due solely to the frigid air, though it helped preserve skin and slow the natural emission of odour.
Just like every other Exalted, whether powerful or not, he was not entirely human from birth. Their kind—those who had awakened—possessed bodies that had subtly transcended mortal norms. Sweat, scent, decay… such things diminished as their souls evolved. His skin, like the others, rarely emitted waste, and his body seemed to absorb moisture from the air, cleansing itself in a slow, natural process. It wasn't a mark of uniqueness—it was expected of any who had stepped beyond humanity and awakened as an Exalted.
All of a sudden, the door creaked open gently. Young instinctively turned to see who had entered, while August remained focused on Mask, standing as still and disciplined as a veteran soldier.
Young, however, couldn't see who had stepped in—not until the door shut softly… by itself.
A chill ran down his spine. Unease settled in as he slowly turned his head back, confused by the calm expressions on the faces of the two already present.
"...Good morning, you two. And good morning, Mask," came a soft, low-toned voice from his left.
Smooth. Cold. Feminine.
Young nearly jumped out of his skin, stumbling backward. His eyes flicked toward the sound, wide with momentary fear—only to realise it was Carla, not some ghost or shadow.
Of course it was Carla.
It wasn't the first time she'd done something like this—nor the second, third, or even tenth. And every single time, she managed to startle him. Young didn't fear horrors, but he hated surprises.
Carla had a pale complexion—like almost everyone in this place. Her long, crimson hair fell in unkempt waves, her figure tall and slender, with striking facial features. At the moment, though, her hair was a mess, and dark circles drooped heavily beneath her eyes. She stared at Mask without saying another word.
Mask gave a light shrug and finally spoke.
"If you've taken notice, today is Cold Synthesisation. I expect all of you to let the chill seep in. It will allow your souls to edge closer to the second baseline."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"However, that's not why I called you here."
Then, he clasped his hands behind his back.
"You three are to be sent to Britain. The Lond Clan has formally requested our aid, citing the increasing appearance of Corrupted Souls throughout the state. These entities have begun sowing chaos—threatening to expose the existence of the supernatural to the public. A risk none of us can afford."
Shock flooded the room.
And for a moment, silence reigned.
The magnitude of the assignment was not lost on any of them.
Being sent beyond their borders was extraordinary in itself—but being called upon by the Lond Clan, the third-most powerful clan in existence, bordered on the unthinkable, especially for initiates still in the early stages of their path.
While August tried to process that, the strange system's voice resonated in his mind once again:
[You have reached Render Threshold 1: Body fortified, soul-reactive state initiated]
To be fair, it felt markedly different—unsurprisingly so. The system interface had been locked before his soul was mended, and with that came the integration of a new soul core…