One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

A thin, icy blue line, so condensed it seemed to exist yet was undeniably real, capable of freezing the very essence of time and space, even solidifying light and sound, extended from the tip of the Snow Drinking Blade.

That thin line didn't "fly" out. It "extended" out—as if an invisible hand was pulling it, dragging it out of the knife's edge, pulling it longer and farther away.

It's not a straight line. It's curved—like someone drawing a glowing curve in the air. But the front of that curve always points to the "Tyrant," to the monster horde, to the "Mother Nest."

It spread forward silently.

There was no sound. No light. No temperature. Only a line—a thin, ice-blue line, as if woven from the aurora borealis. In the crimson hell, it stretched forward quietly, slowly, irresistibly.

Where the thin line passes—

Time seemed to stand still.

The space seemed to be frozen into a block.

It's not because some force is "controlling" time and space. It's because—it's too cold. So cold that time has lost its meaning, so cold that space has lost its dimension.

The "tyrant" was the first to come into contact with the fine thread.

The unstoppable bone blade—held in mid-air, blood still dripping from its edge—was instantly covered with a thin layer of transparent ice crystals the moment it touched the thin line.

Then came the entire blade. Ice crystals spread from the blade to the hilt, slowly but irresistibly. The blade changed from silvery-white to transparent, from transparent to milky-white, and from milky-white to opaque, jade-like ice.

Then came its arm. Ice crystals spread from the base of the bone blade to the forearm, from the forearm to the upper arm, and from the upper arm to the shoulder. That layer of mystic ice was no ordinary ice; it was harder than steel and more brittle than diamond. In the sunlight—no, without sunlight—in the dark red glow, it refracted a faint, chilling light that was too dangerous to look directly at.

Then there is its enormous body.

The "Tyrant," over four meters tall—the one that terrified the bald bear to the point of losing control of his bladder, the one that could fight three opponents at once and still dominate, the one that was almost invincible—was covered by a layer of crystal-clear, diamond-like, indestructible ice the moment it came into contact with the icy blue thread.

The image is frozen in the pose of a slash.

The bone blade was raised in mid-air, the mouth was wide open, and one foot was raised but not yet landed. Like a sculpture frozen in time, like a scene that had been paused.

The red light in its eyes went out instantly. Not slowly, but the instant the ice crystals covered its eyes—how it struggled, how it was unwilling, how it was angry—everything ended in that instant.

The breath of life came to an abrupt end.

Then came the swarms of "Rippers," "Screamers," "Shapeshifters," and insectoids...

All monsters swept by the icy blue lines, regardless of size or strength, instantly transformed into lifelike ice sculptures.

A "Ripper" leaps high into the air, its scythe claws outstretched, its body pouncing in mid-air. Ice covers its entire body, every bone spike, every bone plate, and every joint is perfectly preserved within the ice.

A "shrieker" has its mouth open, and a sound wave is still condensing in its throat. Ice begins to spread from its mouth to its entire body, freezing the sound wave as well—you can see a distorted mass of air within the ice, which is the frozen sound wave.

A "shapeshifter" is trying to emerge from the ground, half its body already above ground, the other half still buried in the soil. Ice covers the exposed part, freezing it into a sculpture half-buried in the ground. Its body is still writhing in the ice—no, not writhing, but maintaining the posture of writhing, every wrinkle, every protrusion is perfectly preserved.

A swarm of insects—thousands upon thousands of insects forming a black-and-white, still picture within the ice. Some are flying, some are crawling, and some are tearing at each other. Their wings, antennae, compound eyes, mouthparts—every detail is frozen within transparent crystals.

The icy blue thread continued its relentless advance, like the coldest scythe of death, spreading ever forward. Its speed increased, its range widened, like an expanding icy blue bubble.

It swept across most of the monster tide—those black, surging, boundless waves—which now transformed into a still, white, crystal-clear ice field.

Then--

It crashed hard into the base of the enormous "mother nest" in the center of the dome!

"Ugh—!!!!!"

The "mother hive" emitted the most mournful and terrifying scream in its history!

That shriek wasn't angry, nor was it violent—it was fear. It was the fear of impending death, the most primal, genetically ingrained fear of facing irresistible destruction.

Its dark red light flickered wildly—not in a regular pattern, but like a light bulb about to burn out, flashing on and off with a chaotic frequency that made no discernible pattern. Some areas were bright, some were dark, and some were completely extinguished.

Trying to resist—

The "eye" crystals lit up simultaneously, their dark red light shooting towards the thin, icy blue line, attempting to melt, dispel, and push it away. But the moment the dark red light touched the icy blue line, it froze—not blocked, but "frozen." The light resembled frozen rivers, suspended in mid-air, motionless.

But that chilling cold that froze everything, like a bone-deep infection, spread wildly upwards from its roots!

It doesn't envelop from the outside, but erodes from the inside. The cold air climbs up the "straws" connecting the mother nest and the blood pool, up the "umbilical cords" inserted into the rock walls and dome, and up every blood vessel and every nerve bundle.

A thick layer of shimmering, metallic ice covered the lower half of the "mother nest" at a visible speed!

The layer of ice wasn't flat; it was covered with fine, ice-flower-like patterns. These patterns extended upwards from the base, resembling a growing, upside-down ice tree, its branches constantly forking and spreading towards the top of the mother nest.

And it's still eroding upwards!

The heartbeat of the "mother ovary" began to become disordered and weak. The "thump, thump, thump" heartbeat changed from steady and powerful to chaotic and disordered—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes one beat followed by two seconds of pause, and sometimes several beats in a row.

The "straws" inserted into the blood pool froze and cracked, breaking off one after another with a "crackling" sound. No liquid flowed from the broken ends—because the liquid was also frozen. Those straws, frozen into icicles, resembled inverted stalactites hanging down from the bottom of the mother nest.

The surface of the blood pool began to solidify. The layer of ice started from the edges and spread towards the center, like a shrinking circle. The color of the ice changed from transparent to milky white, then from milky white to deep blue, growing thicker and more solid.

The entire underground space, starting from Nie Lingfeng's location, was instantly dragged into the core of the far north ice plains!

The temperature plummeted to an unimaginable level—not just tens of degrees below zero, but hundreds of degrees below zero. If Zhang Chulan were still alive, he probably wouldn't be able to unleash his lightning magic, because the electrical charges in the air would be frozen.

Countless tiny ice crystals and snowflakes condensed in the air and fluttered down. These snowflakes were not white, but ice-blue, each one carrying a faint glow, like someone had sprinkled a handful of glowing salt in the darkness.

Besides the monster and the "mother nest" covered in ice, even the surrounding rock walls, the bloodstains on the ground, and the scattered equipment were covered with a thick layer of white frost. That frost was not a thin, frosting-like substance—but a thick, hard layer, like a white armor.

The frost on the rock face was a finger's thickness; touching it would leave your fingers sticky. The bloodstains on the ground were frozen into dark red lumps of ice, making a "crunching" sound when stepped on. The scattered equipment was frozen into clumps of ice, completely unrecognizable from its original shape.

A knife.

The area is frozen solid for hundreds of miles.

To deter the "mother nest".

however--

The moment Nie Lingfeng unleashed that earth-shattering strike, his face turned deathly pale, devoid of any color. It wasn't a healthy white, but a deathly, ashen white. His lips were no longer purple, but bluish-green, almost blackish-green.

He swayed, like a withered tree being blown by the wind. He used his sword to support himself on the ground, and with a clang, the tip of the Snow Drinking Blade pierced into the ice on the ground, barely managing to stand firm.

A mouthful of blood welled up in his throat—the blood was warm and bright red, a stark contrast to his pale face—but he forced it back down. His Adam's apple bobbed, and with a gulp, a muffled sound came from his chest.

This single strike nearly drained him of most of his Qi and mental strength. His dantian was empty, like a dried-up well. The Qi in his meridians was like a riverbed eroded by a flood—cracked, hollow, and devoid of anything.

The backlash was extremely severe. He felt as if his internal organs had been frostbitten—not as if he had been punched, but as if something had exploded inside him, with every fragment embedded in his organs.

His veins throbbed with a dull ache, as if someone were pricking his blood vessels with needles. Every breath carried a metallic taste of blood, and it felt like something was grinding inside his lungs.

His vision was blurry. Not from sleepiness, not from exhaustion, but because his eyes were also freezing. Frost clung to his eyelashes, and the icy blue light in his pupils was slowly fading, replaced by a blurry vision, as if seen through a layer of mist.

But he knew that this blow was only temporary.

Although the frozen area was vast—within a radius of several hundred meters, it was all ice sculptures—the core of the "mother nest" was not destroyed. Although most of its "eye" crystals had shattered, dimmed, and gone out, a small portion—the largest ones closest to the top—was still stubbornly and faintly flickering.

It's only been temporarily suppressed.

Moreover, he couldn't withstand this terrifyingly low temperature for long. His body temperature was rapidly dropping, his limbs were starting to go numb, and his fingers were almost unable to grip the knife. He had to leave immediately.

He took one last look at the terrifying "mother nest" that was covered in ice and temporarily fell silent.

The colossal object, like a frozen mountain of flesh, stood silently in the center of the dome. Beneath the ice, the dark red light still flickered faintly, like a heart that was still beating.

He glanced again into the depths of the pipe. He could still faintly hear Zhang Chulan and the others' hurried footsteps and shouts—"Hurry! This way!" "Keep up! Keep up!" "Brother Nie hasn't come yet!" "He will, he'll come—"

No hesitation.

Nie Lingfeng forced a breath of Qi, but it was little, like the last drop of water squeezed from a wrung-out towel. But it was enough.

He turned and staggered into the pipe entrance. His steps were unsteady, each step sinking slightly into the deep hole, and he nearly fell several times, only managing to stay upright thanks to the support of his Snow Drinking Blade. He sped towards the depths of darkness.