He understood immediately that these represented "loyal but weak" and "talented but arrogant," the contrast sharp enough that anyone could guess the intention.

The black tribunal's voice rose again, drifting across the illusions. "The third test is similar to your trial of character. In your sect, two disciples fight. One is loyal but weak. The other is talented but arrogant. Both approach you seeking justice. And from each of their perspectives, both believe themselves to be in the right. However, if you favor one, you inevitably render injustice to the other. You cannot satisfy both sides." The tribunal paused, letting the weight of the dilemma settle. "So tell me, Lan Zhen… in such a situation, whom do you favor? Do you still lean toward the loyal one?"

Mark didn't answer immediately. He stood with his arms crossed loosely, studying the two glowing silhouettes. Then, slowly, a small smile pulled at the corner of his lips as a thought came to his mind. He raised his eyes toward the tribunal, speaking with a relaxed confidence. "Your information is insufficient this time."

The shadows around the black tribunal stiffened, just subtly, almost like a raised eyebrow. "What?"

Mark continued, "You're assuming I must judge based on their perspectives. But if an incident happens, every person involved will always think they are right. That is the nature of conflict. Every conflict becomes two truths clashing. But I am the leader. I can not judge through the eyes of the disciples. I judge through my own." He stepped between the two silhouettes. "First, I must hear the entire incident, not the half-truths each disciple believes, but the objective situation. Only after I understand what happened from my perspective can I determine who is correct. Justice is not awarded based on loyalty or talent. Justice is awarded based on truth. Forget about loyalty and arrogance. Even if one is an enemy that harmed me before, and the other is a loyal one, when they approach me for justice, when they truly believe in my judgment, and when I am judging them as the Sect Master… I will side with the one who is right...."

The tribunal chamber fell silent again. The swirling paint-colored cosmos around them seemed to dim, focusing only on Mark as he ended calmly.

"Once I decide whose stance is correct, I give justice, impartially, without bias toward loyalty or talent. And only after justice is given, if my loyal one needs kindness or guidance for repetence, I can offer that separately. But justice itself must be absolute. So before anything else, you must tell me the facts. What exactly happened?"

The black tribunal did not respond immediately. The two glowing silhouettes faded, dissolving into wisps like evaporating mist. Then, the entire space shuddered again, and the deep voice replied, "There is no situation needed. Your words… are enough. That alone is your answer."

The approval was unmistakable, quiet, but heavy and absolute.

The red tribunal stirred for the first time since the riddle began.

And then the black tribunal spoke, "Now for your fourth and final test of the trial of wisdom..."

The world twisted again.

Mark's vision blurred, colors melting into streaks of white and blue, until the cold hit him like a hammer.

When his sight cleared, he found himself standing atop a jagged mountain ridge. Frosty winds howled through the ice peaks, carrying flakes sharp enough to sting skin. The sky was a dull gray blanket, and the ground below stretched into a vast white desert, cold dunes of snow and ice.

All around him… people moved.

They were all sect disciples. Hundreds of them in number. And their faces looked tense, exhausted, fearful, determined, and every emotion that came with war.

Some tended to the wounded. Some sharpened weapons. Some reinforced makeshift barricades of frozen stone. And some simply stared forward toward the horizon, as if waiting for death to march toward them.

Mark felt a weight in his chest.

This... this felt real.

Then a voice echoed across the sky, resonating deep in the marrow of his bones, from the black tribunal.

"You stand in a war that has already occurred, challenger. This is a memory of the Ancient War of Ice and Fire tribes. You cannot fight. You cannot strike. You may only command."

Mark's brows knitted together.

The tribunal continued, "Your task is simple. End the Battle. Whether you lose or win, it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is the result of the battle."

As the voice disappeared, snow crunched near him.

An elder appeared, robed in thick furs, beard covered in frost, with a face stern yet lined with worry. He bowed with cupped fists.

"Patriarch Lan," he greeted solemnly. "We await your orders. The Fire Tribes march from the southern dunes. Their force numbers at least six thousand. We… we have barely twelve hundred left standing."

Mark stared down the mountain.

In the far distance, like a line of crawling red ants beneath snowy dunes, glowing embers flickered.

No. Not embers.

It was flames.

It was like a red river of fire was approaching.

Mark exhaled slowly. "Give me the situation."

The elder nodded. "Their flames grow weaker in the current climate. Their breaths shorten, their bodies stiffen, and their movements slow. But their numbers… are overwhelming. If they push through one straight charge, we will be crushed by sheer force."

Mark crossed his arms and glanced around.

Mountains. Ice ridges. Frozen dunes. Narrow paths connecting one ridge to another like white bridges.

This terrain was perfect.

His mind spun through possibilities.

Prolong the battle.

Make the enemy exhaust themselves in the cold.

Split them, funnel them, crush them where they are weakest.

He turned to the elder. "Excellent. First order: pull back everyone from the southern ridge. I want no one waiting at the front."

The elder startled. "You want us to abandon the ridge? But that ridge blocks the main passage into the valley. If we leave it, "

"They'll take it," Mark finished calmly. "Yes, I know."

The elder hesitated. "Then why, "

"Because I want them to walk into it."

Confusion flickered across the elder's eyes. Mark didn't bother explaining. The elder would see it soon.

Mark raised his voice and shouted, "Signal captains! Full withdrawal from the southern front. Move everyone to the upper ridges. As soon as the Fire Tribes take the southern slope, collapse the snow banks. Trigger the first avalanche."

Soldiers blinked in shock, but they obeyed.

Throughout the peaks, horns blew. Disciples began moving in controlled waves, retreating along marked paths.

The elder trembled slightly, even though the wind was biting cold. "You intend to use the mountains… against them?"

Mark smiled faintly. "Mountains don't betray you, people do. Besides, the cold made this place our weapon."

Less than an hour later, the Fire Tribes stormed onto the southern ridge.

They moved like a blazing tide, their bodies wrapped in flames, their roars echoing through the snow. But close up, Mark could see it clearly; their flames sputtered in this freezing desert.

Their steps were heavy.

Their breaths were labored.

Their energy was cracking like old wood.

The moment they reached mid-slope, Mark raised his hand. "Now!"

Hundreds of disciples released icy blasts at the snow banks above them.

A thunderous crack shook the mountains at once, trembling the entire ridge.

And then, like a mountain god awakening, a massive avalanche swallowed the entire Fire Tribe vanguard.

Screams were muffled as thousands were buried under white death.

The elder beside Mark gasped. "By the heavens… You wiped out nearly half of their front!"

Mark didn't look satisfied. "Not enough. They still have four thousand left. Prepare the next deception."

*

The enemy regrouped.

More flaming bodies surged across the dunes, but Mark noticed their patterns. Their formation was loose. They were fierce but not disciplined. Perfect for manipulation.

Mark ordered a sudden attack at the western pass.

A small squad rushed forward, fired arrows, unleashed ice spells, and then retreated fast.

The Fire Tribes roared and chased… straight into a narrow mountain throat.

Mark whispered, "Seal it."

Boom.

Two ice walls slammed down like jaws, trapping hundreds inside.

From above, disciples poured cold qi downward, freezing everything inside.

The elder murmured, "You… you are making them fight their surroundings instead of our men."

Mark's eyes stayed sharp. "War isn't about showing off. It's about increasing our survival rate as high as possible and defeating the enemy at the same time. Let the terrain do the killing."

"But Patriarch… the history..."

"Follow the orders," Mark cut him off before the elder spoke of nonsense about history books, bravery, and such BS. He wasn't raised with such noble etiquette to think that way.

*

Night fell.

As the entire valley and mountains seemed to have fallen into silence, Mark's next move was launched.

"Send night raid teams that we put aside," he ordered. "Go in several teams, but only in small groups. Strike their camps, but don't try to kill or fight. Just disturb their sleep and try to burn their supplies."

The elder hesitated. "We usually avoid provoking them at night. And attacking in the night like this is cowardice..."

"And attacking us several times in numbers is a sign of bravery?" Mark said, using a stern tone. "Don't think about right or wrong. Cowardice or bravery. Follow my orders and win this war. We are going back home alive to our families, no matter what."

Under moonlight, twelve small squads descended the mountains. They shot freezing arrows into tents, collapsed burning wood onto supplies, cut water sacks, and vanished before the Fire Tribes reacted.

All night, the enemy roared in frustration.

Their morale fell.

Their unity crumbled.