At the summit of a mountain in the North Sea, where ten thousand years of snow have accumulated. Sunlight pouring through the clouds illuminates a small pavilion atop the snowy peak, creating a mystical atmosphere.

An endless snowfield stretched out in all directions. The mountain range, where thousands of layers of snow had piled up, was as silent as if the world had frozen the moment it stopped breathing long ago, and the wind faintly shook the wind chimes at the edge of the eaves, carrying a sharp edge of frost. The clear sound of the bell scattered along the distant valley before sinking into the snowstorm.

The pillars of the pavilion bore traces of enduring hundreds of years of wind and snow, but the ice covering them shone transparently as if coated in crystal. The icicles hanging from each roof edge held a blue glow in the sunlight, and the snow piled on the stairs remained pure white, without a single footprint allowed.

In that place where even the boundary between heaven and earth became blurred, even time seemed to freeze slowly. A human's breath scattered into white mist in an instant, and everything was so quiet that a single footstep could break the silence of the entire snowy mountain. The noise of the world had already ceased below the mountain, and only the snow, the wind, and the silence that had guarded the mountain for a long time remained here.

There was a Young Lord who practiced his sword today as well, heading towards discipline and enlightenment through the rugged mountain range.

The freezing snow-wind blew as if to tear his collar, but the tip of the Young Lord's sword did not waver in the slightest. Every time he inhaled, the air froze white, and every time he swung his sword, the moisture in the air wove together like thread, blooming faint frost flowers. With a single footwork, the accumulated snow of decades cracked minutely, and the scattered snowflakes rose into the sky, drawing a circle along the sword pressure.

The sword of the North Sea Ice Palace did not exist to cut someone. Like freezing a flowing river, or calming boiling blood, it was a way to first aim at one's own mental image. That is why the Young Lord repeated the same form thousands of times a day. His body already remembered the sword path, but his heart had not yet fully grasped even a single snowflake.

Beneath his feet, old sword marks were engraved in layers. While the seasons changed countless times, the snow covered those traces, and the wind revealed them again. The traces that seemed to have disappeared did not ultimately vanish. As if training is not the act of accumulating enlightenment, but the process of constantly facing one's covered self again.

At that moment, a gust of wind blowing along the ridge rang the pavilion's wind chime. As the clear and long resonance spread across the snowy mountain, the Young Lord slowly withdrew his sword. At the end of his gaze as he opened his closed eyes, an endless snowfield unfolded. The pure white world was silent as if it held nothing, but in that silence, the breath of the Ice Palace that had continued for hundreds of years, and an unnamed enlightenment, slept quietly.