Winter's end in Qinghe Village was measured not by calendars but by soil. Frost loosened its grip slowly, pulling icy fingers from the thatched roofs, and villagers rose before dawn, their hands already calloused from months of labor. The land dictated their rhythm, bending the strong, exhausting the weak. Li Rong, however, worked at its edge — neither fully part of this rhythm, nor entirely apart from it.
Behind his small mud-brick hut stretched a narrow vegetable plot. The fence was made of rough branches, uneven and crooked, but it marked his claim. Within it grew cabbage, turnips, and hardy greens, all stubbornly clinging to life despite the cold. The earth was coarse, more stone than soil, and the wind from the Cangyun Mountains bit sharply, chilling fingers and toes alike. Yet Li Rong's hands were steady. He drove his wooden hoe into the ground with methodical precision, the handle worn smooth by effort, sweat beading his forehead despite the winter chill.
From the village, distant sounds drifted on the wind. Most families labored by hand, though a few wealthier households used oxen to pull plows that groaned and creaked under the strain. Women bent over their small plots, singing simple songs, voices rising to meet the cries of children who ran errands or fetched water from the well. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the faint scent of millet boiling over fire, mingling with the earthy fragrance of turned soil.
Li Rong worked silently. Whispers sometimes carried to him:
"Too tall… too strange."
"Blood from outsiders. Don't let him near the seeds."
He ignored them, letting the rhythm of the hoe and the soil soothe the sting. In the coarse earth, he found a strange comfort — it demanded honesty. The soil did not care if he was ger, man, or outsider; it only asked for effort, for patience. If the world refused him a place, at least the earth would accept him.
By midday, he paused, wiping sweat and grime from his brow. Lunch was simple: a bowl of coarse millet porridge with a few wilted greens from his plot. No beans, no oil — luxury reserved for those who could afford it. He sat on a low stone, the wind tugging at his hair, and watched smoke drift from the village. Families huddled together in their yards, sharing simple porridge, their laughter a warmth he could hear but not touch.
Even in solitude, the inherited memories pressed against him — blurred, sad fragments of the original body's life. The previous owner had endured the same cold isolation, watching festivals from the periphery, knowing that each cheer, each drumbeat, each steaming bowl belonged to a world that would never include him. Li Rong could feel the shadow of those memories in his chest, heavy, yet he refused to let it crush him. I am not him. I will not break in the same silence.
He rose from the stone, returning to his field. As he dug, planted, and weeded, his mind wandered. The villagers' prejudice was expected, yet something about it made him wonder: how many of their warnings were superstition, and how many were fear? Fear of difference. Fear of strength. Fear of what he might become.
A sudden cry pierced the air — sharp, metallic. Li Rong looked up toward the Cangyun Mountains. A hawk circled high above, its shadow skimming the snow-dusted ridges. And then he saw it: a dark figure, tall and broad-shouldered, moving along the treeline. The cloak whipped like a banner, glinting faintly with what could have been metal. He paused, the hoe still in his hands, studying the figure. Not a villager, not a common traveler. The presence carried weight — a command, a history, a quiet danger.
The figure disappeared behind the trees before he could discern anything else, but the shiver it left crawling up his spine remained.
Li Rong returned to his work, but the sense of being watched lingered. When he glanced back at the ridge, the wind had shifted, carrying something strange — a faint whistle, almost like a signal, fading quickly into the mountains. He squinted. Perhaps it was the wind playing tricks. Perhaps not.
By evening, the village had quieted. Smoke lingered in the air, and the last faint embers of firelight flickered from the square. Li Rong, sitting at the edge of his plot, the soil clinging to his hands, felt an unfamiliar tension in the air. Something was out there, watching, waiting. And he could not tell if it was friend or foe.
The mountains, ever silent, seemed to shift just slightly, as if aware of him, as if the soil beneath his fingers was not only earth, but the first thread in a web that had already begun to entangle him.
And in that moment, Li Rong realized that the world he thought he was learning to survive in — the simple village, the harsh fields, the cold winter wind — might not be as empty, or as safe, as it seemed.