The clouds merged with the mountains; wind and frost turned bitter cold. The vast northern wilderness, heaven and earth, all white. For ten thousand miles, falling snow poured as if the sky were tipping over. Century-old pines swayed perilously. Layers of white frost piled up, seeming to bend the spines of all living things.
The great river meandered endlessly, its banks lost to sight, yet it had been seized by ice and frost, like a silver dragon caged and imprisoned, unable to stretch, forced to crawl beneath the sprawling white mountains.
Whoosh
A desolate wind howled down from the far north, stirring the clouds and lashing against men.
The long wind swept onward. it brushed past distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, crimson snow-covered battlefields, and corpses… finally, it engulfed a column hurrying across the ice plain. Accompanied by rolling, thunder-like hoofbeats, a troop of riders escorted several large carriages racing forward. Ice and snow were like knives, piercingly bright, yet freezing to the marrow. The trees along the riverbanks were already coated in crystals of ice, standing tall and grim.
The riders broke through the vast white snow, causing the ice crystals to tremble and fall, and burst into the evening silence.
Their destination was the great mountain city ahead, the Northern Frontier's Bright Mountain City (Mingshan Cheng).
Outside Bright Mountain City – The Refugee Camp
A few gaunt refugees huddled around a campfire, staring eagerly at the large pot roasting over the flames. The water inside was nearly boiling, releasing wafts of meaty aroma that made passersby sniff repeatedly and reveal greedy eyes. refugees squatting by the fire chatted idly about dull topics. If anyone approached, they would shout a warning; if the person dared to talk back, they would stand up. Several of them gripped sharp wooden spears, their eyes like starving wolves, gleaming with a sickly green. Most people avoided this spot.
The pot bubbled; the smell of meat grew stronger. They swallowed saliva, drool seeping from the corners of their mouths. Their gazes and their movements as they poked the fire grew increasingly frantic.
But then the earth trembled. Dark shapes galloping from afar drew closer and closer.
Just as these starving people looked up, iron-shod hooves had already shattered the crude wooden fence, leaped over a shabby hovel, and arrived before them. Refugees screamed and scrambled aside, but the pot could not dodge. Hooves stomped down, extinguishing the fire, overturning the pot, splashing water everywhere.
A perfectly good pot of meat soup rolled away and spilled across the ground. The pot tumbled a lump of meat, already so soft and that one could barely tell from the bone size that it had been a slab of meat. Then the following hooves crushed it into meat paste.
Rumble rumble rumble…
Not far away, beside a crude shack, a lean but solidly built youth, his frame like that of a lean tiger, pricked up his ears. He had been concentrating on an earthenware pot atop a simple stove, with some simple medicinal herbs scattered nearby. The medicinal liquid brewing inside gave off a bitter smell. Hearing the hoofbeats, he slowly stood up and looked toward the source of the sound.
The youth's disheveled hair hung loose. A blade hung at his waist. Thin flesh clung to his sharp, clean bones. Even though he looked like a skeleton, there was still a rugged, piercing sharpness about him. His eyes were extremely bright, his breaths long and steady. His fists were clenched tight, covered in tiny scars and calluses.
An Jing watched the procession of riders that had barged into the refugee camp.
The horses were all tall and handsome northwestern warhorses, long necks, powerful legs, strong chest muscles, and iron hooves capable of crushing any obstacle before them.
They stepped into the center of the refugee camp. The riders dismounted and began unloading supplies from the carriages, setting up a simple camp.
"Jing'er… cough… what are you looking at?"
Behind An Jing came a woman's voice.
"Mother."
An Jing turned his head and looked at his mother.
She was a tall woman with a strong presence. In this northern frontier ravaged by the Frost Calamity, it was hard to find anyone who wasn't gaunt and dispirited. Though she was thin, her eyes were full of spirit. This spirited woman could only lie on a blanket. Even speaking a single sentence made her gasp for breath and cough.
She had not always been so weak. Five days ago, on the road fleeing the wasteland toward Bright Mountain City, the group of refugees had encountered rampaging horse bandits. An Shen-shi¹ killed seven of the outlaws, but in her final exchange with the bandit chief, she lost by a single move and took a palm strike that damaged her lung meridian.
Fortunately, An Jing had dealt with his own opponent and then fought desperately to rush forward, tackling the bandit chief, strangling him unconscious with his bare hands, then seizing the man's own blade and decapitating him in one stroke, scaring off the remaining bandits. his mother was still severely injured. Now with her internal breath disordered and her breathing labored, in this refugee camp with no medicine and no food, no one knew how many days she might live.
"I'm going to see if I can scrounge up something to eat." An Jing turned his head and looked at the procession. He subconsciously licked his lips. The cold, dry lips were not moistened by saliva; instead, they split open from the movement and bled. He licked away the blood and said, in a slow but resolute tone: "That carriage train has food. Rice."
"Maybe medicine too."
"Mother doesn't have much time left…" An Shen-shi's eyes dimmed. She knew her son was looking for a way to save her.
Shen-shi's knew her own condition all too well. She was certain that without a potent medicine to heal her lungs and smooth her qi channels, she would last at most three days. In this northern frontier, wracked by the Frost Calamity and ceaseless war, even if there were kind-hearted people distributing relief, there would be no such good medicine.
She did not want her child's efforts to be in vain, to waste his time. She had hoped he would spend these last days by her side a little longer. An Jing had always had a mind of his own, even as a child. Seeing his mother's intention, he spoke first to cut her off. He picked up a bowl: "Mother, drink this medicine first."
"A decoction of crushed white-spotted herb and old-qi root. It's crude, but it can supplement some blood and qi, and smooth your breathing."
An Shen-shi took the bowl from An Jing's hand and drank it in one gulp. Bitter as it was, the hot medicinal liquid went down, and she did indeed feel a little more energetic. when she set down the bowl, An Jing had already stepped forward and was walking toward the direction of the carriage train.
An Jing was no ordinary northern frontier youth.
Since childhood, he had often dreamed strange dreams of countless tall buildings, towers and structures spreading like a forest, made of steel and concrete, each one taller than all the houses in his county put together, iron birds called "airplanes," soaring straight into the clouds, crisscrossing the skies, faster than all the birds in the mountains combined, and he dreamed of terrifying bombs, once exploded, they were like suns.
Hundreds or thousands of such suns blazed across the earth, nearly burning the entire world to cinders.
The Great Chen Dynasty revered the Mandate of Heaven. It was said that from time to time, stars descended to earth as mortals. An Jing, having awakened a portion of his innate wisdom. He had shown extraordinary brilliance since childhood, so naturally his family regarded him as a star come down from heaven. They gave him the best education, in both civil and martial arts. But no matter how strong a single mortal's wisdom and strength might be, they could not stop the vast Frost Calamity that swept across the entire northern frontier, nor the great army of Northern Barbarians marching south.
there were many things An Jing could not yet accomplish. His mother's injury was precisely the result of his powerlessness. But where there is a will, there is a way. Even if only the slimmest chance existed, An Jing would strive for it, to heal his mother.
Now, as he drew near the riders' camp, he heard a vigorous, commanding voice.
"Listen up!"
Among the troop of riders on their tall steeds, a one-eyed rider at the lead, dressed in bright, fine clothes, was shouting. Around him, the other riders all wore blades and armor, their expressions stern and murderous, gazing with indifferent eyes at all the refugees who dared not come close.
The one-eyed rider called out loudly: "My master is compassionate! He cannot bear to watch you refugees die outside the city. He now offers grain to buy your service—become a servant of my master's household!"
"We want only children, boys and girls, fourteen and under is best. If the aptitude fits, those under sixteen may also be accepted!"
"If you meet the requirements, each person is worth one dou of rice!"
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Footnotes
¹ An Shen-shi – In traditional Chinese naming customs, a married woman is often referred to as [husband's family name] + Shi (meaning "clan" or "lady"). Here, "An Shen-shi" means "Lady of the An clan, née Shen."
² Dou (斗) – A traditional Chinese unit of dry volume for grain. One dou in most historical contexts equals approximately 10 liters (about 0.35 cubic feet) and historically could feed one person for a few days, depending on the grain. In the context of this novel, one dou of rice represents a significant but modest amount—enough to be a tempting reward for desperate refugees, yet meager for a human life. The term is left untranslated to preserve cultural texture.