Cloud and mountain were one color, wind and frost equally bitter. Across the boundless northern plain, heaven and earth were white.
Ten thousand li of flying snow fell as if the heavens had tipped over. Even century-old pines swayed as though they might fall. Layer upon layer of white frost piled up, seeming ready to bend the backs of all living things.
The great river wound and heaved, stretching beyond sight, but frost and ice had frozen it fast. Like a silver dragon trapped in a cage, it could not spread out and could only crouch beneath the endless white mountains.
Whoo—
A shrill wind came from the far north, stirring the clouds and beating against people.
The long gale swept onward.
It passed over distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, blood-red snowy battlefields and corpses... and finally enveloped a column hurrying across the ice field.
To the thunder of rolling hooves, a band of riders escorted several large carts at a gallop.
Snow and ice were like knives, always bright and keen, yet cold to the marrow. The trees along both banks were coated with ice crystals, standing solemn and grim.
The riders broke through the vast snow, making ice crystals tremble and fall as they burst into the quiet dusk.
Their destination was the great mountain-backed city ahead—Mingshan City in the northern frontier.
Outside Mingshan City lay a refugee camp.
Several gaunt refugees gathered around a bonfire, staring eagerly at the large pot set over the flames.
The water inside was close to boiling, giving off waves of meaty aroma. Passersby kept sniffing, their eyes greedy.
The refugees crouched by the fire, chatting desultorily about boring things. When someone approached, they shouted at them; if anyone dared talk back, they stood up.
Several of them clutched sharp wooden spears, their eyes wolfish and gleaming faint green. Most people avoided that spot.
The soup boiled, the meaty smell grew stronger. They swallowed, drool sliding from their mouths, their gazes and poking of the fire increasingly urgent.
But as the earth trembled, the dark shapes racing from afar drew closer.
By the time the starving people looked up, iron-shod hooves had already smashed through the crude wooden fence, leaped over the wretched hovels, and come before them.
The refugees screamed and dodged, but the pot could not. Hooves came down, stamped out the fire, overturned the pot, and sent water splashing.
A perfectly good pot of meat soup rolled aside and spilled across the ground.
A lump of meat fell from the pot, already so tender it had collapsed. Only from the size of its bones could one barely tell it was a length of rice-meat.
Then the following hooves trampled it into paste.
Rumble rumble rumble...
At a hovel not far away, a youth pricked up his ears. He was slender, but his bones were strong, like a lean tiger.
He had been staring intently at an earthen pot on a simple stove. Crude herbs lay scattered beside him, and the decoction in the pot gave off a bitter smell.
Hearing the hooves, he slowly rose and looked toward the sound.
The youth's hair was loose, a saber at his waist. Thin flesh clung to his sharp bones. Though he looked like a skeleton, there was a gaunt fierceness about him.
His eyes were extraordinarily bright, his breath long. His fists were clenched, covered in tiny scars and calluses.
An Jing stared fixedly at the riders who had broken into the refugee camp.
The horses were tall, handsome northwestern warhorses, with long necks, powerful legs, strong chests, and iron hooves that could crush any obstacle daring to stand before them.
They rode into the center of the refugee camp. The riders dismounted and began carrying supplies down from the carts, setting up a simple camp.
'Jing'er, cough cough, what are you looking at?'
A woman's voice came from behind An Jing.
'Mother.'
An Jing turned to look at his mother.
She was a tall woman with a dignified air. In this northern frontier ravaged by the Frost Tribulation, it was hard to find anyone not gaunt and dispirited. She was thin, but her eyes were full of spirit.
Yet this spirited woman could only lie on a blanket. Even speaking required her to gasp and cough.
She had not always been so weak. Five days ago, while fleeing the wasteland toward Mingshan City, the refugee column had been attacked by rampaging horse bandits. An Shen-shi killed seven of the bandits. Only in the final exchange with the bandit leader had she lost a beat and been struck, damaging her lung meridian.
Fortunately, after An Jing dealt with his own opponent, he risked his life and rushed forward. He tackled the man and choked the bandit leader unconscious with his bare hands. Then he seized the leader's saber and beheaded him with one stroke, frightening the bandits away.
But his mother's injuries were still severe. Now her inner qi was disordered and her breathing obstructed. In this refugee camp without medicine or food, no one knew how many days she had left.
'I'm going to see if I can beg for something to eat.'
An Jing turned back to look at the caravan. He unconsciously licked his lips. The cold, dry lips were not moistened by saliva; instead, they cracked and bled.
He licked away the blood and said in a slow, certain voice, 'There's grain in that caravan. Rice.'
'Maybe medicine, too.'
'Mother can't last much longer...' An Shen-shi's eyes dimmed. She knew her son was looking for a way to save her.
But she knew her own condition. Without a powerful medicine to heal her organs and smooth her meridians, she could last at most three days.
In this northern frontier of frost tribulations, cold disasters, and endless war, even kind people offering relief would not have such medicine.
She did not want her child to strive in vain and waste time. She wished he would spend more time with her in these last hours.
But An Jing had had his own mind since childhood. Seeing what his mother meant, he interrupted first and picked up a bowl. 'Mother, drink this medicine first.'
'A decoction of chopped white-spotted grass and old qi root. It's crude, but it can replenish some qi and blood and help smooth your breathing.'
An Shen-shi took the bowl and drank it down in one go. Though bitter, the hot medicine did seem to restore a little of her spirit.
But when she set the bowl down, An Jing was already striding toward the caravan.
An Jing was no ordinary northern youth.
Since childhood, he had often had strange dreams.
He dreamed of many tall buildings, spread out like a forest, built of steel and concrete, each one taller than all the houses in the county put together.
He also dreamed of iron birds called airplanes, soaring into the heights of the clouds and crossing the skies in all directions, faster than every bird in the mountains combined.
Or of terrifying bombs that blazed like suns when they exploded.
Thousands of such suns shone upon the earth, nearly burning away the entire world.
Great Chen valued the Mandate of Heaven, and there was a saying that stars descended to the mortal world. An Jing, who had awakened a portion of his past-life wisdom, had been extraordinary since childhood. His family naturally regarded him as a star descended from heaven.
But no matter how strong a mortal's wisdom and power, they could not stop the vast Frost Tribulation sweeping across the northern frontier, nor the Northern Barbarian army gathering and marching south.
Still a child and youth, An Jing could not accomplish many things. His mother's injury was a result of his powerlessness.
But human effort could change things.
Even if there were only the slightest chance, An Jing would fight for it—to cure his mother.
Now, as he approached the riders' camp, he heard a loud, authoritative voice.
'Listen!'
Among the riders on tall, powerful horses, a well-dressed one-eyed rider at the head was shouting.
Around him, the other riders all wore sabers and armor, their expressions grim. With indifferent eyes, they scanned all the nearby refugees who dared not approach.
The one-eyed rider raised his voice. 'My master is merciful. He cannot bear to see you disaster victims waiting to die outside the city. Now he is offering grain in exchange for lives—for servants of our household!'
'Only children and young boys and girls are wanted. Those under fourteen are best; if their aptitude is suitable, under sixteen may also be accepted!'
'If you meet the requirements, one person is worth one dou of rice!'