Cloud Mountain was monochrome, the wind and frost equally cold, the vast Northern Plains all white. Thousands of miles of flying snow fell as if the heavens had overturned, hundred-year-old pines also swaying as if about to collapse, layers of white frost building up, seemingly about to bend the backs of all creatures. The Great River meandered and undulated, boundlessly, but met with ice frost freezing it solid, like a silver dragon trapped in a cage, unable to stretch, only able to crawl under the stretching White Mountain. Whoosh— The piercing sound of the wind came from the far north, swelling the clouds, slapping against people. Long winds swept across. They brushed past distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, blood-red snowy battlefields, and corpses… Finally, they enveloped a swiftly moving convoy on the ice plains. Accompanied by the thunderous sound of horse hooves, a group of riders escorted a few large carts, racing forward. Sёarch* The Nôvel(F)ire.ηet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. The ice and snow were like knives, always harsh and bright, yet also piercing to the marrow. Trees on both sides of the river had been covered in ice crystals, standing solemnly. The riders broke through the vast white snow, causing the ice crystals to tremble and fall, crashing into the silent twilight. Their destination was the Yishan Great City ahead—the Northern Border, Ming Mountain City. Outside Ming Mountain City, a refugee camp. A few emaciated refugees huddled around a bonfire, staring eagerly at the large pot roasting over the fire. The water in the pot was close to boiling, releasing bursts of meaty fragrance, drawing sniffles from passers-by who revealed greedy looks. Squatting by the bonfire, the refugees talked intermittently about uninteresting topics, and if someone approached, they would shout at them, and if dared to talk back, they would stand up. A few people simultaneously grasped sharp wooden spears, their eyes like ferocious wolves, glowing green, with most people avoiding this area. The pot soup boiled, the scent of meat intensifying. They swallowed saliva, drooled at the corners of their mouths, their looks and actions of stirring the fire becoming increasingly urgent. But as the ground trembled, the black shadows speeding from the distance drew closer and closer. When these extremely hungry people looked up, iron-wrapped hooves had already smashed the simple wooden fence, leaped over from the crude shacks, and arrived in front of them. The refugees screamed and dodged, but the pot could not. The hooves stamped down, extinguished the fire, flipped the pot over, and splashed water everywhere. A pot of good soup thus tumbled aside, scattering all over the ground. A chunk of meat fell out of the pot, already soft, barely identifiable from the size of the bones as a piece of human meat. Then it was trampled into a meat paste by the subsequent hooves. Rumble, rumble, rumble, rumble… In a shelter nearby, a skinny but sturdy-framed young man, like a lean tiger, perked up his ears. He had been intently focused on a simple stove with a clay pot upon it, surrounded by some simple herbs, the medicinal juice in the pot giving off a bitter taste. Upon hearing the sound of the hooves, he slowly stood up and looked toward the direction of the sound. The young man’s hair was disheveled, a knife hanging at his waist, his thin flesh clinging to his pronounced bones, looking almost skeletal, yet he possessed a distinct and sharp spirit. His eyes were exceptionally spirited, his breaths long and steady, his fists clenched tightly, covered in small calluses. An Jing fixed his gaze on this convoy of riders that had breached the refugee camp. The horses were tall and majestic Northwestern warhorses, with long necks and well-developed legs, their powerful chest muscles and iron hooves sufficient to crush any obstruction daring to stand in their way. They entered the center of the refugee camp, the riders dismounted, and then began to offload supplies from the carts, forming a simple encampment. “Jing’er, cough cough, what are you looking at?” A woman’s voice came from behind An Jing. “Mother.” An Jing turned his head and looked toward his mother. She was a tall woman with an impressive demeanor. In the Northern Border, ravaged by the Frost Calamity, it was hard to find anyone who wasn’t emaciated and desolate. Despite her thinness, her eyes were full of spirit. Yet this spirited woman could only lie on the blanket, gasping for breath and coughing even when speaking a single sentence. She had not always been so weak. Five days earlier, while fleeing from the wilderness to Ming Mountain City, the refugees encountered rampant horse bandits. Lady An Shen had killed seven villains but had been slightly bested in her final confrontation with the bandit leader, receiving a palm strike that injured her lung meridian. Fortunately, An Jing had taken care of his own opponent and then lunged forward desperately, tackling the leader and rendering him unconscious before seizing his knife to behead him and scare off the group of horse bandits. Yet Madam An’s injuries were severe, and now her Inner Breath was in disarray, her breathing uneven. In this refugee camp without medicine or food, it was uncertain how many days she could survive. “I’m thinking of trying to get us something to eat.” Turning his head, An Jing looked toward the caravan; he subconsciously licked his lips. The cold, dry lips were not moistened by the saliva but cracked even more from speaking, bleeding. He licked off the blood, speaking slowly but with certainty, “That caravan has food. It’s rice.” “Maybe there’s also medicine.” “Mother can’t make it…” Lady An Shen’s eyes dimmed; she knew her son was trying to find a way to save her. But they knew their own circumstances. She understood that without a major medicine to heal her lungs and regulate her meridians, she could last at most three more days. In the Northern Border, ravaged by Frost Calamity and incessant wars, even if there were good-hearted people providing disaster relief, they would not have such effective medicine. She did not want her son to waste his time and labor in vain but hoped he could spend more of this final time by her side. However, An Jing had always been independent from a young age. Seeing what his mother was implying, he interrupted her, picking up a bowl, “Mother, drink this medicine first.” “White-spotted Grass chopped up and boiled with Old Qi Root might be simple but can somewhat replenish blood and regulate the breath.” Lady An Shen took the bowl from An Jing’s hands and drank it down in one gulp. Though bitter, the warm medicine did invigorate her a bit. But as she set down the bowl, An Jing had already stepped away, heading towards the direction of the caravan. An Jing was not an ordinary youth of the Northern Border. Since childhood, he often had strange dreams. He dreamt of many skyscrapers, standing tall like forests, built of steel and concrete, each taller than all the houses in the county combined. He also dreamt of iron birds called airplanes that soared into the skies, crisscrossing the heavens faster than any bird in the mountains. Or of extremely frightening bombs, that exploded like the sun. Thousands of such suns shone upon the earth, almost burning up the whole world. Da Chen revered the Heavenly Mandate and occasionally spoke of stars descending to earth, awakening some of their Innate Wisdom. Since his youth, An Jing had shown remarkable talents and was naturally treated as a Heaven Star incarnate by his family, who provided him with the best education in both literary and military skills. But even the wisdom and strength of a mortal could not withstand the sweeping Frost Calamity that engulfed the entire Northern Border, along with the massing army of Northern Barbarians moving south. As a child and a youth, there were many things An Jing couldn’t accomplish, and his mother’s injury was one such thing he felt powerless to prevent. But effort makes a difference. Even if there was only a slight chance, An Jing would strive to seize it, to heal his mother. Now, as he neared the riders’ camp, he heard a resonant proclamation. “Listen!” Among a troop of riders on tall horses, there was a sleek, one-eyed rider shouting out. By his side, the other riders, all armed with swords and armored, had stern expressions as they surveyed the surrounding refugees with disdainful eyes. The one-eyed rider called out loudly, “My master is merciful and cannot bear to watch you disaster-stricken people die outside the city. He is now offering grain in exchange for your lives as servants for our household!” “We only want children and young boys and girls, preferably below fourteen, but if they meet the requirements, up to sixteen years old will do!” “If they meet the requirements, a person will be worth a bushel of rice!”