Clouds and mountains blend into a single color; wind and frost are bitingly cold. Across the vast northern plains, the world is draped in white.
Snow falls by the thousands of miles, as if the heavens themselves have overturned. Even century-old pines groan under the strain, their branches bowed low by layers of white frost, as if the weight of it all might break the backs of every living thing.
The great river winds and coils, endless and boundless, yet it lies frozen and locked in ice—a silver dragon trapped in a cage, unable to stir, forced to sprawl beneath the stretch of white mountains.
*Whoosh—*
A mournful, piercing wind sweeps down from the extreme north, churning the clouds and lashing out at all who stand in its path.
The gale rages on. It brushes over distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, scarlet-stained snowfields of battle, and the corpses left behind... finally, it envelops a column of travelers pressing forward across the ice sheet.
Accompanied by the thunderous rolling of hooves, a troop of riders escorts several large carts at a gallop.
The ice and snow are as sharp as blades, blindingly bright yet chilling to the marrow. The trees lining the riverbanks are encased in ice, standing in grim silence.
The riders break through the vast expanse of white, causing ice crystals to shudder and fall, shattering the profound stillness of the evening. Their destination is the great city by the mountain ahead—the Northern Frontier, Mingshan City.
Outside Mingshan City lies a camp for refugees.
A few emaciated refugees huddle around a campfire, staring with hungry eyes at a large pot roasting above the flames. The water inside is nearing a boil, releasing waves of savory meat aroma that cause passersby to twitch their noses, their faces twisted with greed.
The refugees squatting by the fire chat about trivialities, snapping at anyone who dares to approach. If anyone dares to talk back, they stand up immediately. Several of them hold sharp wooden spears, their gazes like those of starving wolves, gleaming with a sickly green light. Most people avoid that spot entirely.
As the soup boils and the aroma of meat intensifies, they swallow hard, saliva pooling at the corners of their mouths. Their focus on the pot and their movements in tending the fire become increasingly frantic.
But then, the earth begins to tremble. The black silhouettes hurtling toward them from the distance draw closer.
By the time these starving people lift their heads, iron-shod hooves have already shattered the makeshift wooden fence, leaping over the crude huts and arriving right before them.
The refugees scream and scramble away, but the pot is not so lucky. A hoof strikes, extinguishing the fire and overturning the vessel, sending water splashing everywhere.
A perfectly good pot of meat soup rolls to the side, spilling all over the ground. A lump of meat tumbles out, already softened and boiled through; only by the size of the bone could one tell it had been a piece of rice-meat.
Then, it is trampled into a pulp by the following hooves.
*Rumble, rumble, rumble...*
Not far away, in a ramshackle hut, a young man with a thin frame but an exceptionally sturdy build—much like a lean, hungry tiger—pricks up his ears.
He had been focused on an earthen pot sitting on a primitive stove, surrounded by a scattering of simple herbs; the medicine boiling within gave off a bitter scent. Upon hearing the thundering hooves, he stands up slowly and turns to look toward the source of the sound.
The boy’s unkempt hair hangs loose, and a blade is slung at his waist. Despite his skeletal thinness, his lean flesh clinging to sharp, rugged bones gives him an air of jagged, honed intensity. His eyes are remarkably bright, his breathing long and steady, and his fists are clenched tight, covered in tiny callouses.
An Jing watches the troop of riders as they barge into the refugee camp.
The horses are tall, handsome steeds from the Northwest—long-necked, powerful-limbed, with strong chests and iron hooves capable of crushing any obstacle daring to stand in their way. They trot into the center of the camp, and the riders dismount, beginning to unload supplies to construct a simple encampment.
"Jing'er... *cough, cough*... what are you looking at?"
A woman’s voice comes from behind An Jing.
"Mother."
An Jing turns to look at his mother.
She is a tall woman with an air of elegance. In the Northern Frontier, where the Frost Calamity rages, it is rare to find anyone who is not gaunt or broken. Though she is thin, her eyes remain spirited.
Yet, this spirited woman can only lie on a blanket, struggling to breathe or speak without coughing. She has not always been this weak. Five days ago, while fleeing the wasteland toward Mingshan City, their group of refugees was set upon by marauding horse bandits. An Shenshi slew seven of the ruffians, but in the final exchange with the bandit leader, she was slightly outmaneuvered and struck by a palm that injured her lungs.
Fortunately, after An Jing finished off his own opponent, he threw himself into the fray in a desperate move, pinning the leader down and strangling him until he lost consciousness, before seizing the man’s blade and decapitating him, scaring off the rest of the bandits.
However, An Shenshi had suffered severe internal injuries. Now, her Inner Breath is in chaos and her breathing is labored. In this refugee camp, devoid of medicine or food, it is unclear how many days she has left.
"I’m going to see if I can beg for some food."
An Jing turns his gaze back to the caravan. He instinctively licks his lips; his cold, parched lips are not moistened by saliva but instead crack and bleed from the friction. He licks away the blood and says in a slow, resolute tone: "There is grain in that caravan. It is rice."
"And perhaps... there is medicine."
"Mother isn't going to make it..." An Shenshi’s eyes dim. She knows this is her son’s way of trying to find a cure for her. But she knows her own condition best; without a Great Medicine to soothe her internal organs and stabilize her qi, she can last at most three days. In this Northern Frontier, plagued by the Frost Calamity and endless war, even if there were kind-hearted aid workers, they would not possess such precious medicine.
She does not want her child to waste his time in vain, hoping only that he will stay by her side for these final moments.
But An Jing has had a mind of his own since he was a child. Seeing what his mother intended, he cuts her off and lifts a bowl. "Mother, drink this medicine first."
"It’s white-spotted grass chopped and boiled with old root-herb. It’s simple, but it will help replenish your vitality and stabilize your breathing."
An Shenshi takes the bowl from An Jing and drinks it in one gulp. Though bitter, the hot liquid helps revive her spirit. But as she sets the bowl down, An Jing is already walking toward the caravan.
An Jing is no ordinary youth of the Northern Frontier.
Since he was young, he has often had strange dreams.
He dreams of towering skyscrapers, standing as thick as a forest, built of steel and concrete—each one taller than all the buildings in the county combined. He dreams of iron birds called "airplanes" that soar straight to the clouds, crossing the heavens in all directions, faster than all the birds in the mountains combined. Or perhaps of terrifying bombs that, upon detonation, shine like the sun. Thousands of such suns blazing upon the earth, burning the entire world to ash.
Dachen places great importance on the Mandate of Heaven, often speaking of stars descending to earth. Having awakened a portion of his Innate Wisdom from Past Lives, An Jing showed exceptional talent from a young age and was naturally regarded by his family as a "Heavenly Star" incarnate. They provided him with the finest education, both in letters and in arms.
Yet, no matter how strong a mortal's wisdom or strength may be, it cannot stop the sweeping Frost Calamity that engulfs the entire Northern Frontier, nor the vast army of Northern Barbarians marching south.
As a mere child and young man, there are many things An Jing cannot do. His mother's injury is the result of his own helplessness.
But where there is a will, there is a way. Even if there is only the slightest chance, An Jing will strive to heal his mother.
Now, as he nears the riders' camp, he hears a voice filled with vigor announcing to the crowd:
"Listen!"
Among the riders atop their towering horses, a one-eyed man dressed in fine, gleaming clothes is shouting. Beside him, the other riders are all armed with blades and clad in armor, their expressions murderous, scanning the surrounding refugees who dare not approach with cold, indifferent eyes.
The one-eyed rider shouts loudly: "My master is merciful and cannot bear to watch you disaster-stricken people wait for death outside the city walls. Today, he offers grain to buy your lives! We are seeking servants for our household!"
"We only take children and youths—fourteen years old or younger is best, but those up to sixteen years old are acceptable if they meet our qualifications!"
"For every person who meets our requirements, we pay one *dou* of rice!"