Having reached this point, the rider paused briefly before continuing in a clear, resonant voice: "If you have colds, fevers, or any other ailments, do not worry—we will certainly treat you and make you well!"
Upon hearing this, the refugees with children were instantly stirred. They surged forward to inquire, only to be met by men in the camp who appeared to be physicians, checking their bones and asking for their birth dates.
"Selling myself..."
Although An Jing’s physique was somewhat different from others, appearing quite tall, he was indeed only just over eleven years old, meeting the requirement.
He listened to the rider’s words and watched the lines of refugees already beginning to bring their children forward, his fists clenching subconsciously. "Healing..."
"My lord, my daughter has frostbite..."
At that moment, he saw a father and daughter arrive before the camp. The father knelt in the snow, cradling his daughter, and pleaded with the leader and the physicians: "She truly cannot die. Please, show mercy..."
The girl’s fingers and arms were swollen and purple from frostbite, and she seemed delirious. In An Jing’s eyes, she was nearing death; it would not be surprising if she breathed her last in the next hour.
The physicians, however, remained unmoved. They stepped forward, grabbed the girl’s hand, pushed up her sleeve, and pinched her bones to examine them, eliciting a soft cry of pain from her, before asking the father for her birth date.
"Hmm." After confirming, the physician turned and spoke in a low voice to the lead rider and the gentleman dressed in a scholar’s robe nearby. Both men wore satisfied expressions.
"Treat her," the leader said calmly. The physician then took a pill from the box behind him, had the girl swallow it with water, and applied a red-purple oily ointment to the girl’s frostbitten areas.
The girl shrieked involuntarily, as if burned by fire.
But moments later, her dull eyes cleared. She stared blankly at her greased hands, then turned her head in disbelief to look at her father. "Papa, my hands... I can feel my hands!"
"My girl!" The father, not a man of many words, knelt and wept as he embraced his daughter, then knocked his head repeatedly against the ground before the rider and the physicians.
"That’s enough. Step aside," the leader said, in good spirits. He waved for them to leave and moved on to the next person.
Many in the refugee camp knew the situation of that father and daughter and were aware that the girl had been unlikely to survive. Seeing this group of riders actually willing to use medicine to save lives—and with such miraculous results—the crowd was completely galvanized.
They were now fully convinced that these people were retainers from a wealthy family and that their master was a man of compassion!
Yet, An Jing, standing in the churning crowd, raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping across the entire camp.
He spotted many suspicious details.
First, the movements of those riders were too capable; they had clearly undergone extremely rigorous training. The leader possessed deep martial prowess and maintained a combat-ready state, as if ready to draw his waist saber to slash at any moment. His single eye swept over the refugee camp like a tiger’s, without a hint of relaxation.
Secondly, the scholar behind the leader was even more unfathomable. His mother, An Shenshi, had entered the door of martial arts; she possessed the level of "Inner Breath - Silken Thread," making her a true martial artist of internal energy, not just some backwater brawler.
An Jing could gauge his mother’s level of strength, but he could make nothing of the scholar.
This meant the man either possessed academic rank or had reached the level of "Inner Breath - Tidal Surge!"
With such training and such strength, if they were truly retainers of a wealthy family, it would have to be a prestigious clan—but why would they not declare their house name?
"There is something strange here... but they truly have the medicine."
An Jing whispered to himself. After seeing the frostbitten girl he had deemed "nearing death" cured, he was certain that this group possessed medicine strong enough to treat his mother.
This, conversely, did not look much like the work of human traffickers.
Traffickers only wanted children because they were the only ones worth reselling. Their nature was to seek profit, so they rarely, if ever, accepted sick children, let alone wasted medicine to heal them.
These people seemed to genuinely need the children themselves, to the point that they were willing to spend money to cure them.
"Is it the Dachen government cultivating 'Death Retainers,' or perhaps some reclusive sect? Checking bones, asking for birth dates—it’s all too detailed."
An Jing frowned. If they were a normal, high-ranking family, he would not mind selling himself into slavery to exchange for his mother’s medicine, even if they abused their servants or killed them at will. In any case, a typical wealthy house would not be able to stop him from escaping.
Even if they were human traffickers, he was confident he could bargain with them and find an opportunity to slip away.
But in the face of these "mysterious figures" whose origins he could not see through and whose background was immense... he found it difficult to make a decision. Who knew if they were an evil sect from the Northern Frontier, the Tianyi Demon Sect, or some demons and monsters from the deep mountains?
—Forget it.
Setting aside his instinctive doubts, An Jing shook his head slightly.
Regardless, what these people were doing before his eyes were "kind acts" that allowed people to survive, and he had no other options now.
An Jing closed his eyes. He thought of his mother, whose condition worsened day by day and who was nearing death.
If he sold himself, the worst outcome was death, and he would likely survive; but if his mother remained without medicine, she would certainly perish.
There was nothing to hesitate about. Opening his eyes, An Jing stepped forward, walking toward the riders' camp.
By now, many children and families had already decided to sell their lives.
Selling their children was a lifeline for both parents and children, especially since this group of riders was generous and reliable in providing medicine and grain. Everyone in the camp with children was eager to participate.
In a short time, over twenty children had been gathered. Their parents, after receiving their grain on the side, stood nearby and watched their children from afar, their gazes filled with complex emotions.
Only An Jing came alone, walking through the snow.
"Hmm?"
At that moment, the scholar in white beside the one-eyed leader noticed something. He turned his head and looked in An Jing’s direction.
That gaze was casual at first, but it quickly focused, burning with intensity.
Influenced by him, the one-eyed leader, who had also been ignoring that direction, turned and saw An Jing.
Then, his single eye brightened.
An Jing was still young, not yet seven feet tall, and slender. At first glance, he was just an ordinary refugee child, perhaps a bit taller, which was not particularly remarkable among the people of the Northern Frontier.
But the leader and the scholar were both martial artists. They could see that the youth’s bones were sturdy and his blood-qi was abundant; his thin, gaunt appearance was merely a facade.
"You want to sell yourself?"
Adjusting the reins of his warhorse, the one-eyed leader looked at An Jing with interest. "If it’s you, I can take the responsibility and give your family two pecks of fine rice!"
"My lord."
An Jing held his head high, gazing at the grim, murderous aura of the squad.
He met the eyes of the lead rider, who was now smiling, and performed a martial salute. His gaze was devoid of fear, his tone neither servile nor overbearing: "I am willing to sell myself, but not for my own sake; I seek medicine for my mother."
"My father was a civil scholar, and my family has a heritage of martial manuals; we are not common folk. I am healthy, free of illness or pain. Though life in this ice field is difficult, I do not need to sell my life."
"It is just that my mother has an injury to her lungs and desperately needs pulmonary medicine."
"May I ask, my lord, could you grant me a portion of medicine?"
"I am worth that price."
Hearing this, the lead rider’s smile faded. He squinted his single eye, looking An Jing up and down, then suddenly spurred his horse forward, leaping ahead to land beside An Jing.
The massive Northwestern warhorse was like a machine of flesh and blood. Its light landing caused the ground to tremble. Even knowing he would not be hit, an ordinary person would inevitably dodge when such a giant beast charged at them.
Yet, An Jing maintained his previous posture, not even blinking, his expression entirely unchanged.
"Good."
The one-eyed rider roared: "To practice martial arts without practicing courage is to fail completely when the battle begins. You said you’ve practiced martial arts—I didn't believe you at first, but now I do."
He revealed a hearty smile: "You are indeed special, but whether you are truly worth the price..."
The one-eyed rider exchanged a look with the scholar in white. The scholar remarked teasingly, "He’s quite similar to you back in the day," and then his figure vanished.
An Jing’s pupils shrank—he hadn't even been able to track the movement of the white-robed scholar!
The one-eyed leader dismounted as well.
He was tall and imposing, like an iron tower, his blood-qi so abundant that the snow falling on him melted instantly. His footsteps were heavy.
Had he not known the man was human, based purely on the sound of those steps, he would have thought it was a wild bison from the highlands pacing.
The reek of blood and killing intent from the one-eyed leader was even stronger than that of the bandit chiefs who pillaged the wasteland. He looked at An Jing, studied him carefully for a moment, and then smiled with satisfaction: "Though thin, your foundation is truly excellent. No wonder you have such confidence..."
Before he had finished speaking, he reached out, grabbed An Jing’s arm, and pressed down firmly to check his flesh and bones.
"Good bones!" he praised. The one-eyed leader felt as though he were kneading a piece of refined iron or ice that had been frozen for thousands of years: "Solid bones and strong marrow, just the right length. Good, good—at least a talent rarely seen in decades..."
In the process, aside from the pain, An Jing felt an invisible force of internal energy pushing through his body, pressing on the acupuncture points all over him, bringing about a sensation of soreness, numbness, pain, and itching.
He remained expressionless, enduring it silently while weighing things in his mind.
This was no ordinary technique, but the skill of a martial artist at the level of "Inner Breath - River Flow," where internal energy could be projected outside the body!
With such surging internal energy, no matter how he looked at it, the man had to be at the level of "Inner Breath - Tidal Surge!"
Just then, the white-robed scholar reappeared. He nodded slightly to the one-eyed leader, who withdrew his hand, looked at An Jing deeply, and vaulted back onto his horse.
"You are indeed worth it," he told An Jing from his saddle. "This is yours."
At that moment, on the other side, under the coordination of the white-robed scholar and the physicians, various medicinal herbs and grain were piled into a large chest and carried by the two men to An Jing’s side.
"This medicine and grain are enough to heal all your mother’s injuries and deficiencies, and will allow you both to have a full meal."
The one-eyed leader said: "Pick it up and take it to your mother."
"Then come back."
He had no further words. Because both he and An Jing knew the consequence of failing to keep one's word.
An Jing glanced at the chest, which was about as large as his own torso and weighed at least over a hundred pounds. He knew he was lucky; for some reason, this one-eyed rider was generous and held him in high regard.
In this Northern Province, ravaged by the Frost Calamity, the grain and medicine in that chest were worth ten human lives.
But An Jing did not hesitate. He leaned down, gripped the handles of the chest, and hoisted it in one breath, shouldering the weight.
"Thank you, my lord."
Though his breathing was labored, An Jing could still speak. Having said this, he shouldered the chest, turned, and strode toward the makeshift shelter he shared with his mother.