An Jing

An Jing

The mountains and clouds merged into one color, the wind and frost biting cold. Across the boundless Northern Plains, heaven and earth were a sea of white.

Snow swept across ten thousand miles, as if the heavens had collapsed. Even century-old pines swayed on the verge of falling, while layer upon layer of frost piled up as though it meant to bend the backs of all living things.

The great river wound and surged, stretching beyond sight, yet ice and frost had frozen it solid. Like a silver dragon trapped in a cage, it could not unfurl, forced instead to lie beneath the endless white mountains.

Whoosh—

A shrill wind came from the far north, stirring the clouds and lashing at all before it.

The gale swept onward.

It brushed past distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, a blood-red battlefield of snow and corpses... and at last enveloped a party hurrying across the ice field.

Amid the thunder of hooves, a group of riders raced forward, escorting several carts.

The snow and ice cut like knives, ever harsh and glittering, yet cold enough to freeze one to the bone. The trees along both banks of the river were coated in ice crystals, standing stark and still.

The riders broke through the endless snow, sending ice crystals trembling to the ground as they burst into the silent dusk.

Their destination lay ahead: Mingshan City, the great city built against the mountains in the Northern Frontier.

Outside Mingshan City, refugee camp.

A few gaunt refugees huddled around a bonfire, gazing hungrily at the large pot roasting over the flames.

The water inside was almost boiling, sending up waves of meaty fragrance. Passersby kept sniffing, their eyes filling with greed.

The refugees crouching beside the fire chatted listlessly about dull topics. Whenever someone came near, they snapped at them; if anyone dared answer back, they rose to their feet.

Several of them gripped sharpened wooden spears, their eyes gleaming a wolfish green. Most people kept away from that patch of ground.

The soup bubbled, its meaty aroma growing richer. They swallowed, drooled, and grew ever more eager in both their gazes and the way they poked at the fire.

But as the earth trembled, the dark shapes racing toward them in the distance drew nearer and nearer.

By the time the starving refugees looked up, iron-shod hooves had already smashed through the crude wooden fence. The riders leaped over the shabby huts and came right up to them.

The refugees shrieked and scattered, but the pot could not move. Hooves came down, stamping out the fire and overturning the pot, sending water splashing everywhere.

A perfectly good pot of meat soup tumbled aside, spilling across the ground.

A lump of meat fell from the pot, so tender and rotten it was hard to tell from the size of the bones that it had been a strip of meat.

Then the hooves that followed trampled it into a pulp.

Rumble, rumble, rumble...

Near one of the huts, a lean youth with a sturdy frame, like a thin tiger, pricked up his ears.

He had been concentrating on a clay pot atop a makeshift stove. A few simple herbs lay scattered beside it, and the medicine simmering inside gave off a bitter smell.

When he heard the hoofbeats, he slowly stood and looked toward the sound.

The youth's unruly hair hung loose, and a blade was fastened at his waist. Thin flesh clung to his sharp, clean-cut bones. Though he looked like a skeleton, he still carried a lean, fierce edge.

His eyes were bright and alert, his breathing long and steady. His fists were clenched, their surfaces covered in tiny scars and calluses.

An Jing stared at the riders and carts that had barged into the refugee camp.

The horses were all handsome, powerful Northwestern steeds, with long necks and muscular legs. Their strong chests and iron hooves could crush any obstacle daring to stand in their way.

They rode into the center of the refugee camp, then the riders dismounted and began unloading supplies from the carts, putting together 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 and looked at his mother.

She was a tall, dignified woman. In the Northern Frontier, ravaged by the Frost Calamity, it was hard to find anyone who was not gaunt and worn down. Though she was thin, her eyes remained bright.

Yet this spirited woman could only lie on a blanket. Even saying a single sentence left her gasping and coughing.

She had not always been so frail. Five days ago, as the refugee party fled the wilderness for Mingshan City, they had encountered marauding bandits. An Shen Shi killed seven of them, but in her final exchange with the bandit chief, she was slightly outmatched and took a palm strike that injured her lungs.

Fortunately, after An Jing dealt with his own opponent, he had thrown himself into the fray, tackled the chief, and choked him unconscious. He then seized the man's blade and cut off his head with a single stroke, frightening the bandits into retreat.

But Mother An had still been severely injured. Her Internal Breath was now in disarray, and she struggled to breathe. 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 toward the carts. Without thinking, he licked his lips, but his cold, cracked lips were too dry to be moistened by saliva. Instead, the movement split them open, and blood seeped out.

He licked away the blood and said slowly but firmly, "There's grain in those carts. Rice."

"There might be medicine, too."

"Mother won't make it..." An Shen Shi's eyes dimmed. She knew her son was trying to find a way to save her.

But she knew her own condition. Without a powerful medicine that could heal her lungs and restore the flow of her breath, she could last three days at most.

In the Northern Frontier, with the Frost Calamity raging and war unending, even kindhearted people who came to provide relief would not have such powerful medicine.

She did not want her child to struggle in vain and waste his time. She hoped he would spend a little longer with her in the time she had left.

But An Jing had always made up his own mind. He saw what his mother meant and cut her off before she could say more, lifting a bowl. "Mother, drink this first."

"It's medicine made by chopping up white-speckled grass and simmering it with old qi root. It's crude, but it should at least replenish your blood and qi a little and regulate your breathing."

An Shen Shi took the bowl from An Jing and drank it in one go. It was bitter, but the hot medicine did seem to leave her feeling a little more alert.

Yet by the time she put down the bowl, An Jing had already set off toward the carts.

An Jing was no ordinary boy from the Northern Frontier.

Ever since he was little, he had often dreamed strange dreams.

He dreamed of countless towering buildings, rising like a forest, built from steel and concrete. Each one stood taller than all the houses in the county put together.

He also dreamed of iron birds called airplanes, soaring to the highest clouds and flying across the skies in every direction, faster than all the birds in the mountains combined.

Or of terrifying bombs that, when they exploded, were like the sun.

Hundreds and thousands of such suns blazed across the land, nearly burning the whole world to ash.

Da Chen placed great importance on Heavenly Fate, and tales of stars descending to earth were common. Having awakened a portion of his Past Life Wisdom, An Jing had been extraordinary from childhood, and his family naturally regarded him as a star fallen from heaven. They gave him the finest education, in both martial and literary arts.

But no matter how great a mortal's wisdom and strength might be, they could not withstand the mighty Frost Calamity sweeping across the Northern Frontier, or the Northern Barbarians gathering in force and marching south.

An Jing was still a boy, and there were many things he could not do. His mother's injury was proof of his helplessness.

But where there was a will, there was a way.

Even if there were only the slightest chance, An Jing would fight for it and save his mother.

Now that he had drawn close to the riders' camp, he heard a loud, booming announcement.

"Listen up!"

Among the riders on their tall horses, a well-dressed, one-eyed man at their head was shouting.

The other riders beside him were all armored and armed with swords. Their expressions were grim as they looked around at the refugees who dared not approach, their gazes full of contempt.

The one-eyed rider called out, "My master is merciful and cannot bear to watch you disaster victims wait outside the city to die. He is offering grain in exchange for your lives, to make you his household servants!"

"Only children and youths will be taken, boys and girls alike. Those under fourteen are preferred, but if you meet the requirements, those under sixteen may also qualify!"

"If you qualify, each person is worth one dou of rice!"