Risking One's Life

At this point, the rider paused, then continued in a loud, clear voice: "Even if you have colds or fevers, it matters not! We will certainly cure you!"

Hearing this, the refugees with children were instantly stirred into a frenzy. They rushed forward to inquire, only to be met by men in the camp who appeared to be physicians, who began feeling their bones for testing and asking for their exact birth dates.

"Selling myself..."

Although An Jing's physique was different from the average person—appearing somewhat tall—he was indeed only just over eleven years old, fitting the requirement.

He listened to the rider's words and watched the lines of refugees who had already begun queuing up with their children. Subconsciously, he clenched his fists: "Curing illnesses..."

"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, clutching his daughter to his chest, pleading with the leader and the physicians: "She truly cannot die, I beg you, please show some mercy..."

The girl's fingers and arms were swollen and purple from frostbite, and she seemed delirious. In An Jing's eyes, she was already on the verge of death; it would not be strange if she breathed her last within the hour.

The physicians, however, were indifferent. They stepped forward, grabbed the girl's hand, rolled up her sleeve, and pinched her bones to examine her, causing the girl to let out a soft cry of pain. Then, they asked the father for the girl's birth date.

"Hmm." After confirming it, the physician turned his head and whispered a few words to the lead rider and the scholar-dressed gentleman beside him. Both men revealed satisfied expressions.

"Treat her and let me see," the leader said calmly. The physician then took a pill from the box behind him, fed it to the girl with water, and applied a red-purple, oily ointment to the areas affected by frostbite.

This caused the girl to scream instinctively, as if she had been scorched by fire.

But soon, her previously dull eyes regained focus. She stared blankly at her hand, which had been coated in the ointment, and turned her head in disbelief to look at her father: "Papa, my hand—my hand has feeling again!"

"My girl!" The father was not a man of many words; he knelt there, embracing his daughter and weeping, then kowtowed several times to the rider and the physicians.

"That's enough, step aside," the leader said, his mood seemingly improved. He waved for the two to leave and continued to look at the next person.

Many in the refugee camp knew the situation of that father and daughter and were aware that the girl was unlikely to survive. Seeing that this group of riders was actually willing to use medicine to save people—and with such miraculous results—the crowd was completely invigorated.

They were now fully convinced that these people were servants of a wealthy household and that their master was a man of great compassion!

Yet, standing in the surging crowd, An Jing raised his eyebrows, his gaze sweeping across the entire camp.

He spotted many suspicious points.

First, the riders' movements were too efficient; it was clear they had undergone extremely rigorous training. The leader possessed profound strength and maintained a combat-ready state at all times, ready to draw his waist blade and strike. His single, tiger-like eye swept across the refugee camp without a hint of relaxation.

Second, the scholar behind the leader was even more unfathomable. His mother, An Shen Shi, had mastered the basics of martial arts and reached the realm of "Inner Breath like Silk," making her a true inner-breath martial artist, no longer just a practitioner of rural brawling.

An Jing could discern the depth of his mother's strength, yet he could not see through the scholar at all.

This meant that the man either possessed academic arts or had already reached the realm of "Inner Breath like a Tide"!

With this level of training and strength, if they were truly servants of a wealthy household, they must belong to a powerful aristocratic clan—so why did they not reveal their family name?

There is something strange... but they truly have medicine.

An Jing whispered in his heart. After seeing the frostbitten girl—whom he had deemed "on the verge of death"—cured, he fully believed that this group possessed medicine sufficient to heal his mother.

This, in turn, did not look much like human traffickers.

Human traffickers only needed children because only children had value for resale; their essence was the need for money, so they rarely, if ever, accepted sick children, let alone spent resources to cure them.

These people, conversely, seemed to truly need the children themselves, hence they were willing to spend money to heal them.

"Is this the Da Chen government cultivating 'dead soldiers,' or perhaps some hidden sect? Checking bones, asking for birth dates—it's all too detailed."

An Jing's brow furrowed. If they were a normal, high-ranking household, he would not mind selling himself into slavery to exchange for medicine for his mother, even if they abused their servants or killed them at will. In any case, a typical wealthy household would not be able to stop him from escaping.

Even if they were human traffickers, he had the confidence to negotiate with a tiger and find an opportunity to escape their clutches.

But facing these "mysterious figures" whose origins he could not fathom and whose background was so vast... he found it difficult to make a decision. Who knew if they were some evil sect from the Southern Frontier, a demonic cult, or monsters and ghosts from the deep mountains?

Forget it.

Setting aside his instinctive doubts, An Jing shook his head slightly.

Regardless, the things these people were doing were "good deeds" that allowed people to survive, and he had no other choice now.

An Jing closed his eyes. He thought of his mother, whose condition grew worse by the day and who was already on the brink of death.

If he sold himself, at most he would die, but there was a high probability of survival. If his mother had no medicine, she would certainly die.

There was nothing to hesitate about. Opening his eyes, An Jing stepped forward and walked toward the riders' camp.

By now, many children and families had already decided to sell their lives.

Selling their children was a path to survival for both parents and children, especially since this group of riders was generous, providing medicine and food in a very tangible way. Everyone in the refugee camp who had children was eager to join.

In a short time, over twenty children had been gathered. After the parents received their food on the side, they stood there, gazing at their children from afar with incredibly complex expressions.

Only An Jing came alone, walking through the snow.

"Hmm?"

At that moment, the white-robed scholar beside the one-eyed leader sensed something. He turned his head and looked in the direction of An Jing.

That gaze was initially indifferent, but it quickly focused, burning with intensity.

Influenced by him, the one-eyed leader, who had not been paying attention to this direction, also turned his head and saw An Jing.

Then, his single eye lit up.

An Jing was still young, less than seven feet tall, and thin. At first glance, he looked like the most ordinary refugee child, perhaps just a bit taller, which was not particularly noteworthy among the people of the Northern Frontier.

But the leader and the scholar were both martial artists. They could both see that the youth before them had solid bones and was filled with vital energy; although he looked like skin and bones on the outside, that 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 make the call—I'll give your family two dou of refined rice!"

"My lord."

An Jing raised his head, staring at the grim, murderous-looking troop before him.

He met the gaze of the leader, who was already smiling, and cupped his hands in a salute. There was no fear in his eyes, and his tone was 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 scholar, and my family possesses a martial heritage; we are by no means common folk. I am also in good health, free of illness or pain. Though life on this ice plain is difficult, I have no need to sell my life."

"It is only because my mother's lung meridians are damaged, and she is in urgent need of lung medicine."

"May I ask, my lord, could you grant me a portion of medicine?"

"I am worth that price."

Hearing this, the leader's smile faded. He narrowed his single eye, sized An Jing up from head to toe, and then suddenly spurred his horse forward, lunging toward him and coming to a halt right at An Jing's side.

The massive Northwest warhorse was like a chariot of flesh and blood; its light leap and landing caused the ground to tremble slightly. Even knowing he wouldn't be struck, an ordinary person would inevitably flinch when such a behemoth charged toward them.

Yet, An Jing maintained his previous posture of salutation. He didn't even twitch an eyelid, his expression remaining completely unchanged.

"Good."

The one-eyed rider barked: "If you practice martial arts without cultivating courage, you'll crumble the moment you face battle. You said you 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 that price..."

The one-eyed rider exchanged a glance with the scholar in white. The scholar quipped, "You were much the same back in the day," before his figure vanished from sight.

An Jing's pupils constricted—he hadn't been able to track the movement of the white-robed scholar in the slightest!

The one-eyed leader dismounted as well.

He was tall and imposing, like an iron tower. The sheer vitality radiating from his body was enough to melt the falling snow the moment it touched him, and his footsteps were heavy.

If one didn't know he was human, judging solely by the sound of his stride, it would be like watching a wild ox from the highlands pacing about.

Reeking of blood and killing intent, the leader's scent was even stronger than that of the bandit chiefs who raided the wilderness year-round. He looked at An Jing, scrutinized him carefully for a moment, and then smiled with satisfaction: "Though thin, your foundation is truly excellent. No wonder you have the confidence..."

Before he finished speaking, he reached out and grabbed An Jing's arm, pressing down firmly to verify the quality of his flesh and bone.

"Good bones!" he praised. The one-eyed leader felt as if he were kneading refined iron or ice that had been frozen for a thousand years: "Dense bones and solid marrow, the proportions are perfect. Good, very good. It's been decades since I've seen such a specimen..."

During this process, beyond the pain, An Jing felt an invisible force of internal energy seeping through his skin, pressing into his vital acupuncture points and bringing with it a mix of soreness, numbness, and itching.

He remained expressionless, enduring it silently while pondering in his heart.

This was no ordinary technique; it was the method of a martial artist whose "internal energy flows like a river," allowing it to be projected outside the body!

With such surging internal energy, no matter how he looked at it, the man was at the level of "internal energy like a tide"!

Just then, the white-robed scholar reappeared and gave a slight nod to the leader. The tall man withdrew his hand, gave An Jing a deep look, and vaulted back onto his horse.

"You are indeed worth it," he said to An Jing from atop his mount. "This is yours."

At that moment, on the other side, the white-robed scholar and a physician had organized various medicinal herbs and grains into a large crate, which the two of them then carried over to An Jing.

"These herbs and grains 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 consequences of failing to keep a promise.

An Jing glanced at the crate, which was about the size of his own torso and weighed at least 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 North Province, ravaged by frost calamities, the grain and medicine in this crate were enough to buy ten human lives.

But An Jing did not hesitate. He leaned down, gripped the handles of the crate, and hoisted it onto his shoulder in one breath.

"Thank you, my lord."

Though his breathing was a bit heavy, An Jing could still speak. Once finished, he carried the crate, turned around, and strode toward the shack he shared with his mother.