Selling His Life

At this point, the rider paused, then continued in a loud, clear voice: "Even if you have a cold, fever, or other illness, it won't matter. We'll make sure you're cured!"

At his words, the refugees with children of their own grew instantly excited. They crowded forward to ask questions, then had their bones examined by people in the camp who looked like physicians and doctors, and were asked for their birth dates and times.

"Selling himself..."

Though An Jing's Root Bone was unusual and he was rather tall, he was only a little over eleven years old, so he met the requirement.

He listened to the rider and watched the refugees lining up with their children. Without thinking, he clenched his fists. "Curing illness..."

"My lord, my daughter has frostbite..."

Just then, he saw a father and daughter approach the camp. The father knelt in the snow, holding his daughter in his arms, and begged the leader and the physician, "She really can't die. Please, show her some mercy..."

The girl's fingers and arms were swollen and purple from the cold. She was also in a daze. In An Jing's eyes, she was already on death's door; it wouldn't have been surprising if she'd breathed her last within the hour.

The physicians, however, didn't seem concerned. One stepped forward, grabbed the girl's hand, rolled up her sleeve, and squeezed and examined her bones. The girl let out a small cry of pain. Then he asked her father for her birth date and time.

"Mm." After confirming them, the physician turned to the leader, the mounted rider, and the scholar standing beside him, and spoke to them in a low voice. Both men looked satisfied.

"Treat her. Let him see." The leader spoke calmly. The physician then took a pill from the box behind him and gave it to the girl with water, before smearing a reddish-purple, oily salve over her frostbitten skin.

The moment it touched her, the girl let out a shriek, as if she'd been burned by fire.

But soon, the dazed look in her eyes cleared. She stared blankly at her hand, now coated with salve, then turned in disbelief to her father. "Papa, my hand—my hand can feel again!"

"Sweetheart!" The father wasn't much of a speaker. He dropped to his knees and wept as he embraced his daughter, then repeatedly knocked his head against the ground before the riders and physicians.

"All right, you may go." The leader was in a good mood, and waved them away before turning to the next person.

Many in the refugee camp knew the father and daughter's situation. They knew the girl had little hope of being saved. Seeing these riders actually willing to use medicine to save her—and seeing it work so well—sent the refugees into a frenzy of excitement.

They were now completely convinced that these men were servants of a wealthy household, and that their master was a benevolent man!

But An Jing, standing amid the surging crowd, raised his eyes and swept his gaze across the camp.

He had noticed many things that didn't add up.

First, the riders' movements were far too crisp and practiced. They had clearly undergone extremely harsh training. The leader was a formidable fighter, always poised to draw his saber and strike at a moment's notice. His one-eyed, tiger-like gaze swept over the refugee camp, never once letting down his guard.

The scholar behind the leader was even more unfathomable. His mother, An Shen Shi, had mastered the basics of martial arts and reached the "Internal Breath Like Silk" realm. She was a true internal-breath martial artist, no longer just someone who knew a few country tricks.

An Jing could tell the extent of his mother's abilities, but he couldn't read the scholar at all.

That meant the man either possessed a title in Martial Arts or had already reached the "Tide of Internal Breath" realm!

With training and strength like this, if they really were servants of a wealthy household, then it had to be an Aristocratic Clan. But why hadn't they given the name of their household?

"Something's strange... but they really do have medicine."

An Jing murmured to himself. After seeing the frostbitten girl he'd thought was on death's door get better, he was completely convinced that these people had medicine potent enough to cure his mother.

That made them seem less like slave traders.

Slave traders only needed children because only children were worth reselling. Their goal was money, so they rarely took sick children—if they took them at all—let alone treated them.

These people, on the other hand, seemed to need the children themselves, and were even willing to spend money to treat them.

"Are they 'death soldiers' trained by the Da Chen government, or some reclusive sect? They're checking Root Bones and asking about birth dates and times. They're being far too thorough."

An Jing furrowed his brow. If they were an ordinary great household, he wouldn't mind selling himself into servitude to get medicine for his mother. He wouldn't care even if they abused their servants or killed them on a whim. Ordinary wealthy families couldn't stop him from escaping.

Even if they were human traffickers, he was confident he could bargain with a tiger and find a chance to escape their clutches.

But faced with these "mysterious people," whose origins he couldn't begin to fathom and whose backing was surely immense, he found it harder to make up his mind. Who knew whether they were some wicked faction from the Southern Frontier, the Tianyi Demonic Sect, or demons and monsters from the depths of the mountains and forests?

—Forget it.

Setting aside his instinctive suspicions, An Jing gave a slight shake of his head.

Whatever else they were, what these people were doing would save lives. And he had no other choice.

An Jing closed his eyes. He thought of his mother, whose condition worsened by the day and who was already on death's door.

If he sold himself, the worst that could happen was death—and he would most likely live. But without medicine, his mother would certainly die.

There was nothing to hesitate over. He opened his eyes, stepped forward, and headed toward the riders' camp.

By now, plenty of children and families had decided to sell their lives.

Selling their children gave both parents and children a path to survival. And this band of riders was generous and sincere, offering medicine and food without holding back. Every refugee in the camp who had children of their own eagerly stepped forward.

In a short while, more than twenty children had gathered. After collecting their grain nearby, their parents stood to one side, looking across at their children with complicated expressions.

An Jing alone came through the snow by himself.

"Hmm?"

The white-robed scholar beside the one-eyed leader sensed something. He turned and looked toward An Jing.

At first, his gaze was casual. But soon, it sharpened, blazing with interest.

The one-eyed leader, who hadn't been watching that way either, turned at the scholar's cue and saw An Jing.

Then his eye lit up.

An Jing was still young, not quite seven feet tall, and thin of build. At a glance, he looked like the most ordinary refugee child—perhaps a little taller than most, but nothing remarkable among the people of the Northern Frontier.

But the leader and the scholar were both martial artists. They could see that the boy's bones were solid and his blood and Qi were abundant. Though he looked like skin stretched over bones, that was only an illusion.

"You want to sell your life?"

The one-eyed leader turned his horse with interest and looked at An Jing. "For you, I can make the decision myself. I'll give your family two dou of fine rice!"

"My lord."

An Jing lifted his head and looked at the formation before him, its members stern-faced and brimming with Killing Intent.

Meeting the gaze of the mounted leader, who was already smiling, he clasped his hands in greeting. There was no fear in his eyes, and his voice was neither servile nor arrogant. "I'm willing to sell my life, but not for myself. I want to buy medicine for my mother."

"My father was a juren, and my family has an inheritance of the Martial Classic. We aren't an ordinary martial household. I'm healthy, with no illnesses or aches. Life on this frozen plain is harsh, but I don't need to sell my life."

"It's just that my mother has an injury to her lung meridian and urgently needs medicine for her lungs."

"May I ask, my lord, if you would be willing to give us a dose?"

"I'm worth that much."

At his words, the leader's smile disappeared. He narrowed his one eye, looked An Jing up and down, then suddenly urged his horse forward, charging straight at him before stopping at his side.

The massive northwestern warhorse was like a chariot of flesh and blood. It made the ground tremble when it landed from a small leap. Even knowing it wouldn't hit them, most people would have flinched when a beast like that charged toward them.

But An Jing maintained his respectful stance. His eyelids didn't even twitch, and his expression didn't change in the slightest.

"Good."

The one-eyed rider barked, "If you train in martial arts but not courage, you're finished the moment you face battle. You said you'd trained in martial arts. I didn't believe you before, but now I do."

He gave a hearty laugh. "You really are special. But whether you're worth that much..."

The one-eyed rider exchanged a glance with the white-robed scholar. The scholar teased, "He's a lot like you were back then," then vanished from sight.

An Jing's pupils shrank. He couldn't see the white-robed scholar's movements at all!

The one-eyed leader dismounted as well.

He was tall and imposing, like an iron tower. His blood and Qi were so abundant that the snow landing on him melted instantly, and each of his steps was heavy.

If An Jing hadn't known he was a man, then judging only by the sound of his footsteps, he could have mistaken him for a wild ox lumbering across the plateau.

With a rancid gust of Killing Intent, the one-eyed leader reeked so strongly of blood that he surpassed even the bandit chiefs who had spent years raiding the wilderness. He studied An Jing closely for a while, then smiled in satisfaction. "You're thin, but you really do have a good foundation. No wonder you're so confident..."

Before he could finish, he reached for An Jing's arm and pressed down hard, testing his flesh and bones.

"Good bones!" he praised. The one-eyed leader almost felt as if he were squeezing a piece of refined iron or ice that had been frozen for a thousand years. "Solid bones, strong marrow, just the right proportions. Good, good. At least several decades have gone by without seeing one like this..."

As he did so, An Jing felt an invisible force travel through his body along the man's hand, striking the major points all over his body and bringing with it a mixture of aches, numbness, pain, and itching.

He remained expressionless and endured it in silence, pondering.

This wasn't an ordinary technique. It was a martial artist's method from the "Internal Breath Like a River" realm, where Internal Breath could leave the body!

With Internal Breath this surging, the man had to be at the "Tide of Internal Breath" level!

Just then, the white-robed scholar reappeared. He gave the one-eyed leader a slight nod. The towering man withdrew his hand, gave An Jing a long look, and swung back into the saddle.

"You're worth it," he told An Jing from horseback. "It's yours."

Meanwhile, on the other side, the white-robed scholar and the physicians had gathered various medicines and food into a large chest. Then the two of them carried it over to An Jing.

"These medicines and grain are enough to heal all your mother's injuries and deficiencies, and to give you both a good meal."

The one-eyed leader said, "Pick it up and take it to your mother."

"Then come back."

He said no more. He and An Jing both knew what would happen if one side broke their promise.

An Jing glanced at the chest, which was about as big as his torso and weighed at least a hundred pounds. He knew he'd been lucky. For some reason, the one-eyed rider was generous and thought highly of him.

In North Province, ravaged by the Frost Calamity, the grain and medicine in that chest could buy ten human lives.

But An Jing didn't hesitate. He bent down, grabbed the handles, and lifted it in one smooth motion, hoisting it onto his shoulder.

"Thank you, my lord."

Though his breathing was a little labored, An Jing could still speak. Afterward, he carried the chest and strode toward the shelter he shared with his mother.