It was a turbulent age, far from peaceful. Yan, Wei, and Luo stood as three rival powers, evenly matched.
Beyond their borders, the Xiongnu watched hungrily, while endless warfare and strife brought famine and years of hardship.
That winter, more than ten million people died not in war, but from hunger and bitter cold.
The common people fled from place to place, unable to find a haven, never knowing when they might glimpse peace.
As the New Year approached, the fighting ceased, giving the people a rare respite from fear.
Disguised to investigate the people's living conditions, Chu Qingjiu lifted the carriage curtain, letting a biting wind sweep inside.
"Cough, cough..."
The cold gust chilled Chu Qingjiu into a fit of coughing.
He was the seventeen-year-old grandson of Grand Preceptor Chu of Yan. His mother had died of hemorrhaging during childbirth.
Born with deficient blood and vitality, he had been frail since childhood. Quiet and reserved, he spoke little and kept his distance from others.
Those who did not know him well thought him cold, unapproachable, and difficult to get along with.
Yet he had a warm, tender heart and treated those around him exceedingly well.
Outside, snow drifted down and scattered across the ground, looking for all the world like white paper money strewn at a funeral.
Dressed in immaculate white and wrapped in fox fur, he held a hand warmer against his chest, his brows faintly drawn on his cool, refined face.
Only after watching for a long while did he lower the curtain.
Outside were pitiful souls on the brink of death, heading toward their own ends.
Unclaimed bodies lay openly on the ground, with the earth as their mat and the sky as their blanket-a desolate sight.
This winter was too cold, and the world was