1: Chapter 1 An Jing 1: Chapter 1 An Jing Cloud Mountain was monochro, the wind and frost equally cold, the vast Northern Plains all white.
Thousands of miles of flying snow fell as if the heavens had overturned, hundred-year-old pines also swaying as if about to collapse, layers of white frost building up, seemingly about to bend the backs of all creatures.
The Great River andered and undulated, boundlessly, but t with ice frost freezing it solid, like a silver dragon trapped in a cage, unable to stretch, only able to crawl under the stretching White Mountain.
Whoosh—
The piercing sound of the wind ca from the far north, swelling the clouds, slapping against people.
Long winds swept across.
They brushed past distant mountain ranges, abandoned towns, blood-red snowy battlefields, and corpses…
Finally, they enveloped a swiftly moving convoy on the ice plains.
Accompanied by the thunderous sound of horse hooves, a group of riders escorted a few large carts, racing forward.
The ice and snow were like knives, always harsh and bright, yet also piercing to the marrow.
Trees on both sides of the river had been covered in ice crystals, standing solemnly.
The riders broke through the vast white snow, causing the ice crystals to tremble and fall, crashing into the silent twilight.
Their destination was the Yishan Great City ahead—the Northern Border, Ming Mountain City.
Outside Ming Mountain City, a refugee camp.
A few emaciated refugees huddled around a bonfire, staring eagerly at the large pot roasting over the fire.
The water in the pot was close to boiling, releasing bursts of aty fragrance, drawing sniffles from passers-by who revealed greedy looks.
Squatting by the bonfire, the refugees talked intermittently about uninteresting topics, and if soone approached, they would shout at them, and if dared to talk back, they would stand up.
A few people simultaneously grasped sharp wooden spears, their eyes like ferocious wolves, glowing green, with most people avoiding this area.
The pot soup boiled, the scent of at intensifying.
They swallowed saliva, drooled at the corners of their mouths, their looks and actions of stirring the fire becoming increasingly urgent.
But as the ground trembled, the black shadows speeding from the distance drew closer and closer.
When these extrely hungry people looked up, iron-wrapped hooves had already smashed the simple wooden fence, leaped over from the crude shacks, and arrived in front of them.
The refugees scread and dodged, but the pot could not.
The hooves stamped down, extinguished the fire, flipped the pot over, and splashed water everywhere.
A pot of good soup thus tumbled aside, scattering all over the ground.
A chunk of at fell out of the pot, already soft, barely identifiable from the size of the bones as a piece of human at.
Then it was trampled into a at paste by the subsequent hooves.
Rumble, rumble, rumble, rumble…
In a shelter nearby, a skinny but sturdy-frad young man, like a lean tiger, perked up his ears.
He had been intently focused on a simple stove with a clay pot upon it, surrounded by so simple herbs, the dicinal juice in the pot giving off a bitter taste.
Upon hearing the sound of the hooves, he slowly stood up and looked toward the direction of the sound.
The young man’s hair was disheveled, a knife hanging at his waist, his thin flesh clinging to his pronounced bones, looking almost skeletal, yet he possessed a distinct and sharp spirit.
His eyes were exceptionally spirited, his breaths long and steady, his fists clenched tightly, covered in small calluses.
An Jing fixed his gaze on this convoy of riders that had breached the refugee camp.
The horses were tall and majestic Northwestern warhorses, with long necks and well-developed legs, their powerful chest muscles and iron hooves sufficient to crush any obstruction daring to stand in their way.
They entered the center of the refugee camp, the riders dismounted, and then began to offload supplies from the carts, forming a simple encampnt.
“Jing’er, cough cough, what are you looking at?”
A woman’s voice ca from behind An Jing.
“Mother.”
An Jing turned his head and looked toward his mother.
She was a tall woman with an impressive deanor.
In the Northern Border, ravaged by the Frost Calamity, it was hard to find anyone who wasn’t emaciated and desolate.
Despite her thinness, her eyes were full of spirit.
Yet this spirited woman could only lie on the blanket, gasping for breath and coughing even when speaking a single sentence.
She had not always been so weak.
Five days earlier, while fleeing from the wilderness to Ming Mountain City, the refugees encountered rampant horse bandits.
Lady An Shen had killed seven villains but had been slightly bested in her final confrontation with the bandit leader, receiving a palm strike that injured her lung ridian.
Fortunately, An Jing had taken care of his own opponent and then lunged forward desperately, tackling the leader and rendering him unconscious before seizing his knife to behead him and scare off the group of horse bandits.
Yet Madam An’s injuries were severe, and now her Inner Breath was in disarray, her breathing uneven.
In this refugee camp without dicine or food, it was uncertain how many days she could survive.
“I’m thinking of trying to get us sothing to eat.”
Turning his head, An Jing looked toward the caravan; he subconsciously licked his lips.
The cold, dry lips were not moistened by the saliva but cracked even more from speaking, bleeding.
He licked off the blood, speaking slowly but with certainty, “That caravan has food.
It’s rice.”
“Maybe there’s also dicine.”
“Mother can’t make it…” Lady An Shen’s eyes dimd; she knew her son was trying to find a way to save her.
But they knew their own circumstances.
She understood that without a major dicine to heal her lungs and regulate her ridians, she could last at most three more days.
In the Northern Border, ravaged by Frost Calamity and incessant wars, even if there were good-hearted people providing disaster relief, they would not have such effective dicine.
She did not want her son to waste his ti and labor in vain but hoped he could spend more of this final ti by her side.
However, An Jing had always been independent from a young age.
Seeing what his mother was implying, he interrupted her, picking up a bowl, “Mother, drink this dicine first.”
“White-spotted Grass chopped up and boiled with Old Qi Root might be simple but can sowhat replenish blood and regulate the breath.”
Lady An Shen took the bowl from An Jing’s hands and drank it down in one gulp.
Though bitter, the warm dicine did invigorate her a bit.
But as she set down the bowl, An Jing had already stepped away, heading towards the direction of the caravan.
An Jing was not an ordinary youth of the Northern Border.
Since childhood, he often had strange dreams.
He dreamt of many skyscrapers, standing tall like forests, built of steel and concrete, each taller than all the houses in the county combined.
He also dreamt of iron birds called airplanes that soared into the skies, crisscrossing the heavens faster than any bird in the mountains.
Or of extrely frightening bombs, that exploded like the sun.
Thousands of such suns shone upon the earth, almost burning up the whole world.
Da Chen revered the Heavenly Mandate and occasionally spoke of stars descending to earth, awakening so of their Innate Wisdom.
Since his youth, An Jing had shown remarkable talents and was naturally treated as a Heaven Star incarnate by his family, who provided him with the best education in both literary and military skills.
But even the wisdom and strength of a mortal could not withstand the sweeping Frost Calamity that engulfed the entire Northern Border, along with the massing army of Northern Barbarians moving south.
As a child and a youth, there were many things An Jing couldn’t accomplish, and his mother’s injury was one such thing he felt powerless to prevent.
But effort makes a difference.
Even if there was only a slight chance, An Jing would strive to seize it, to heal his mother.
Now, as he neared the riders’ camp, he heard a resonant proclamation.
“Listen!”
Among a troop of riders on tall horses, there was a sleek, one-eyed rider shouting out.
By his side, the other riders, all ard with swords and armored, had stern expressions as they surveyed the surrounding refugees with disdainful eyes.
The one-eyed rider called out loudly, “My master is rciful and cannot bear to watch you disaster-stricken people die outside the city.
He is now offering grain in exchange for your lives as servants for our household!”
“We only want children and young boys and girls, preferably below fourteen, but if they et the requirents, up to sixteen years old will do!”
“If they et the requirents, a person will be worth a bushel of rice!”
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