Destiny in Cinders

A bitter wind swept across the vast northern lands, where mountains dissolved into the frosty sky in an unbroken sheet of white. The snowy deluge tested the resilience of swaying century-old pine trees, the crushing weight of the accumulating ice and snow bearing down on all life.

Whoosh––

The northern gale swept away the clouds and whipped against the skin as it crossed over remote mountains, through deserted towns, past bloodied, corpse-laden battlefields, before engulfing a traveling convoy. Riders escorted large wagons, moving with haste to the thunderous drumming of hooves.

Frost glistened with a razor-sharp brilliance that bit to the bone. The tall and majestic trees along both sides of the riverbank were completely covered in a thick layer of ice crystals. As the riders cut across the white expanse, they disturbed the ice crystals and created a sparkling curtain of glitter that marked their path, shattering the peaceful quiet of dusk. Their destination was a mountain city in the northern frontier—Brightmont.

In a refugee camp outside Brightmont, several emaciated refugees huddled around a campfire, eyes glued to a large boiling pot. The rising steam carried a meaty aroma that made passersby sniff the air and cast greedy eyes their way.

Amid their idle chatter, they occasionally stopped to yell at those who got too close and even stood up if challenged. Most people avoided the area, deterred by their sharp wooden spears and the green glint in their wolf-like eyes. As the scent of the simmering meat soup intensified, they swallowed hard, eagerly poking at the fire with growing impatience.

The ground suddenly shook as dark shadows rapidly approached from the distance. By the time these starving refugees looked up, iron-clad horses had already torn through the makeshift wooden fence, leaped over the rickety shed, and landed right in front of them.

The refugees scattered while screaming, but the pot remained in place. Stomping hooves extinguished the flames and overturned the pot, splashing water everywhere. The perfectly good pot of soup spilled across the ground. A mushy lump of meat tumbled out from the pot, distinguishable as human flesh only by the sizes of the bones. It was immediately crushed to pulp by oncoming horses.

In a nearby shed, a thin yet strong-boned boy resembling a lean tiger stood up with his ears pricked. He had been staring intently at a clay jar on a simple stove, and there were some herbs scattered around him. A bitter smell drifted out from the bubbling herbal liquid. He rose slowly to his feet and fixed his gaze in the direction of the noise.

A mop of tousled hair framed the boy's face, knife resting at his hip. He was a walking skeleton, nothing but skin on bones, yet he radiated a vigorous and righteous spirit. His gaze was intensely bright, his breathing deep and rhythmic. Tiny calluses covered his tightly fisted hands.

An Jing stared at the convoy that had stormed into the refugee camp. Their mounts were tall, handsome warhorses hailing from the northwest; they were easily recognizable by their long, graceful necks, muscular legs, strong chests, and iron hooves that could flatten any obstacle in their path. In the center of the refugee camp, the riders dismounted, unloaded their supplies, and started assembling a rudimentary camp.

"Jing'er, cough, what are you looking at?" A woman's voice sounded from behind An Jing.

"Mother." An Jing turned to look at her.

In the frost-torn northern frontier, where emaciated survivors were the norm, she stood out—tall and elegant, with unusually bright eyes. However, this once-vibrant woman could only lie on a mat. Speaking even a single sentence left her gasping and coughing.

She hadn't always been this weak. Five days ago, on their escape from the barren wilderness to Brightmont, the refugees encountered a gang of mounted bandits. Although Madam Shen had slaughtered seven of them, she was slightly outmatched by the leader and took a heavy blow to the lungs.

Fortunately, An Jing had defeated his own opponent and lunged at the leader, strangling him till he was unconscious. Then, he seized the man's blade and severed his head, which sent the rest of the bandits scattering in panic. However, Madam Shen was still seriously wounded. Her aura was a mess and her breathing disordered. With no medicine or food in the refugee camp, it was impossible to say how much time she had left.

"I'm going to see if I can beg for some food." An Jing turned and stared at the convoy, licking his lips out of habit. But instead of moistening them, he cracked his lips from speaking. Licking away the coppery taste of blood, he said firmly, "There's grain in that convoy, rice. Perhaps medicine too."

"I'm not going to make it..." Madam Shen's eyes dimmed. Her son was trying to save her, but she knew her own situation best. Without a potent medicine to heal her lungs and regulate her meridians, she wouldn't last beyond the next three days. In this northern frontier ravaged by the cold and endless war, not even the most benevolent had access to such powerful medicine. Rather than wasting his time and effort, she hoped they could share whatever precious time she had left.

However, An Jing had been strong-willed from a young age. He knew what his mother meant and simply picked up a bowl, interrupting her. "Mother, drink some medicine first."

"You've simmered chopped lungwort and old rhizomes. It's simple, but it nourishes the blood and regulates breathing." Madam Shen took the bowl from An Jing and drank it all in one gulp. Although it was bitter, she felt more energetic with the hot herbal tonic in her belly.

Just as she set the bowl down, An Jing began walking towards the convoy. He was no ordinary boy from the northern frontier. From a young age, An Jing often had strange dreams. He dreamt about a concrete jungle of skyscrapers, each one taller than all the houses in the county combined, and metal birds known as airplanes soaring straight into the clouds, crossing the wide sky at a speed that put all mountain birds to shame. He also saw bombs of terrifying power that erupted like suns, hundreds upon thousands of them lighting up the entire world.

The folk of Grand Chen paid particular attention to destiny. It was a common tale among them that stars sometimes came down to earth. An Jing showcased exceptional talent right from childhood, having partially awakened the Spark. Convinced he was a starchild, his family ensured he received the best education possible in both scholarly arts and martial training. But however great the wisdom and strength of a human, they were futile against the massive northern barbarian army marching south and the overwhelming snow calamity sweeping the northern frontier.

Still a child, An Jing was helpless in many situations, and his mother's injury was the unfortunate result of his own limitations. But where there was a will, there was a way. As long as a sliver of hope existed, An Jing was going to do everything in his power to heal his mother.

As he drew near the riders' camp, a vigorous voice rang out.

"Listen up!" yelled a one-eyed man dressed in fine clothes from atop his powerful mount. Armed and armored, the other riders wore grim faces, their eyes full of contempt as they looked over the refugees who kept a fearful distance.

"My master's a merciful man who simply can't bear to watch you die outside the walls," the one-eyed rider announced. "So, he's offering grain in exchange for your lives; you'll be servants of his household! We want children and teenagers, preferably those under fifteen, but we'll also accept those sixteen and under if they meet the criteria. One peck[1] of rice for one life."

1. The peck is a measure of dry volume for cereals. The exact volume varies historically, but it was standardized to 10 liters in 1930, accounting for approximately 7kg of rice. ☜