Snowmoon Kingdom had three hundred sixty days of falling snow every year.
For the remaining five days, the snow stopped, but the sky stayed gray as a sheet of silver cloth stretched across the heavens. There was no sunlight, no stars—only a bone-deep cold that seeped into every layer of earth, every brick, every thatched wall faded by the passing years.
On a small hill standing alone at the edge of Tuyet Van Town was a hastily built thatched hut. The clay walls were cracked, the thatched roof buried beneath a thick layer of snow, and a single strong gust could bring the whole thing down. Yet smoke still rose from its kitchen every morning, gentle and warm—warmer than any painted mansion in town.
It was home to three children.
An eighteen-year-old boy rose while the sky was still pitch-black and carried a waist-length rusted iron sword into the backyard. His hair was tied high, and his black cloth shirt was worn and patched, but his back was straight as a spear planted in the ice. He stood beneath an old plum tree stripped bare of leaves, gazing toward the horizon still drowned in darkness, then slowly raised his sword.
Whoosh.
The blade split the frigid air and sliced through a falling snowflake, shattering it into mist. He did not stop. One horizontal stroke, one vertical stroke, then a sweeping arc that circled wide around his body. Every movement was slow and steady, as if he had repeated them thousands, tens of thousands of times until they were etched into his bones.
The iron sword was heavy, yet in his hands it moved with effortless fluidity. Each stroke traced an orderly pattern, like brushstrokes on paper. Snow burst into the air, swirling into a thin white curtain around him before silently drifting down again.
He said nothing and did not pant, focusing entirely on each movement. Only when the sky began to brighten did he stop, lower the sword, and stand straight, gazing into the distance.
Inside the smallest thatched hut, a skinny twelve-year-old boy had also woken up.
He sat beside the kitchen's dying ashes and blew gently to coax the flame back to life. His hands were small and bony, with calluses and bruises around the wrists—the marks left by yesterday's fights with the rich kids in town, the ones who liked to call him a “snow-shoveling cripple.”
He did not react when they called him that. He was used to it.
His name was Huang Ming, the cripple of Tuyet Van Town. He had been unable to cultivate since childhood. His dantian was like an empty cauldron, incapable of absorbing even a trace of spiritual energy. Everyone said he would never escape a life of shoveling snow.
But he had never thought of himself as a cripple.
If he truly were a cripple, he would have frozen to death in the avalanche when he was seven. If he truly were a cripple, he would not be sitting here every morning, starting the fire so a pot of porridge could boil before the other two woke up.
He poured water into the pot, added a finely chopped frozen potato, and stirred it all together. A faint fragrance spread through the cramped space. He slowly stood, walked to the doorway, and looked toward the backyard.
The rusted iron sword was drawing vague arcs through the air. Huang Ming watched for a while, then silently turned back inside.
He never disturbed his big brother while he was training with his sword.
In the third hut, a ten-year-old girl was curled beneath an old blanket. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, and her face rested against a cloth-lined bundle of straw. She slept as soundly as a baby squirrel in winter, breathing evenly, her small lips pursed faintly as if she were saying something in a dream.
She was Mac Tuyet—the girl Huang Long had brought home from an avalanche seven years ago.
It had been a blustery morning. Huang Long was returning from hunting snow foxes when he noticed something peeking through the thick snow beneath an old pine tree. He used his sword to break through the ice, then suddenly saw a pair of pale blue eyes, clear as a frozen lake, staring back at him.
A three-year-old child lay buried in the snow. She did not cry or scream. She only looked at him.
Huang Long carried her home. Huang Ming did not understand what was happening, but when he saw those blue eyes, he silently brushed the snow from her hair as well. Then he said, “White as snow, eyes clear as lake water… How about we call you Tuyet?”
She did not answer, but she nodded.
From then on, she was Mac Tuyet—the adopted little sister of the two brothers in the thatched hut on the hill.
Mac Tuyet opened her eyes when the scent of potato porridge reached her nose.
She rubbed her eyes and sat up, her small face still a little chubby from sleep. Her hair was a tangled mess. She clumsily ran her hands through it, then crawled out from under the blanket and headed toward the kitchen.
“Are you up already?” Her voice was still hoarse, edged with sleepiness.
Huang Ming heard her but did not turn around. He only nodded. “I got up during the third watch.”
“The porridge isn't done yet, big brother.”
“It is. Just a little longer.”
Mac Tuyet tiptoed closer and spread both hands toward the kitchen fire, warmth gradually spreading across her skin. She watched Huang Ming stir the pot, then suddenly began to sing softly…
Her voice was clear and gentle, but the ancient melody carried a distant quality that was impossible to name, as if she were singing a song whose origins even she could no longer remember.
Huang Ming paused his stirring and listened until she finished a verse, then suddenly asked, “When will he stop training with his sword?”
Mac Tuyet looked toward the backyard. Through the crack in the door, she saw that Huang Long had stopped practicing and was wiping the blade with the hem of his shirt. Snow clung to his hair and shoulders like a thin white cloak. He did not bother brushing it off and simply carried the sword into the kitchen.
Huang Long said nothing. He set the sword aside and sat down beside the fire. He held his hands over the ashes to warm them, his eyes fixed on no one in particular. Yet the moment he sat down, all three of them fell silent.
Huang Ming carried over three bowls of porridge and set them on a scrap of wood serving as a table. The potato porridge was bland and unsalted, but white steam rose from it into the cold air. The three children sat around the fire, each holding a pair of worn wooden chopsticks, and ate a simple breakfast together.
Outside, the snow continued to fall. Tuyet Van Town slowly awakened—the distant barking of dogs, people's voices calling to one another through the snowy mist. But on the small hill, the three thatched huts remained still and silent. Only the kitchen smoke was alive.
When they finished eating, Huang Long stood up. He looked at Huang Ming and said, “Don't leave the house. The snow's heavy.”
Huang Ming nodded.
Huang Long picked up his sword, opened the door, and stepped outside.
Mac Tuyet hurriedly called after him, “Big brother, come home early!”
Huang Long did not turn around, but he lifted a hand in a slight wave. It was brief and careless, but Mac Tuyet smiled. She believed he had heard her.
Mac Tuyet looked at Huang Ming. “Brother Ming, are you tired?”
Huang Ming was washing the bowls. He stopped at the question and reached down to rub his aching calf—the rich kids in town had struck him there several times with sticks yesterday. It hurt, but he said nothing.
“It's nothing. I'll shovel the snow in front of the house in a little while.”
Mac Tuyet watched him silently for a moment, then unexpectedly placed her small hand on the back of his. Her hand was cold but soft as she spoke in a quiet voice:
“Brother Ming, I'm here.”
Huang Ming lowered his head without answering. But inside him, her words rang like a tiny bell amid the bitter cold—not loud, but impossible to forget.
“I know.”
The morning passed inside the little thatched hut. Huang Ming carried his worn wooden shovel into the yard and bent down to clear the snow, pushing it to either side. His movements were slow but steady, without haste or complaint.
Above him, snowflakes kept falling, falling onto the thatched roof. He stopped and looked up at the blank white sky, then toward the hazy Tuyet Van Mountain on the horizon. His big brother was heading into the deep forest there.
Huang Ming thought to himself that if he could cultivate, he would go with Huang Long and help him. He would not sit here forever, watching the snow fall and wondering why he had been born this way.
But he did not say it aloud.
He shouldered the shovel and went back inside. In the kitchen, Mac Tuyet was singing the ancient song by herself, her voice as clear as water flowing over ice.
Huang Ming stopped and listened.
After a long while, he thought to himself: *If I have to be a cripple forever, then I still want to hear her voice forever.*
And outside, the snow continued to fall evenly onto the roof of the hut, quiet and relentless, like the lives of the three lonely children in the frozen town.