Winter in Tuyet Van Town had already dragged on for four months, but the days that followed seemed to pass more quickly.
Huang Ming rose before dawn and practiced the seven movements beneath the old plum tree. Huang Long stood on the porch, his right hand still wrapped in a thin bandage, but he had begun holding his sword with it again—gentle movements, no hard swings, just enough to preserve a habit carved into his bones. The two of them practiced together in silence, accompanied only by the wind shrieking through the bare branches and the sound of wood striking against the frigid air.
Mo Xue cooked, mended clothes, and every night sang an old song beside the fire. The thatched cottage suddenly seemed warmer—not because of the flickering flames, but because three people beneath one roof were united in pursuit of the same goal.
One morning, while Huang Ming was practicing the seventh movement—turning and thrusting backward—Huang Long suddenly spoke:
“Your left foot is in the wrong position.”
Huang Ming stopped. This was the first time Huang Long had directly pointed out a mistake during practice. He looked down at his foot, then at Huang Long.
“Angle your left foot slightly outward,” Huang Long said calmly, his gaze sharp. “Don’t keep it straight. If it’s at a straight angle, you’ll lose your momentum the instant you turn.”
Huang Ming adjusted his stance. He tried the movement again—and sure enough, the turn was much smoother, while the wooden tip landed with far greater weight and stability than before.
He stopped and looked at Huang Long. Huang Long said nothing more. He simply picked up his sword and continued practicing.
That evening, as they sat eating, Huang Ming suddenly asked:
“Big brother, who taught you the sword?”
Huang Long paused with his chopsticks. He looked at Huang Ming for a moment before saying, “I taught myself.”
“You taught yourself?” Mo Xue asked in surprise. “You didn’t have a master?”
“No,” Huang Long replied, his voice sounding as though he were recounting someone else’s story. “When I was little, I happened to see a cultivator from far away practicing the sword in the forest. I hid at a distance and watched him, then went home and tried to imitate him on my own. Only much later did I learn that he was a cultivator.”
Huang Ming fell silent. He had never heard Huang Long speak of his past like this.
“How old was I then?” Huang Long murmured, as if asking himself. “Around seven or eight, I think. I don’t really remember anymore.”
Huang Ming asked no more questions. Yet that brief story left a deeper mark on his mind than any lecture on principles ever could. Huang Long had taught himself the sword. He had watched only once, then groped his way through the ice and snow, cold and utterly alone.
If big brother could do it, then he could too.
A few days later, the falling snow grew heavier. Huang Long’s wound had healed completely, leaving only a scar. He began venturing into the forest again, though he did not go as far as before, hunting only small animals for fresh meat. Huang Ming continued shoveling snow during the day and practicing in the early morning and at night.
One afternoon, he returned earlier than usual because the snowfall had grown so heavy that the road into town was almost completely buried. When he climbed the hill, he saw Mo Xue standing outside the door, holding something in her hands—a wreath made of pine branches and a few frozen snow flowers.
When she saw him, she lifted the wreath. “Ming, I made this for you.”
Huang Ming walked closer. The wreath was simple, not particularly beautiful, but the frozen snow flowers glittered beneath the gray afternoon light. He said nothing, merely lowering his head so she could place it on him.
Mo Xue smiled. “You look just like the king of the snow.”
Huang Ming stood still with the wreath on his head. His nose was red from the cold, but inside him, something warmer than the fire began to spread. He did not know what to say, but he did not want to take the wreath off.
That night, as they sat beside the fire, Huang Long looked at the wreath on Huang Ming’s head, then at Mo Xue. He said nothing, but something flickered across his eyes—perhaps satisfaction, perhaps an emotion he would never put into words.
Huang Ming sat there with the wreath on his head, eating a bowl of hot porridge. Outside, the falling snow blanketed the world, but inside, the fire burned and the old song rang out.
He did not know where he would go. He only knew that tonight, he was not cold.