Huang Ming woke before dawn.
He did not need anyone to call him. The moment his eyes opened in the darkness, his hand reached out on its own, searching for the piece of wood beside him. His fingers touched its smooth surface, still warm from the night before. He gripped it, stood, and walked out into the yard.
This time, he did not light a fire first. He did not need the light. He remembered the path to the old plum tree as clearly as he knew his own fingers.
The snow had fallen heavily overnight, blanketing the yard, but he moved one slow step at a time, feeling how deeply his feet sank into the snow. When he reached the tree, he straightened and raised the piece of wood.
He began.
Left diagonal—the right hand brought the wood from left to right. Right diagonal—from right to left. Downward slash—straight down from above. Then a low horizontal sweep, added to the sequence.
He performed each movement one at a time, slower than yesterday. He was not trying to be fast. He wanted to be correct.
On the tenth repetition, he heard footsteps. Light, but deliberate—Huang Long.
Huang Long stood several steps away in the darkness, silently watching. He said nothing, but when Huang Ming finished a set, he stepped forward, raised his iron sword, and performed five movements: left diagonal, right diagonal, downward slash, low horizontal sweep, and one new movement—the sword tip thrust straight forward, withdrew, then swept across at head height.
Huang Ming watched, trying to memorize it.
Huang Long did it again. On the third repetition, he slowed down, slow enough for Huang Ming to clearly see the direction of his wrist and the rotation of his shoulder.
Then he stopped and stepped aside.
Huang Ming raised the piece of wood and tried to imitate him.
The first movement—the left diagonal—was familiar now. The second—the right diagonal—was familiar too. The third—the downward slash—was fairly steady. The fourth—the low horizontal sweep—he performed quite well.
The fifth movement—the straight thrust forward, the withdrawal, and the high horizontal sweep.
He thrust. The wood shot forward. Then he pulled it back. But when he swept across at head height, his hand caught, his arm swung too hard, and he lost his balance, nearly falling.
Huang Ming straightened, breathing a little harder. He looked at Huang Long.
Huang Long said nothing. He simply performed the fifth movement again, then looked at Huang Ming.
The second time, Huang Ming tried to keep his balance. He thrust, pulled back, and swept. It was still awkward, but this time he did not stagger.
Huang Long neither nodded nor criticized him. He performed the five movements once more. When he finished, he sheathed his sword and went back inside.
Huang Ming remained in the yard and repeated the fifth movement ten more times.
When the sky began to brighten, he went into the kitchen. Mac Tuyet was already awake and cooking porridge. She did not ask anything, but when he sat down, she handed him a bowl of warm water with a small dried twig she had boiled in it overnight. The warm water slid down his throat, soothing the cold that had seeped into his bones.
“Does your hand hurt?” she asked.
Huang Ming looked at his hand. His fingers were slightly swollen, and his palm was covered in red marks from gripping the wood too tightly. He did not want to say it hurt, but he could not lie to her.
“It hurts,” he said.
Mac Tuyet took a small cloth, dipped it in warm water, and placed it over his hand. She said nothing, simply tending to him. Her movements were gentle and steady, as though she had been doing this all her life.
Huang Ming looked at her, then out the window, where the snow was still falling. A faint thought passed through his mind, but he could not catch it in time.
He ate breakfast, took up his broom, and went to shovel snow. His arm throbbed dully, but he did not hate the pain. Each sweep of the broom now felt like a sword slash. He swept, and with every stroke, he remembered the fifth movement.
Shoveling snow was like thrusting a sword. Raise it, push forward, pull back.
He thought about that movement all day.
By afternoon, he returned home and found Huang Long sitting on the front step, his hands resting on his knees and his sword beside him. He was not cleaning the sword or doing anything else. He simply sat, staring into the distance, toward the hazy mountain range at the edge of the sky.
Huang Ming sat down on the step beside him. Huang Long did not look at him, but after a while, he asked:
“Do you understand the fifth movement yet?”
“No,” Huang Ming answered honestly. “I’m still awkward with it.”
Huang Long was silent for a moment. Then he said, “It took me three days to learn those movements.”
Huang Ming was surprised. He had never heard Huang Long speak about his own training.
“Three days?” he repeated.
“Three days,” Huang Long replied, his voice even, with neither pride nor humility. “I was only six then. On the first day, I got it wrong seventeen times.”
Huang Ming said nothing. He looked at his own hand. He had only been practicing that movement for one day.
“How many times did you practice this morning?” Huang Long asked.
“Thirty-seven.”
Huang Long did not respond. He stood, picked up his sword, and went inside. But when he reached the doorway, he stopped and said without turning around, “Do twenty more tonight.”
Huang Ming sat on the step for a while, watching the snow fall. Then he stood, picked up the piece of wood, and walked into the yard.
Mac Tuyet looked out from the kitchen and saw him begin practicing in the fading light. She did not go outside. She only stood there watching and sang an ancient song she had been singing for as long as she could remember, a song that only the snow and wind could sing along with.
Huang Ming heard her voice, but his hands kept moving.
With every thrust and every withdrawal, he thought about Huang Long’s three days. Three days, seventeen mistakes, and then, one day, getting it right. He did not know how long it would take him, but he knew he could fail more than seventeen times.
As darkness slowly descended, he practiced the fifth movement twenty more times.
That night, Huang Long came out into the yard and stood beside him. They practiced together—the five movements, over and over—until Mac Tuyet came out to call them for dinner. During the meal, Huang Ming remained silent, but his hand still remembered the feel of the wood, the position of his thumb and forefinger pressed against its surface.
When darkness had fully settled, Huang Long sat beside the fire and looked at Huang Ming.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “I’m going deep into the forest. I may be gone for several days.”
Huang Ming looked at him. Huang Long went hunting often, but he rarely gave notice beforehand. Several days meant he would be going far away, into dangerous territory.
“Let me come with you,” Huang Ming said without thinking.
Huang Long looked at him for a long while. Then he shook his head.
“You’re not strong enough yet,” he said, but his voice was not cruel. It was simply the truth.
Huang Ming lowered his head and looked at the hand holding his chopsticks. He did not argue. He knew the answer was right.
“These next few days,” Huang Long continued, “you still have to keep training. Don’t stop halfway. I’ll test you when I return.”
“Yes, big brother.”
Huang Long stood, picked up his sword, and went into the bedroom. Before closing the door, he said, “Remember to keep your little sister warm.”
Huang Ming watched the door close. In the kitchen, Mac Tuyet was clearing away the bowls and chopsticks, her shadow stretching long beneath the oil lamp.
He sat alone before the fire for a long while, watching the flames dance and thinking about Huang Long’s final words.
“Keep my little sister warm.”
A simple sentence. But Huang Ming heard the trust in it, the responsibility being placed in his hands. While Huang Long was away, he was the only one left.
He looked over at Mac Tuyet. She was sitting by the window with a needle and a scrap of cloth in her hands, mending Huang Ming’s old shirt.
“Brother Ming,” she said without turning around, “how long will big brother be gone?”
“Probably a few days.”
She was silent for a moment, then said, “I’ll cook more porridge so your stomach won’t get cold.”
Huang Ming did not answer. He only looked at her.
In the silence of the snowy night, he felt a strange sense of responsibility. Not only because Huang Long had entrusted it to him, but because he wanted to accept it.
He stood and walked over to the fire, adding more wood. The flames roared up, illuminating the room.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Mac Tuyet looked up and smiled. “With you here, I’m not cold.”
Huang Ming looked at her and suddenly felt something warm spreading through his chest. He did not know what to call it. He only knew that on this snowy night, with the cold outside able to seep through every crack in the house, neither he nor she felt cold in here.
He sat down beside her and watched her mend the shirt. After a while, she began singing the ancient song again, her voice soft and distant, like wind blowing through snow-covered mountains.
Huang Ming did not understand the song. But he knew it was the sound of his home.
When she stopped singing, he asked:
“Where did you learn that song?”
Mac Tuyet paused her stitching and thought for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t know. I just know it somehow.”
Huang Ming did not ask anything else.
Outside, snow fell onto the thatched roof. Inside, the fire cast a warm amber glow.
Tomorrow, Huang Long would go far away.
But tonight, they were together.