On the sixth day, Huang Ming did not go snow shoveling.
He got up while it was still dark and went out into the yard to practice the five movements. This time, he performed them in one continuous sequence from beginning to end without stopping. His hands did not tremble, his wrists were not tense, and his body did not sway. When he finished, he stood straight and exhaled slowly, his breath turning into a thin mist that dissolved into the darkness.
He had done it right.
No one confirmed it. There was no voice behind him. But he knew. He could feel the difference in every movement—they were no longer hurried swings, but deliberate motions.
He put away the piece of wood, went back inside, and lit the stove. Mo Xue was still asleep. He cooked porridge, then sat beside the stove and waited for dawn.
When she woke, he was already sitting by the window, looking out at the road leading down to the town.
“Brother Ming,” she called, her voice still thick with sleep. “You’re not going to work today?”
“No,” he replied. “I’m waiting.”
She did not ask what he was waiting for. She simply came over, sat down beside him, and looked out at the road with him.
They sat there all morning. No snow fell, and the sky remained gray, but for the first time, Huang Ming saw a thin streak of light along the horizon, as if the sun were trying to break through the clouds. He did not know whether it was a sign, but he kept watching without looking away.
Near noon, a dark figure appeared in the distance.
Huang Ming stood up. Mo Xue stood as well.
The dark figure approached slowly, each step heavy. Only when it neared the foot of the hill did they recognize Huang Long. He was walking more slowly than usual, his shoulders slightly hunched, his right hand resting on the iron sword without gripping it. His other hand was wrapped in strips of torn cloth.
Huang Ming ran down the hill.
He did not ask anything. When he drew near, he saw that blood had seeped through the bandages on Huang Long’s right hand, congealing into dark brown streaks. His clothes were torn in several places, and there were a few deep scratches across his shoulder, but his eyes remained clear and his posture was still straight.
“What are you doing?” Huang Long asked hoarsely.
Huang Ming did not answer. He simply stepped forward and took hold of his right arm. Huang Long did not pull away or say anything else. Together, they climbed the hill.
Inside the house, Mo Xue had already prepared warm water and clean cloth. She did not ask questions or cry. She silently placed everything they needed on the table, then stepped aside.
Huang Ming removed the old bandages. Beneath them, a deep wound ran from the wrist to the elbow, as if it had been torn open by the claws of some enormous beast. The flesh had already begun to heal, but blood was still seeping from the deepest parts.
“Snow bear,” Huang Long said, sitting motionless while his younger brother cleaned the wound. “An old, enormous one. It took me three days of pursuit to bring it down.”
Huang Ming said nothing. He gently cleaned the wound, applied a simple ointment Mo Xue had prepared from animal fat and herbs, then bandaged it again. His hands did not tremble or hurry, but inside him, a vague anger was rising—not toward anyone else, but toward himself.
“Big brother, did you bring anything back?” Huang Ming asked after finishing the bandage.
Huang Long did not answer. He looked toward the door. Outside, at the foot of the hill, a gigantic snow bear lay on the snow, all four legs bound with rope, its white fur covered in blood and mud. It was three times the size of a grown man.
“I probably won’t ever hunt another one like this in my lifetime,” Huang Long said, his voice weary but touched with pride. “Its hide will keep us warm all winter. Its meat will last us through the end of next month.”
Huang Ming looked at the bear, then at the wound on his brother’s hand. He did not know what to say, but one question kept repeating in his mind: Could I do that?
Huang Long seemed to read his thoughts. He spoke without raising his voice, but every word was clear:
“One day, perhaps you will.”
Huang Ming did not answer, but his hand tightened into a fist.
That evening, they ate fresh bear meat. Mo Xue cooked a thick stew, and its aroma spread throughout the house. Huang Long ate more than usual, but his eyes remained tired, and every so often he raised his hand to check the bandage.
After the meal, Mo Xue went to wash the dishes. Huang Long sat beside the fire, with Huang Ming seated across from him.
“What have you learned in five days?” Huang Long asked.
Huang Ming did not answer with words. He stood, picked up the piece of wood, and walked out into the yard. Huang Long rose after him and watched from beneath the eaves.
In the darkness, Huang Ming performed the five movements. Left diagonal. Right diagonal. Downward slash. Low horizontal sweep. Thrust, then a high horizontal sweep. One fluid sequence. No stopping. No swaying.
He finished and stood straight, looking toward Huang Long. He said nothing, but his breathing said everything—steady, not winded, not rushed.
Huang Long stood still for a moment, then nodded. It was not an obvious nod, merely the slightest dip of his chin, but it was enough for Huang Ming to understand.
“Come inside,” Huang Long said. “It’s getting cold.”
Huang Ming carried the piece of wood inside. As he passed Huang Long, he heard his brother whisper, “The fifth movement may still be a little too early for you. I’ll adjust it tomorrow.”
Huang Ming gave a slight nod and went into the kitchen.
That night, the three of them sat around the fire. Huang Long recounted the bear hunt—not in many words, but enough that Mo Xue occasionally let out a small gasp. When he reached the end, when the bear had knocked him down, he simply said, “Then I got back up and drove my blade into its neck.”
Huang Ming looked at his brother’s bandaged hand and said nothing.
After a while, Mo Xue spoke. “Big brother, I’ll cook you porridge tomorrow. Then I’ll make new coats from the bear hide for both of you.”
Huang Long looked at her, then turned away. But before he did, he said, “Yeah.”
Huang Ming sat there, looking at the two of them, feeling something inside him that he could not describe. It was neither happiness nor sadness. Only a profound stillness, as if these were the things he would remember forever—the little thatched house, the fire, Mo Xue’s singing, and Huang Long’s figure beside the doorway.
He stood, went out into the yard, and looked at the snow bear lying at the foot of the hill. Snow had begun falling again, covering the beast’s white fur and turning it into a large mound of snow.
He stood there for a while, feeling the cold, then went back inside.
From now on, he would have one more reason to train.