In the days that followed, Huang Long stopped hunting.
The wound on his hand needed time to heal, but he did not lie around resting. Every morning, he still rose before dawn and stood beneath the eaves, his right hand extended as if holding a sword. There was no sword in it, but his left hand continued drawing straight lines through the air, mimicking the movements of his practice.
Seeing this, Huang Ming understood that even while injured, Huang Long had never stopped. He silently went out into the yard, picked up a piece of wood, and began practicing. The two of them stood several steps apart—one grown man mimicking movements in the air, one smaller boy practicing with wood.
They exchanged no words, but their rhythms were the same.
Three days passed like that.
On the fourth day, Huang Long stood in front of Huang Ming, his right hand already unwrapped. The wound had dried, though it was still red and had left a long scar running from his wrist to his elbow. He said nothing about it. He simply gripped the iron sword in his left hand, raised it, and began.
Huang Ming watched.
Huang Long performed seven movements. The five old ones, plus two new movements—a low arc and a spinning thrust backward. He moved slowly, but every motion was sharp.
Then he stopped and looked at Huang Ming.
Huang Ming did not ask. He raised the piece of wood and tried to imitate him. He performed the five old movements well enough. But at the sixth—the low arc—his hand veered slightly off course. At the seventh—the spinning thrust backward—he lost his balance and nearly fell.
Huang Long did not correct him. He simply performed all seven movements again.
They practiced the seven movements all morning. Over and over. On the tenth repetition, Huang Ming was still getting the seventh movement wrong. On the twentieth, he was only slightly off. On the thirtieth, he got it right—not perfectly, but right.
Huang Long lowered his sword and said, “That’s enough.”
Huang Ming was breathing hard, sweat drenching his forehead despite the cold. He said nothing, only nodded.
That afternoon, Huang Ming went snow shoveling as usual. On his way home, he saw Zhao Shangxing standing at the town gate with a small sack in his hand.
Zhao Shangxing looked at him, then tossed the sack in his direction. It landed in the snow in front of Huang Ming. It was not very heavy, but something seemed to be inside.
“Take it,” Zhao Shangxing said. “My dad told me to give it to you. I don’t know what’s inside either.”
Huang Ming bent down and picked up the sack. Inside were some rice, a few potatoes, and a piece of dried meat. It was not much, but for a poor family like theirs, it was a precious gift.
He looked at Zhao Shangxing. Zhao Shangxing had already turned away, waving a hand. “Don’t get the wrong idea. My dad cares about you, not me. I still think you’re a cripple. But at least you know how to hold a stick.”
Huang Ming stood there, clutching the sack. He said nothing. But for the first time, when he watched Zhao Shangxing disappear from view, he no longer saw him as an enemy.
He carried the sack home. Mo Xue was surprised when she saw it. Huang Long saw it too, but did not ask. He only looked at the sack, then at Huang Ming, as if waiting for an explanation.
“It’s from Old Zhao,” Huang Ming said briefly. “He said to give it to us.”
Huang Long asked nothing more. He nodded.
That night, after Mo Xue had fallen asleep, Huang Long sat by the stove, his left hand holding the iron sword while his right rested motionless on his thigh.
“Do you know why I started practicing the sword?” he suddenly asked.
Sitting across from him, Huang Ming shook his head.
Huang Long was silent for a moment, as if searching for a way to put it. Then he said, “I don’t know either. I was only six years old then, and I thought that if I had a sword, I wouldn’t be afraid of anything.”
He paused.
“But a sword is only a piece of iron. What matters is whether the person holding it can stand firm.”
Huang Ming looked at the iron sword in Huang Long’s hand. Firelight flickered across the blade, making it gleam like a streak of light in the darkness. He had never held that sword. It belonged to Huang Long. It always had.
But at one point, he found himself wondering—would he ever get to hold it?
“One day,” Huang Long said, as if he had read his thoughts, “if you become strong enough, I’ll lend it to you.”
Huang Ming looked up and met his brother’s eyes. There was nothing in them but sincerity. No promises, no consolation. Only a fact.
He nodded.
Outside, snow began to fall. The first flakes of the new night settled onto the thatched roof, gentle and silent. Inside, the fire still burned, and the shadows of the two brothers were cast upon the wall—one large, one small.
Huang Ming sat there, watching the flames, feeling the words he could not speak being woven into a cord more enduring than his thin arms.
Tomorrow, he would rise early. He would practice the seven movements. He would keep the fire from going out. And he would wait.
Until he was strong enough to hold that sword.