The gloomy sky stretched overhead as wind swept through, bone-chillingly cold. Snowflakes swirled and drifted down, landing ice-cold on his unwashed, grimy face that had not been cleaned for days. His face was colder than the snow itself, unable to melt the flakes, and in an instant his body was covered with a thin layer of snow.

Beneath him lay filthy, rotting scraps of paper and abandoned cloth bags, stained with patches of blood. He gritted his teeth to suppress his whimpers, yet could not stop the broken moans escaping through his clenched teeth.

Dark, heavy despair like storm clouds settled into his hollow eyes. He hugged his arms tightly around himself, lifted his gaze to the sky that had been snowing continuously for three days, and clutched his cramping, spasming stomach that had been without food for three consecutive days. He knew that if it continued snowing tonight, if he still could not find food tonight, if his wounds still received no treatment tonight, then by morning, this corner too filthy for even dogs to approach would inevitably gain one more rigid corpse.

But he knew even more surely—no one would come.

The highland town was sparsely populated to begin with, and this place lay at the border between the interior and frontier regions. Passersby hurried along, all running toward homes with warm hearth fires, their faces showing warmth and anticipation as they awaited knocking on doors to see the long-missed smiling faces.

Such warmth and beauty—he too had once possessed them.

Only now, he knew not where they had been lost.

He was a child abandoned by the world, with nowhere to voice grievances against fate’s cruelty and desolation. He could only clutch his wounds all over his body and wait in the highland winter wind for heaven to grant him the most logical ending.

The snow fell heavier and heavier.

Like torn cotton and flying floss, it wove into dense nets, spinning, howling, pressing down heavily.

He had already lost all sensation of cold, hunger, and pain, instead gradually feeling warmth spreading through him. Without approaching any fire, he felt pleasantly warm.

He knew he was about to freeze to death—those dying of cold would feel burning heat before the end.

Everyone where he had lived knew this truth.

He felt drowsy, his eyelids heavy as iron, drooping repeatedly.

He desperately pinched his wounds, the intense pain making him tremble constantly, but the sleepiness was somewhat dispelled.

Cannot sleep, cannot sleep, cannot sleep…

Once asleep, it meant death.

He did not want to die yet.

When they dragged him from the house, his mother had cried out and chased after them, only to be kicked down with one blow. Still she struggled on the ground, crawling to try to reach him. He frantically tried to break free, but how could a frail youth match the strength of grown men?

His mother crawled all the way over, kowtowing to them with thudding sounds. She could no longer speak coherently, only pleading over and over: “He won’t… he won’t… he won’t… please, I beg you, please…”

She kowtowed until she bled, her forehead swollen purple, her face covered in mud mixed with tears, her once-beautiful features completely unrecognizable.

Someone went to pull her away, incidentally tearing open her clothing…

He screamed once in grief and rage, but was dragged outside with even greater force.

He could not see what happened to his mother. He begged the people around to go check on her. As he was dragged past each person, he continuously reached out to grab at their ankles, pleading with them to look after his mother, but everyone avoided him with disgust and indifference, their expressions as if seeing an evil spirit.

What had he done wrong?

Was even survival itself an error?

…Cannot die.

Must go back.

Must know what truly happened to Mother.

He bit viciously into his wounds, tearing them further. As blood flowed freely, he raised his head and swore to the sky that seemed eternally shrouded in gloom: as long as he could survive, he would live better than anyone else—more joyfully, more freely, more triumphantly!

He would work twice as hard to live, living with one hundred and twenty thousand parts of unbridled spirit.

He would trample those who had once harmed him and his mother beneath his feet, crushing their skulls.

Just as they had broken his fingers, one by one…

He could not die.

Yet he was about to die.

The loss of blood would equally hasten death’s arrival.

His consciousness grew heavier while his body grew lighter.

He was unwilling to accept this…

Then he heard the sound of hoofbeats.

A series of rapid, powerful hoofbeats.

In his hazy consciousness, he thought—another late traveler, rushing toward their own hearth fire. Who would have time to concern themselves with a dying person in a street corner?

But the hoofbeats suddenly stopped.

He forced his eyes open with great effort.

On the empty road, a magnificently divine enormous black horse had nearly filled his entire field of vision. The horse’s front hooves were raised high, its mane flying wildly, and the rider was suddenly turning back to look.

That single backward glance illuminated all his remaining years.

Forever frozen in the youth’s blood-weeping memory.

That backward glance caused supremely beautiful trumpet flowers to bloom in the vast sky, their fragrance reaching the ends of heaven and earth.

Like an enormous ray of light shining into the dark, weeping corner where the youth lay.

He saw her turn back, frown, and dismount.

He saw her personally examine his wounds without fear of filth.

He saw her command her subordinates to clean his body with ice and snow, apply medicine to his wounds, carry him to an inn, first feed him warm porridge, then ginseng soup, carefully treating and nursing him back to health.

He saw her hold his wrist, her expression calm yet her fingers moving with lightning precision, using exquisite techniques to heal him, ultimately preventing him from becoming disabled and enabling his current glory.

She seemed very busy, very urgent, very weary, yet she still dismounted and acted. After ensuring his life was no longer in danger, she left subordinates to care for him and left silver for his living expenses. He accepted that silver but never used it. When painful memories gnawed at his heart, he would take it out and carefully caress the delicate spiral patterns on the snowflake silver, the cold touch reminding him of that snowy night many years ago… In a flash, ten years had already passed.

Years later, when he had achieved success and fame, he repeatedly tried to capture with ink and brush that sudden backward glance that had changed his entire life, but failed countless times. True spirit and bearing cannot be painted—she was the deity of his life, beyond what ordinary brushwork could express. Until that day… when that news arrived, he drank through his entire cellar of precious wines in one night, and in his great intoxication angrily wielded his brush. Perhaps heaven pitied his sincere heart and her tragic fate, granting divine inspiration, so that his painting finally captured three parts of her divine essence.

From then on, that painting hung daily in his study, becoming his life’s only treasure.

And tonight, he was going to see her.

Su Xuan’s gaze shifted as he looked at the woman before him. These past few years, he had often gone to see her, but always traveled alone, never inviting anyone to accompany him, never feeling anyone worthy to stand before her. Yet today, as if possessed by spirits, he had spoken the invitation. When the words left his mouth, he himself was startled, but it was too late to take them back.

Nor did he intend to take them back—he always took responsibility for his words and actions, even when they were wrong.

Throughout this journey, he had been wondering why someone like himself, who appeared casual but was actually quite cautious, would commit such an absurd act. Yet it was just that moment when her figure turned to leave that stirred something in his heart, as if some distant memory returned in that instant, striking his resolve and causing that invitation to slip out.

He smiled gently.

No matter—since she had come, it could be considered fate.

The hoofbeats were swift, with long, resonant neighing.

He looked up and smiled, “The mountain path is treacherous—the horses cannot proceed. Let us walk.”