Chapter 1

Winter rain fell softly from the horizon, casting a gray veil over the world; the distant paths between the fields were deserted. Cui Ti wore a bamboo hat and a rain cape, carrying pig skin in his hand as he walked along the muddy path threading through the fields.

Jingzhou, nestled in the heart of the Yangtze-Han region, was slow to cool; even in late autumn, a faint warmth lingered. But now, nearly a month after the onset of winter, the crispness of autumn had been utterly dispersed by the relentless rain. The drizzle never ceased, blending earth and water on the paths into pools of muck that clung to one’s shoes and threatened to suck them in with every step.

He passed a cluster of low-roofed houses, arriving at a farmstead. Picking up the iron ring beneath the door knocker, he tapped the door. After three knocks, the door creaked open from within, revealing the face of a young boy, “Is that Master Cui?”

Recognizing his visitor, the boy hurried to let Cui Ti inside. Cui Ti removed his bamboo hat and rain cape, handing them to the boy.

“Bai Su, is your mistress at home?” Cui Ti asked.

Bai Su nodded eagerly, “She is, the rain today is heavy—she’s been at home all day. She just stepped out to watch the rain and returned again.”

With that, Bai Su led Cui Ti toward the main hall. The bamboo curtain at the entrance was fully lowered, while a plain screen pressed up against the doorway, keeping the wind at bay. Yan Nanjing sat deep within the hall, a brazier set before her.

The bamboo mat on her couch had been replaced with thick cloth, upon which a low table held a few belongings. Cui Ti skirted the screen at the entrance and saw the maiden seated upon the couch.

On the wooden desk beside her rested several bronze oil lamps, their light illuminating her profile. Hearing the rustle at the screen, she looked up. The winter light was dim, yet her face shone with striking brilliance.

“Zhishan,” Cui Ti called, somewhat reserved. Standing before the plain screen, he awkwardly patted his robe, hoping to shake off the damp chill.

Yan Nanjing, sitting there, carefully placed her hands atop the brazier. Hearing the voice at the door, she turned and beamed, “You’ve come?”

She was in the prime of youth; her simple skirt and blouse were immaculate and dignified. Her face was bare, her raven-black hair gathered carelessly into a bun with a wooden hairpin, with no trace of ornament or vanity. Even in the gloom, she was a sight to behold.

“I acquired these today. You mentioned wanting some pig skin, so I brought it specially for you.”

Upon seeing Yan Nanjing notice the pig skin in his hand, Cui Ti grew even more embarrassed. Pig skin, soiled and raised near latrines, fed on refuse—those with wealth and status would forgo pig meat for lamb. He managed a strained smile, regretting he hadn’t asked Bai Su to take it outside instead of bringing it to the hall.

Yan Nanjing rose and approached him, her smile gentle, “I’ve been racking my brains, and here you are, delivering just what I need. I don’t even know how to thank you.”

She reached to take the pig skin from him.

Seeing her actually come forward, Cui Ti hurriedly stepped aside. Though he’d washed the pig skin several times after fetching it from the kitchen, he still found it unclean.

“Such tasks shouldn’t be handled by you.”

“I prefer to do it myself,” she replied.

A woman entered, lifting the bamboo curtain, and took the pig skin from Cui Ti with a broad smile.

“A Yuan, fetch a brazier,” Yan Nanjing instructed.

The maiden’s bright eyes sparkled, and when she smiled, two shallow dimples appeared on her cheeks.

The woman called A Yuan responded, soon returning with a brazier.

The brazier was an essential vessel for winter in southern regions—crafted of bamboo strips to form a bucket with a handle, fitted with a suitable ceramic pot inside, filled with glowing embers for warmth.

“My brother sent a letter, saying this winter will be colder than usual,” Yan Nanjing said.

Cui Ti placed his hands atop the brazier, feeling the lively warmth of the charcoal. The heat flushed the maiden’s cheeks a rosy red.

She cupped her hands above the fire, gently rubbing her fingers. Her pale fingertips, tinged with pink, glowed in the firelight.

“Did Master Yang say so?” Cui Ti glanced away from her hands, uneasy.

Yan Nanjing nodded, “He learned from our elder, so if he says so, it’s all but certain.”

A look of genuine respect crossed Cui Ti’s face, “I have witnessed the skills of Master Chen—if Master Yang speaks, it must be true.”

He rubbed his hands over the brazier, his expression tinged with melancholy. “If that’s the case, I wonder what this year’s battle will bring.”

The “Master Chen” Cui Ti referred to was a wandering Taoist who had arrived some twenty or thirty years prior. For decades, this land had known little peace. Thirty years ago, the princes raised banners for rebellion, claiming to purge the king’s court; the imperial court and the princes clashed fiercely. Before the princes’ rebellion could be quelled, local governors seized the opportunity, joining with powerful families and using the turmoil to amass their own forces.

(2/3)

The court in Luoyang was exhausted merely dealing with the princes; after failing to punish the governors in the early stages, it had to focus all its resources on the princes, leaving the governors unchallenged as long as they didn’t openly rebel.

But events unfolded far beyond the court’s expectations. The governors, unsatisfied with their own territories, attacked each other—and sometimes even clashed with the royal princes for land.

The realm became a cauldron of chaos. Compared to the contested heartlands, the southern regions of Wu and Chu were relatively stable. Thus, many displaced families migrated south, seeking refuge.

Jingzhou, a key passage from north to south, saw many refugees pass through—some stayed permanently.

Master Chen, whose real name was Chen Yun, arrived during this upheaval. He never spoke of his origins, nor did anyone care. Literate and eloquent, he was also an accomplished physician.

He was retained by the local elders, teaching literacy and medicine.

But one year, Chen Yun suddenly closed his doors to guests, refusing to treat anyone. Even when prominent visitors pleaded, he claimed old age and failing memory, unable to recall herbs or see patients’ acupoints. Regardless of status, all were turned away, until his death.

Still, his reputation endured. One year, he predicted a severe drought and urged the elders to store grain and abstain from autumn planting.

Some heeded his advice, storing grain; others dismissed him, doubting a northern stranger’s guidance and continued their usual autumn sowing.

As he foretold, the heat lingered after autumn, with barely a drop of rain for months. The land cracked, crops failed.

Chen Yun’s fame soared thereafter.

He never married, but adopted a boy and girl from refugee families. He didn’t change their names, allowing them to keep their original identities.

Having been raised by Chen Yun, they inherited his teachings.

“Are the battles outside Jingzhou not yet over?” Yan Nanjing placed a citrus fruit atop the dying embers.

The citrus was harvested from two trees in her own courtyard; after autumn, they were stored away, becoming prized winter delicacies.

Chen Yun taught Yan Nanjing from childhood to care for her constitution—cold foods harmed the spleen and disrupted health, especially for women whose innate vitality was easily depleted. If the foundation was damaged, illness would follow. So she rarely ate raw or cold foods.

Even fruit in winter was boiled or roasted before consumption.

For two months now, an unknown northern warlord had raised his banner and marched south to seize Jingzhou. The governor had been maneuvering his forces for some time.

Yang Zhijian, whom she called her brother, served as a registrar under the governor, defending the city.

Perhaps to spare her worry, Yang Zhijian seldom mentioned the war in his letters.

“Master Cui, do you know the situation outside?”

Since Yang Zhijian wouldn’t tell her, she sought news from Cui Ti.

Her voice was gentle and sweet, and at her “Master Cui,” he blushed, nervously rubbing his hands.

“I went to town yesterday, but didn’t see the usual soldiers I know,” he said, pausing, “I suspect fighting has begun.”

Soldiers guarded the city walls heavily, barring civilians. Cui Ti could only infer the situation from scattered clues.

“Once fighting starts, it won’t be resolved in a dozen days. Afterwards, trouble is sure to follow. Whoever wins, peace will not return. Fleeing soldiers will loot households everywhere, bringing disaster to countless families.”

Whenever armies clashed, there were always deserters—unbound by discipline, they often turned bandit. Nothing was beyond these desperate men.

“Zhishan,” Cui Ti said solemnly, “best not to go out these days.”

“Though we are far from the city, caution is still needed.”

The roasting citrus gave off a fragrant aroma; her slender fingers pinched the stem. The fruit, now thoroughly heated, was burning to the touch.

“Don’t worry,” Yan Nanjing smiled, rolling the hot citrus in her hands. “I won’t leave the house these days. I’ll have Bai Su guard the gate closely.”

She added, “I’ll soon make pig skin soup—it nourishes the yin, moistens the lungs, clears heat. Will you have a few bowls, Master Cui?”

Cui Ti shook his head, “I have no need for it—best you keep it for yourself.”

He repeated his warning not to venture out; if anything urgent arose, Bai Su could fetch him.

After Cui Ti left, Yan Nanjing summoned Bai Su and A Yuan, relaying everything he’d said.

A Yuan’s face instantly blanched.

A Yuan was a refugee from the Central Plains, saved by Chen Yun. Her family fled the wars, but fell ill upon reaching Jingzhou—her husband and kin died, leaving her and her son to be rescued by Chen Yun. She remained as a servant, her son serving Yang Zhijian.

Now, with the war’s uncertainty, fate was unpredictable.

Seeing A Yuan’s pallor, Yan Nanjing reassured her, “My brother sent a letter just days ago—they should be safe.”

But the battlefield was fickle; one moment a man was alive, the next he was gone. Who could say if the writer of a letter days ago would survive?

(3/3)

“At present, the state of the front is unknown. But the cold is deepening, and soon, snow will fall.”

“After a few snowfalls, the fighting should pause.”

The southern cold differed from the north—especially in Chu, where rain prevailed. Most times, it was manageable, but in winter, it became severe.

The snow in Jingzhou did not linger as in the north; by morning, it melted into water, turning the roads into mud, making even walking difficult, let alone traveling by cart.

Armies moved only when provisions were secure.

If supply transport was hindered, the campaign could not last. With so many mouths to feed, if provisions ran short, mutiny was inevitable unless victory was swift.

In these times, soldiers farmed as well as fought—spring and summer were for tilling, autumn for harvest, only after which war could be waged.

Spring sowing was vital; if delayed, autumn harvest would fail, bringing famine.

Such disasters could not be remedied in a year or two.

Yan Nanjing was certain the conflict would not last.

“My brother’s letter said this winter would be colder than ever—not only snow, but ice. If snow turns to ice, moving provisions will be even harder. Regardless of the battle’s outcome, retreat will become necessary.”

A Yuan did not grasp all the details, but understood that those who could not endure the cold would soon leave.

A Yuan nodded, “I understand.”

Yan Nanjing smiled, then her expression grew more serious, “Still, the coming days may be unsafe—unless necessary, we should not leave.”

Bai Su nodded eagerly, “Thankfully, our master sent plenty of grain and firewood—we could stay shut in for a month and not want for anything.”

The boy’s optimism made Yan Nanjing smile. “Very well. From now, we’ll keep the gates closed. Apart from Master Cui and a few others we know, we’ll open for no one.”

In troubled times, caution was paramount. Even utmost care could not guarantee safety, but carelessness would surely bring ruin.

The gates—usually kept closed—were now fastened tighter than ever, even the side door’s latch pressed inward. No matter the storms outside, they would wait for the turmoil to pass.

Yan Nanjing had never cared much for going out, so confinement was no hardship. Bai Su, diligent, patrolled the front and back doors with a dog-beating stick. Two dogs guarded the entrances.

People might doze, but dogs were vigilant, barking at the slightest stir.

All that could be done had been arranged; the rest was beyond human calculation.

Yan Nanjing, behind closed doors, devoted herself to daily life. As foretold in her brother’s letter, each day grew colder. Jingzhou’s winter, usually mild, was now merciless. Each morning brought icicles beneath the eaves.

A Yuan marveled, saying she’d lived in Jingzhou for over ten years and never seen such cold.

With the weather so harsh, leaving was out of the question. Some kept fires burning all day, huddled indoors.

Winter nights fell early; after dusk, darkness soon made things invisible. Lamps were lit in the house; after supper, Yan Nanjing sent A Yuan to her own room. She sat by the hearth, burying a few oranges in the ashes, pulling them out to peel and eat when warmed.

A kettle was kept on the hearth for hot water after the meal.

She moved her lamp close, eating hot citrus as she read a scroll—one of the collections of strange tales and wonders Yang Zhijian had gathered for her to pass the winter hours.

Winter nights, at any hour, were especially quiet. It seemed all life lay dormant beneath the overwhelming cold.

Apart from the howling wind and the sound of falling rain or snow, the world was steeped in silence.

Yan Nanjing heard a rustling outside—likely sleet. In Chu, snow came first as pebbly pellets, then shifted to flakes.

Amidst the rustling, a sudden slicing noise broke the air, followed by something falling. The sound was slight, quickly swallowed by the sleet.

Yan Nanjing glanced outside, furrowing her brows, listening intently. Then she stood, took up the fire tongs, and opened the door.

Snow and wind stung her face.

She looked around; everywhere was pitch-black, like a gaping beast’s maw ready to swallow her.

She stood still for a moment, then took a few steps outside. The cold wind struck, making her sneeze; she covered her nose, meaning to return indoors. But before she could step back inside, a cold presence appeared behind her. Strong arms, not a woman’s, gripped her shoulders, and an icy blade pressed against her neck.

The figure behind was tall, his clothes soaked by the rain and snow, every breath laden with wintry chill.