Chapter 10: The Passerby

The biting wind had eased slightly, and above the blue sky, the sun hung high—a rare fine day in the heart of winter. From the ruins of a desolate village, a tall figure and a smaller one emerged from a dilapidated house. After a brief moment of tidying themselves, they set off southward across the endless white snow.

They had traveled far when Qingchun kept glancing back at the village. Trailing closely behind the resolute Li Po, he finally stammered after a long pause, “Big... big brother, when... when can we come back to visit again?”

The sentiment of being unable to part with one’s homeland, though he was but a young boy, spilled openly from his heart.

“Do you miss it?” Li Po asked.

“Mm... a little...” Qingchun replied hesitantly.

“Is your family’s ancestral grave here?”

“No, no one from my family has been buried here yet.”

“Is there a clan hall?”

“I’m the only one with the surname Qing in the village—not a clan.”

“Then what is it you can’t let go of?”

The boy clutched the short knife in his arms tightly, struggling to keep up with his older brother. His mind was confused, unable to untangle what ancestral graves or clan halls had to do with longing or letting go.

In truth, he barely understood these concepts himself. His questions were more a rote repetition of what he had heard. Having spent several years on the frontier, he had absorbed some semblance of the prevailing values of the era, but not much else.

As for the uncertain road ahead, neither the inexperienced Qingchun nor Li Po had any concrete plans. They could only take it one step at a time.

The village’s silhouette gradually faded behind them, and the boy’s homesickness was soon swallowed by the harsh journey and biting cold, leaving no room for sentiment.

Two figures, one tall and one small, staggered along the riverbank across the vast wilderness.

Their journey lasted three days without encountering a single soul—not even a glimpse of the village.

Only around noon on the fourth day did a dark shape appear faintly in the distance.

They had finally arrived at Mayi City.

At this moment, the north wind howled fiercely, and the chill in the air deepened further.

Li Po wiped the frost from his face. Though continuous walking had kept his body somewhat warm, his hands and feet were numb from the cold. This journey made him yearn deeply for the broken frontier camp they had left behind. Though winter there was harsher, at least there was a warm shelter.

Since crossing into the Greater Sui territory, however, they had become wandering vagrants with no fixed abode, a stark contrast that dampened his expectations for the prosperous empire they had heard so much about.

Qingchun, clinging to Li Po’s back, let out a cheer. But the sound was barely louder than a cat’s meow in the gusting wind. Since the third day, no matter how stubborn the boy was, he had no choice but to remain on Li Po’s back.

Truly a lucky child.

Had he stayed in the mountains, survival would have been a near impossibility. Following Li Po out of the wilds, he had fallen gravely ill but miraculously escaped the clutches of death.

If their journey had lasted even half a day longer, the boy would not have made it. Yet, by fortune, they had arrived at their destination.

If this isn’t luck, what is?

Gazing toward the distant city, Li Po thought that since Qingchun had followed him, his own luck seemed to have improved greatly.

Qingchun struggled to dismount, but Li Po shivered, tightened his grip around the boy’s arms, gesturing him to stay still, then quickened his pace toward the city.

The closer they drew, the clearer the city walls, gates, moats, battlements, and arrow towers came into view.

Soon, Li Po formed a rough impression: life inside such a fortified city would be far easier and safer than surviving in scattered villages.

He felt his decision to brave the cold and head south to Mayi was truly wise.

He had already begun to imagine securing a small place to stay within the city and cooking a pot of beef stew... his mouth watered at the thought, and his steps grew lighter.

Yet, these pleasant visions would demand considerable effort.

For instance, how to get inside the city?

Entering was no small risk. Without residency papers or a pass, not only was cooking beef stew out of the question, but even being turned into soup by others was not impossible.

Still, as long as they did not intend to become outlaws, living openly and honestly, whether they could enter the city or not did not matter much.

Near the city, Li Po stopped. His eyes, dulled by fatigue and cold, sharpened gradually.

The city gates were wide open.

The dark passageway of the gate emitted eerie howls as the northern wind surged through.

From outside, one could even glimpse the main street within the city.

Li Po looked up again. A large flag fluttered atop the wall, bearing a bold character for “Sui,” marking the city’s allegiance.

Yet what gave Li Po pause was the complete absence of any sign of life.

No guards stood watch as he had imagined; apart from the whistling wind, there was utter silence. The city exuded an uncanny, eerie feeling.

Damn it, was this some kind of empty city trick laid out for me?

The contrast with his expectations sent waves of unease through every pore of his body.

But soon, Li Po relaxed slightly; this was not a ghost town after all.

A few figures emerged together from the gate.

They wore thick sheepskin coats, their dirty, tattered garments only marginally better than Li Po’s. Their faces were mostly covered, and each carried a knife at the waist, a bow and arrows slung over the shoulder, their shoulders bound with hemp rope. To Li Po, these outfits seemed neither civilian nor military—somewhat strange.

They bore none of the features typical of ordinary subjects of the Central Plains empire; rather, they resembled the tribesmen of the grasslands.

The group passed silently nearby, glancing at Li Po and Qingchun but paying them no mind, with no one approaching to question them.

Watching their retreating figures, Li Po grew suspicious.

“Big brother, they’re all woodcutters...” Qingchun said.

Woodcutters? The kind who earn a living chopping wood with axes? Woodcutters who carried knives and bows? That was a notion that seriously disrupted his worldview.

Through Qingchun’s halting explanations, Li Po soon understood that these so-called woodcutters likely held other roles.

They might be militia soldiers or military households, hunters, or even occasional “blades-for-hire,” robbing travelers in their spare time—a hardy, fierce folk requiring little further explanation.

This was truly an age where carriages rumbled, horses neighing, and every traveler carried a bow and arrow at the waist.