The bone-chilling wind of late December cut through the trees at the foot of the snowy mountains like whistling blades. The moon hung in the sky, painting the forest a patchwork of black and white. It was cold enough that there was no sound of insects to fill the frosty air.

Wu Xu sat wrapped in a thick, well-worn black cotton jacket. He rested in a concealed spot about three hundred meters from the cliff wall where Young Miss and her group were hiding, keeping watch over his surroundings.

He didn’t see this as particularly demanding. After all, his life had always been like this. There was nothing to compare it to and no other hardship to use as a reference.

This was the first time in Wu Xu’s conscious memory that he had ever left that sealed-off clan village.

Nobody had ever told him that his clear, bright eyes were rare in a grown man, nor that there were other ways of living.

Yuan Qing had stopped by once earlier to ask about the situation, say a few concerned words, and give him some medicine he claimed was very advanced.

Wu Xu accepted it with thanks. After the man left, though, he used his own old medicine to treat his wounds instead.

Yuan Qing had attempted to chat with him and build closeness, but...