HCAW 15

Chapter 15 – Snow’s Wrath, Ice’s Hunger

After returning from Zhenhai Pass, Fang Jingyu walked slowly back toward Qingyuan Alley.

It had been half a month since the Yu Yin Guard summoned him to the training grounds, and only now did a belated sense of worry rise in his heart. What had become of his home in his absence? Could Qin Jiao and Zheng Deli manage the prisoner in the courtyard? What if that suspect, Chu Kuang, had turned on them and fled after killing them? What then?

Fang Jingyu let out a long breath and closed his eyes.

By now, the sky was pale with dawn, and snow fell like scattered pellets. Boats had docked by the shore; porters gathered in teahouses for breakfast, and hawkers rang their bells. Penglai slowly woke amidst rising kitchen smoke.

As he walked along the street, Fang Jingyu reached into his pouch, intending to buy a few fine meat buns for Qin Jiao—but then he heard sharp whip cracks and a chaotic wailing nearby. He turned his head to see several blue-robed, green-booted whip-wielding officials clearing the road, their faces haughty as they shouted:

“Clear the way! Clear the way!”

A clamor of gongs and drums rose. Fang Jingyu silently counted: thirteen strikes in total—likely heralding the procession of someone of great rank.

Vendors scrambled to pack up their wares. Marketgoers knelt hastily by the roadside. Slowly, through the curtain of falling snow, a carriage appeared—black canopy, silver trim. Preceded by an entourage wielding yellow whips, ceremonial hammers, spears tipped with ox-tail flags, and round fans—it came in grand procession.

Fang Jingyu, like the rest, bowed low to kneel—but suddenly, the sound of moaning and sobbing reached his ears. He looked up—and what he saw made his heart seize.

Two lines of slaves, dressed in thin clothing, were crawling in the snow-bound cold. Iron chains were looped around their necks as they struggled to drag the grand carriage forward. Many of their limbs were bruised black and purple, frostbitten and swollen. Some had the skin of their hands torn off and left bloody smears on the ground. One slave had already been strangled to death by his chain; the corpse now hung limp, dragged forward by the others, an added burden.

These were the so-called walking meat, captured for illegally crossing the Heavenly Pass from Zhenhai. In Penglai, they were regarded as lower than dust. The citizens trembled and knelt, listening to the ceaseless cries—but it seemed none found this unfamiliar. No one dared to speak.

And then, amid that sea of bent backs, one figure stood up.

Amid the brutal snow and biting wind, a black-robed youth stepped forth, blocking the ceremonial entourage. He wore a blade at his waist, eyes cold as steel.

A whip-wielding officer snapped, “Who goes there? Get down!”

A yellow whip lashed out like a venomous snake—but the youth reached out and caught it with one hand.

He held up his badge. “I’m a constable. May I ask—what crime have these slaves committed, to warrant such punishment?”

“Why are you prattling on here? Do you even know who’s in this carriage? How dare you block the way!”

The officer cursed him furiously, but Fang Jingyu stood firm as stone. “I don’t know. Would you be so kind as to enlighten me?”

“Get lost! These ‘walking meat’ are all criminals of Penglai. What’s wrong with making them pull the cart? Illegally crossing the Heavenly Pass is the greatest crime!”

“There is no such punishment in the Laws of Penglai,” Fang Jingyu said calmly.

The officer flew into a rage. “To hell with the Laws of Penglai! The man in that carriage outranks them tenfold. Move now, or I’ll make you!”

Soldiers wielding golden ceremonial weapons stepped forward, surrounding Fang Jingyu. The chained slaves halted, unable to move. Amid the swirling snow and roaring wind, the air grew tense—on the verge of erupting.

Then suddenly, the black curtain of the carriage stirred. A shadow flickered behind it, and a soft, eerie voice floated out: “Who’s outside?”

The gatekeeper rushed forward, bowing deeply. “Forgive us, my lord. Some fool has blocked the path. I’ll deal with him at once.”

Fang Jingyu’s ears were sharp—he heard every word.

His eyes darkened. So the person inside was the National Preceptor?

In Penglai, only members of the imperial family were allowed to cultivate immortal arts; hence, they were called the Immortal Clan. It was said that all Immortal Elixir now came from the National Preceptor’s hand. He alone could commune with Immortal Yonghe, and he was the chief strategist of Penglai—revered as the North Star.

As the curtain rustled slightly, a faint fragrance drifted out. Fang Jingyu’s expression changed—it was Longxiang Musk. He remembered that scent from his childhood, when the Langgan Guard had once received a gift from the Immortal Palace. It wasn’t strange in itself—until he recalled what he’d heard in Tongjing Village while tracking the King Yama. A fat merchant had once mentioned that a certain noble patron wanted drums made of human skin—and the letter from that patron had carried the same fragrance.

Fang Jingyu shivered. Was this mere coincidence?

The gatekeeper turned back, face changing, and raised his cudgel to strike—but the eerie voice once again rang out, halting him.

“Wait.”

The gatekeeper froze and lowered the cudgel.

“I know you. You’re Fang Jingyu, son of the Langgan Guard—yes?”

Fang Jingyu frowned slightly, then nodded. The Langgan Guard ranked eighth among the Xian Mountain divisions, which gave Fang Jingyu some degree of reputation by association.

“What an ungrateful little brat. Your father, Fang Huaixian, committed a grave offense—now he’s just a common man. Yet you, his son, dare challenge me?” The soft voice turned sharp and venomous. “Still, I am merciful. If you kneel right now, and join these slaves in pulling my carriage, I will spare you.”

Suddenly, the wind howled, and cold pierced to the bone. The slaves lifted their eyes, gazing at the youth in black. His back was straight, face like ice—unyielding and proud. But they knew the man in the carriage was a monster. It was said he delighted in torture—needles, dismemberment, human-skin drums and bone flutes. He was rumored to hold sacrificial rites that claimed tens of thousands of lives.

“I don’t need your mercy,” Fang Jingyu said, shaking his head. “I want you to release them.”

Silence fell. Only the chime of bells stirred in the wind, like an anxious heartbeat.

“The Heavenly Pass is forbidden to cross. This is an edict of the late Emperor Bai. But despite decades of crackdowns, fugitives and refugees still try to escape. So I made them crawl through the streets—to warn the masses. What’s wrong with that?”

Fang Jingyu replied coldly, “If the people of Penglai weren’t starving or freezing, why would they risk death to flee?”

The sound of grinding teeth echoed from behind the curtain—harsh and grating. Then the soft voice rang out again, this time short and cold:

“Loose arrows.”

Fang Jingyu’s eyes widened. He immediately placed a hand on his sword, ready to defend.

But in a split second, several slaves before him collapsed—their hearts pierced by arrows. Their cloudy eyes froze in terror and confusion. The rest huddled together in fear, but none dared to run. Fang Jingyu’s hands trembled.

“Look at you,” the voice mocked. “You think you’re some hero, punishing evil and righting wrongs? Because of your theatrics, innocent people have died.”

After a pause, the voice said:

“Kneel. Pull the carriage.”

A long silence. Under the stunned gaze of the crowd, Fang Jingyu slowly unclenched his fists—and knelt.

In the falling snow, he was like a block of black stone—cold, hard, unyielding. But when he reached for the iron chains, he said,

“Lord Preceptor, I ask that you release these slaves.”

A sigh came from behind the curtain. “Stubborn to the end…”

“Your carriage—I alone can pull it,” Fang Jingyu said resolutely.

After a pause, the Preceptor chuckled darkly. “Very well. Quite the arrogant one.” Then, to the gatekeeper, he ordered:

“From here to the Immortal Palace is five li. Let him haul the carriage alone.” (2.5 kilometers or 1.55 miles.)

The gatekeepers unshackled the filthy slaves and let them go. Crawling and stumbling, the slaves scrambled to the roadside, kowtowing in thanks. One chain after another was cast onto Fang Jingyu, wrapping around him like withered vines. He said nothing, simply shouldered the iron chains and began to walk. The heavy silver carriage rumbled forward once more, stirring up clouds of snow and dust. The grinding wheels groaned like the roar of a beast.

The gatekeepers watched the young man in astonishment. Though lean, his body was powerful—he alone pulled what normally took dozens to move. Yet he was clearly not unscathed: his teeth clenched tight, sweat soaked his brow, and blood dripped from his torn hands, blooming on the snow like vivid red plum blossoms.

Snow fluttered endlessly. The silver carriage carved twin ruts through the white wilderness. From the markets to the Immortal Palace, Fang Jingyu walked nearly two hours.

The Penglai Immortal Palace was wrought of crystal waterstone. Its walls and columns gleamed, the ground floated with mist, purple smoke curled at the ceiling. Braziers the weight of a thousand catties warmed the air—it was the only place in Penglai untouched by the bitter cold. By the time Fang Jingyu reached its gates, his hands were a ruined mess of torn flesh and blood. His face was pale as snow. He set down the chains, his limbs frozen stiff. The dragonhead iron rods laced through his bones was colder than ever, as if shards of ice pierced his body from within.

Behind the black curtains, that soft and eerie voice drawled, “Fang family brat, to pull my carriage this far alone—you’ve surprised me. But this isn’t over yet.”

“What further instruction does the Preceptor have?” Fang Jingyu replied, tongue numb with cold. “I am ready to accept punishment.”

“I am merciful,” the Preceptor said smoothly. “I cannot bear to see promising youth suffer cruelly. Yet you did block the road first—wrong is wrong. Was your father too indulgent, never letting you taste hardship? Then kneel here for a day and a night. Let the cold clear your mind.” He paused, voice growing sharp. “But know this—if you slack off, even by a quarter hour, one slave will die for your mistake. Understood?”

Fang Jingyu bit down hard and bowed. “Yes.”

Snow drifted. The northern wind howled. The youth in black knelt beneath the heavens for an entire day and night.

Snow buried him like a statue, until he was just a man of ice. Blood seemed to freeze within his veins, chilling him to the core. In the haze of half-consciousness, Fang Jingyu remembered how “Mountain Ghoul” Chen Xiao’er once shouted at him in madness: “Penglai is already rotten—a tree without roots!”

Chen was right. This so-called immortal tree fed on the flesh and blood of its people—how could it ever have roots? Fang Jingyu had long known how deep the suffering ran: commoners froze to death in the streets, gnawed on roots and weeds, families torn apart. And yet the palace stayed warm as spring, and the immortals draped themselves in finery.

He seemed to see himself as a child, curled in his elder brother Fang Minsheng’s arms, that warm smile blurry in the sunlight, as his brother softly recited from The Book of Zhou: “When the Yellow River runs clear, how long can man survive…” Penglai was like that muddy river—no end to danger and decay. Would he ever see it run clean? ¹The Book of Zhou (Zhou Shu, 周書) is a historical chronicle compiled during the early Tang dynasty, documenting the history of the Northern Zhou dynasty (557–581 AD), one of the Northern Dynasties during China’s Southern and Northern Dynasties period.

Snow continued falling. The world was silent. Extreme cold and searing heat alike ended in pain. It felt as if he were being whipped from head to toe, his body rotting from within while his blood froze, unable to flow.

After who knows how long, a gatekeeper shouted, “Time’s up. Get up!”

Fang Jingyu struggled to rise, only to collapse. His body no longer felt like his own.

He tried a few more times before finally standing. He began the slow trek back to Qingyuan Alley. On the way, he noticed a cluster of dark shapes on the roadside—neighbors lining up in silence, like a wall of mist. Wide-eyed with fear, they stared at him.

It seemed the news had spread—how Fang Jingyu had pulled the National Preceptor’s carriage to the palace.

Gasping, burning with fever, stumbling on legs nearly numb with frostbite, Fang Jingyu felt utterly exposed. For a moment, he understood the King Yama. If that man was once a slave treated like dirt, of course he’d stop at nothing to escape Penglai.

The crowd watched in silence. None dared to help—he had angered the Preceptor. One familiar neighbor approached with food and water, but Fang Jingyu waved them away.

“Don’t come closer,” he murmured. “You’ll get dragged down with me.”

The crowd fell back like a receding tide, their eyes now filled not with fear—but sorrow.

Fang Jingyu walked on. The figures along the road thinned. His steps wavered like a child learning to walk. And he suddenly remembered that child—himself—weak, anxious, crawling on the floor because his limbs were too frail to stand. In those days, even the family servants treated him with disdain, dropping cold, moldy scraps into a tray on the ground, calling him like a dog. He had to crawl and lick up the soup like an insect.

Those days were bitterly cold—just like now.

Dragging his weary body back to the Fang family courtyard, he found the gate unlatched and the house pitch dark. His heart sank. Could his fears have come true? Had the suspect in the courtyard revealed his fangs—killed Qin Jiao and escaped?

Tense, he stepped inside. All was silent. But from the kitchen hearth, he spotted a flicker of light.

Limping over, he heard muffled voices through the door.

A girl’s crisp voice scolded, “You big dumb ox! How many times have I told you—that’s not how you write the character for ‘five’!”

Another voice—clearly Chu Kuang’s—retorted smugly, “But ‘one’ is one stroke, ‘two’ is two lines, ‘three’ is three, ‘four’ could be four slashes—so why can’t ‘five’ be five lines?” ²1一 (yī) 2二 (èr) 3三 (sān) 4四 (sì) 5 五 (wǔ)

Qin Jiao shouted, “Don’t scribble in my copybook! If my teacher sees that, he’ll smack my palm again!”

Chu Kuang laughed slyly, “You told me to practice writing, so now you have to deal with the consequences! Too late—I’ve already filled the next page with five slashes!”

The girl gave a wail like she might faint. Fang Jingyu pushed open the wooden kitchen door.

There they were—huddled by the cooking fire, warming themselves on the last embers. Golden light painted the mud walls, sealing off the frozen world outside. An open copybook lay on an elm-wood stool. The two of them had their heads pressed together like dueling bulls, fiercely competing.

“…What are you two doing?” Fang Jingyu asked wearily.

Qin Jiao turned and lit up with joy. “Tight-lipped gourd, you’re back!” Then she gasped, “Why do you look like a snowman?!”

Fang Jingyu grunted and turned to Chu Kuang. “You’re still here? You didn’t escape?”

Qin Jiao chimed in, “I kept watch fifteen hours a day! That’s why this criminal didn’t escape—he’s a sly one!” Chu Kuang flattered shamelessly, “I’m loyal to the master! I wouldn’t dream of fleeing before I’m healed!”

“So you plan to escape after you’re healed?” Fang Jingyu said dryly—though his heart was bitter. Never mind this suspect—after what he had just endured, even he had started to think about leaving Penglai.

Chu Kuang didn’t answer. He turned and went to the washroom, iron chains clinking as he walked. Qin Jiao lifted the cover on the dining tray—and to Fang Jingyu’s surprise, there was a plate of mushroom tofu, a dish of sweet and sour carp, both still steaming. She crossed her arms and said, “Eat up—warm yourself. Chu the handyman made it.”

They had waited for him to come home before eating. He’d been at the training grounds half a month—had they truly waited for him like this all that time?

His heart twisted. He sat heavily on the stool. Qin Jiao noticed his bleeding hands and cried out, “Oh no, you’re hurt!” She dashed back to the side room to fetch the jar of ash salve Zheng Deli had left.

Fang Jingyu sat alone at the table, the steam blurring his vision. His eyes were wet. As a child, he rarely had the chance to eat warm meals at a table. Most of the time, he ate spoiled leftovers spilled on trays.

Was this the warmth he’d longed for? The quiet life in this little courtyard—and the memory of his brother Fang Minsheng—perhaps this was why he still chose to stay in Penglai as a lowly official.

He wanted to protect this last bit of warmth.

A shadow slipped through the doorway. Chu Kuang returned carrying a wooden bucket of hot water, which he set by Fang Jingyu’s feet.

With great pride, he said, “Master, see how loyal I am? I even brought you water to wash your feet!”

Fang Jingyu gave a soft “Mm,” turning away. What a strange thing—this criminal had brought new chaos to the house, but also a strange kind of noise, a kind of life. Qin Jiao came bustling back with the medicine box, chirping like a sparrow.

But then she saw him and gasped, “Tight-lipped gourd, what happened? Why are you crying?”

Fang Jingyu reached up and touched his face. His fingers came away damp.

But he stubbornly said:

“I’m not crying. The snow just melted.”

• 1
  The Book of Zhou (Zhou Shu, 周書) is a historical chronicle compiled during the early Tang dynasty, documenting the history of the Northern Zhou dynasty (557–581 AD), one of the Northern Dynasties during China’s Southern and Northern Dynasties period.
• 2
  1一 (yī) 2二 (èr) 3三 (sān) 4四 (sì) 5 五 (wǔ)