Southern Border, a small county town.
The gloomy sky resembled moldy cotton, as fierce winds carried flurries of snow. The temperature in the mountains was so cold that water would freeze instantly—weather kept even the most experienced herb gatherers from venturing into the hills.
Yet, a lone figure darted through the dense forest with effortless grace.
A section of red vine coiled around a tree was severed, its dripping sap collected into a bamboo tube.
"This year's cold is so unusual. Many places will have to prepare sacrifices again."
Huang Donglai tilted his head back and took a sip of the vine sap, exhaling a heavy breath as he gazed at the ashen sky.
He was the only "sacrificial child" from Wangshan City to survive the ritual.
His cautious and vigilant nature was not innate.
As a child, his father died early, leaving him and his mother to fend for themselves in Wangshan City. Without a man in the household and his mother unwilling to remarry, the town chief confiscated their land.
His mother would till the neglected edges of others' fields. Sometimes, if luck was on their side, they could harvest before the owners reclaimed the land. Other times, before the seeds could even be sown, the original owners would take it back.
His mother never fought them. She simply moved on, silently searching for new land to till.
By the age of twelve, Huang Donglai had already become an expert herb gatherer, more agile than even the monkeys in the mountains. From his mother, he learned how to survive in the cracks of this world.
Miraculously, the two of them managed to scrape by.
He once thought life would continue forever.
But then, one day, the town chief arrived with a crowd at their doorstep. He was terrified—his mother had just planted sweet potatoes and promised to roast them for him.
To his surprise, the villagers who had previously come to reclaim their land were not their usual menacing selves.
They all wore bright smiles, bearing gifts of venison, new clothes, and even malt candy—a luxury only found in the great cities.
But his mother’s face turned as pale as snow.
That night, he tasted the candy and thought the other village children had been lying—it wasn’t sweet at all.
The next morning, his mother dressed him in brand-new clothes and shoes, making him look neat and presentable.
Under the watchful eyes of the town chief and the priest, she gripped his hand so tightly it hurt, telling him to obey no matter what.
Huang Donglai was frightened. He had always been obedient.
Then, he and another girl his age were escorted up the mountain by a crowd of villagers, accompanied by the clamor of gongs and drums. People kept reassuring the two children, saying they were about to serve the Mountain God and live a life of luxury, with malt candy every day.
But the candy wasn’t even good.
Just as he thought this, the lotus pedestal beneath him suddenly overturned.
The world spun, and he tumbled into the forest.
Terrified, he saw the person who had knocked over the pedestal—a woman who had tilled countless patches of wilderness, strong enough to push aside several grown men.
The last words Huang Donglai ever heard from his mother were a desperate scream:
"Run! Never come back!!"
In that moment, with the wind howling past his ears, no one could ever catch him again.
Huang Donglai exhaled deeply, shaking off the daze in his mind.
Daydreaming in the mountains was dangerous...
Suddenly, the sound of a broken twig echoed in the distance.
Huang Donglai instantly tensed, the porcelain vial slipping into his palm as he scanned his surroundings, calculating the best escape route and even preparing a few simple traps in case...
The coughing continued, growing weaker by the second.
Huang Donglai quietly assessed the stranger’s presence before parting the leaves to look.
It was a middle-aged man, his tattered clothes barely recognizable as the uniform of a military scout. His worn-out straw sandals suggested he had endured an unimaginably long journey.
A fatal wound stretched across his abdomen—he was on the brink of death.
Yet, upon noticing Huang Donglai, a glimmer of hope flashed in his eyes.
Huang Donglai kept his distance.
"Scout... from Qingmu City... No time left... must be brief..."
The man’s parched lips trembled as he rasped:
"Disaster Beasts and the remnants of the Shang Dynasty in the south are stirring... Only the prince can resolve this... My report is urgent..."
"If you’re willing... deliver this letter to Qingmu City..."
"If not... run... before it’s... too late..."
Huang Donglai remained silent.
There was no need to reply—the man who called himself a scout was already dead.
He wanted to believe him, but instinct warned him not to get involved in such a grave matter.
Qingmu City would be the first to fall, the battlefield at its most brutal.
Yet, after walking half a mile, the image of the man’s dying gaze—filled with sudden hope—resurfaced in his mind. It reminded him of that woman in the bitter cold years ago, who had knocked over strong men and screamed for him to run.
He had dreamed of that day countless times, wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t fled.
"Rest in peace. Forgive the humble burial."
Huang Donglai turned back, took the sealed letter from the man’s hand, and dug a grave. Only when he was about to carve a marker did he realize he didn’t know the man’s name.
He removed the identification tag from the body:
Clutching the tag, Huang Donglai gazed toward Qingmu City and whispered to himself.
"Mother... this time, your son won’t run."
Zhong Ling watched the collapsing military formation and Li Mo, still standing unscathed in the center, and felt a pang of frustration.
The Disaster Beast was far more formidable than she had imagined. She had studied military formations since childhood and could now command tens of thousands of soldiers, coordinating hundreds in tight formations.
That was no small feat—even getting a hundred people to perform synchronized calisthenics was no easy task.
She believed the hundred soldiers under her command had executed the Zhong Family Formation to perfection.
Yet, against Li Mo’s transformed Qiong Qi, she felt utterly powerless.
"Uncle Qu, did I make any mistakes just now?"
Qu Sheng pondered before glancing at the composed young woman sitting nearby and asking:
"Martial arts and military formations share principles. Miss Ying, your martial prowess was praised by the Yantian Sect as 'transcendent.' Do you have any insights?"
Ying Bing set down her teacup and lifted her gaze.
"If we compare it to martial arts, Zhong Ling’s mastery of the Zhong Family Formation is at the 'minor achievement' level."
"I observed the four forces—wind, fire, mountain, and forest—each executed flawlessly in isolation. Yet, they do not synergize."
Qu Sheng’s eyebrows rose as he clapped his hands, turning to his officers. "You lot, always neglecting your studies—now even two young ladies surpass you in understanding."
Zhong Ling murmured, grasping the concept but unsure how to apply it. She could only look at Ying Bing in confusion.
"A game of Go will show you."
Ying Bing retrieved a board from her oversized doll.
The art of Go and the strategies of military formations share many similarities in their underlying principles.
Zhong Ling took a seat opposite Ying Bing.
Thirty seconds later.
She couldn't help but wonder about Ying Bing's unusual approach. Truly, the moves of the Frost Fairy were extraordinary—her stones advanced in a straight line. Was there some hidden profundity behind this?
Just as Zhong Ling was about to place another stone—
"Huh? But we've only just begun."
"Yet I’ve already achieved five in a row."