Nerves that had just begun to relax suddenly tightened again…
The food was nearly gone, and each person received only a small handful of roasted beans and half a piece of coarse grain cake, harder than stone. The water skins were also nearly empty, offering only enough moisture to wet parched lips.
Mingshu took her share, nibbling on the cake in small bites, but her eyes were fixed intently on the deflated water skin hanging from Ming Zhao’s waist.
Ming Zhao untied the water skin and held it to her lips. “Take a sip, slowly.”
As the clear water moistened her throat, Mingshu’s eyes brightened for a moment before dimming again. She pushed the water skin back and whispered, “Sister, you drink too.”
Ming Zhao shook her head, refusing to drink herself, and turned to walk toward her grandmother, who was leaning against the innermost part of the cliff wall.
The elderly woman’s eyes were closed, her chest rising and falling weakly. In the dim light, her face took on an ominous grayish hue.
Qing Niang was carefully wiping the elderly woman’s dry, peeling lips with a damp cloth.
“Water…” The elderly woman’s throat moved, emitting a faint, breathy sound.
Ming Zhao brought the water skin closer, and the elderly woman took a small sip. Her eyelids fluttered but did not open.
“The elderly lady is likely…” Qing Niang’s voice choked with emotion, unable to finish the sentence.
Ming Zhao remained silent, reaching out to hold her grandmother’s withered, skeletal hand. The palm was icy cold, and the pulse was so faint it was almost imperceptible.
Her grandmother’s time was running out.
It wasn’t just illness or exhaustion—her spirit had broken. Her son was in the Northern Region, his fate unknown. Their homeland was shattered, and now they were trapped in these desperate mountains and forests…
What had kept her going until now was a flicker of hope: to find her son and deliver her granddaughter to him. She refused to believe there was no way out.
But now, even that last glimmer of hope was as fragile as a candle flame in the wind.
Beneath the cliff wall, the sound of heavy, suppressed breathing filled the air.
Some collapsed to the ground, others clutched their chests, coughing violently. Most simply stared blankly at the gray-white sky, fragmented by the branches above, their eyes hollow.
The scent of death did not dissipate with this brief respite. Instead, it crept silently into everyone’s bones like cold moss, chilling them to the core.
Zhao Yong arranged shifts for sentry duty and leaned against a large boulder to rest, his eyes closed but his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. The old scar on his face looked even more menacing in the sunlight.
Ming Zhao fed more water to her grandmother’s cracked lips, stroking her hand repeatedly. The elderly woman’s eyelids fluttered once more, and she finally managed to catch her breath. Her cloudy gaze fell upon her granddaughter’s face, and her lips moved soundlessly. Her bony fingers tightened around Ming Zhao’s wrist, as if mustering the last of her strength.
“Grandmother, we are here,” Ming Zhao whispered, covering the cold hands with her own warm palms.
Just then, a sharp birdcall echoed from deep within the forest.
It was not a natural cry.
It was the warning signal arranged by Zhao Yong—short, piercing, shattering the oppressive silence.
Beneath the cliff wall, everything fell deathly still.
All movement froze, and even breathing seemed to stop. Zhao Yong’s eyes snapped open. Like a leopard poised to strike, he slid silently to the edge of the cliff wall, listening intently.
Then, from farther away, a second and third birdcall followed in quick succession.
Zhao Yong’s expression changed abruptly. He turned and hissed, “Northeast direction! Movement! Not a large force—scouting riders! No more than three li from us!”
Three li! In rugged mountain forests, this distance might require time for cavalry, but for people as frightened as startled birds, it was almost equivalent to a death sentence!
Nerves that had just relaxed suddenly snapped.
Panic spread like wildfire, exploding among the crowd. People covered their mouths, emitting suppressed sobs. Mingshu was so terrified she trembled all over, clutching Ming Zhao’s arm tightly.
“Stop panicking!” Zhao Yong’s voice was low, striking each person’s heart like an iron hammer. “Listen carefully, they’re scouts! Not many of them! They’re probing the path, they might not have discovered this place yet!”
His gaze sharp as lightning, he quickly scanned the crowd. “Everyone, no noise! No moving! Women, children, and the elderly squeeze to the innermost part! Those who can still wield weapons, come to me!”
The orders were swiftly relayed.
The retainers and those deserters who still followed commands gritted their teeth, grabbing whatever they could find nearby—knives, spears, sharpened wooden sticks, even stones—silently gathering around Zhao Yong and the several entrances of the cliff wall.
Their eyes held more of the ferocity and despair of cornered beasts.
Ming Zhao’s heart raced, but she forced herself to stay calm. She released her grandmother’s hand, gently pushed Mingshu into Qing Niang’s embrace, and whispered, “Hold her tight, don’t make a sound.”
Then, she stood up and, under her grandmother’s astonished and worried gaze, walked over to Mingshu’s mother. Using pressure points she had learned from her long illness, she knocked out the child less than two years old in her arms. “Don’t panic, he’s just unconscious, but still cover his mouth. A child doesn’t understand—if he cries even once, we’re all finished.”
After saying this, she ignored the woman’s angry and furious expression, found a hidden spot to crouch in. Her view was limited, only able to see a desolate stretch of forest ahead and the undulating ridge line in the distance. The wind whistled through the withered branches, making eerie sounds that masked all other noises.
Time passed bit by bit, each moment feeling like torture in a frying pan.
Suddenly, the sound of horse hooves trampling fallen leaves and gravel faintly came from the edge of the forest in the northeast direction.
It was light, scattered, but in this deathly silent mountain forest, it was no less than a thunderclap.
They were here.
Ming Zhao held her breath.
Through a crevice in the rocks, she saw several blurry shadows moving among the trees. Not a large cavalry unit, indeed just three to five riders, dressed in disorderly fur coats, wearing felt hats, with bows and curved swords hanging from their saddles. They reined in their horses, cautiously surveying their surroundings.
One of them seemed to glance toward the cliff wall.
Ming Zhao felt her grandmother tremble behind her, gripping the hem of her clothes tightly. The entire recess in the cliff wall was deathly silent.
The Hu scouts lingered in place for a moment, conversing in low voices in an incomprehensible Hu language. Then, one of them pointed in another direction—
The group rested and reorganized for about half a shichen.
Though called rest and reorganization, no one could truly close their eyes.
Under the cliff wall, heavy panting and suppressed sobs filled the air. Most simply closed their eyes, chests heaving violently, trying to squeeze out time to recover strength from the cold air.
The scouts Zhao Yong had sent out quietly returned, bringing news that was neither good nor bad: that Hu cavalry had not left, still resting and reorganizing at the foot of the mountain, with faint sounds of clamor and drinking even audible.
Another, smaller group of Hu scouts, about twenty to thirty riders, was patrolling along the main road, their direction unpredictable.
“We cannot stay long.” Zhao Yong crouched beside Ming Zhao, his voice lowered to a near whisper. “The large group may not be moving for now, but these scouts are their eyes. If we run into them, our small group won’t survive a single charge.”
Ming Zhao nodded, her lips slightly chapped from thirst. She glanced at her grandmother leaning against the cliff face, eyes closed and breathing faint, then surveyed the surrounding faces—some numb, others terrified.
Half an hour of rest had done little to restore vitality to the group; instead, they seemed frozen in cold and fear.
“Uncle Zhao, which way next?” she asked, her voice unnervingly calm for a child.
Zhao Yong pulled out a crumpled, stained piece of coarse hemp cloth from his robe, roughly sketched with charcoal lines showing mountain contours. “To the west are rolling hills, growing more desolate, and I’ve heard there are marshes. To the east… lies the main camp of the Hu cavalry.”
His finger tapped the cloth. “We must continue southwest, deeper into the mountains. There are small paths used by hunters and fleeing commoners. We might find villages to replenish food and water and avoid large groups of Hu cavalry.”
A glimmer of hope lit Ming Zhao’s eyes. “There are villages in the mountains?”
“I followed the general to suppress bandits here years ago and know of scattered mountain settlements. But after all this time, I don’t know if they still exist, or…” Zhao Yong trailed off.
He didn’t finish, but the unspoken words hung in the air: whether those mountain folk were alive or dead, friend or foe. In these chaotic times, swapping children to eat was not unheard of, and strangers often meant danger.
“Hope is better than none,” Ming Zhao said, standing up, her legs prickling with numbness from prolonged sitting and cold. “We’ll follow your plan, Uncle Zhao: head southwest, find paths and villages. Tell everyone to make haste, help each other if they can move, but my grandmother needs hands.”
Of course—his primary duty was to the elderly madam and the young mistress. The others had tagged along on their own; if they refused to leave, he wouldn’t interfere. Zhao Yong clasped his fists. “Understood!”
The order was passed down again.
This time, the response from the group wasn’t entirely obedient rustling; it was faintly mixed with suppressed complaints and sighs of despair.
Setting out again proved even harder than before. The mountain path grew rougher, the forest denser and gloomier.
Light was blocked out, and underfoot lay thick, half-rotted leaves.
The procession stretched long, like a weary, scarred serpent slowly crawling through the dim mountain woods.
Her grandmother was carried by others, while Ming Zhao had to lead Mingshu by the hand. Her breathing grew heavier, fine beads of cold sweat forming on her forehead, quickly dried by the biting wind, leaving an icy chill.
Blisters had long since formed on her soles, each step feeling like treading on knife points.
But she gritted her teeth without a sound.
“Elder sister…” Mingshu whispered timidly, pointing toward a slightly sparser patch of trees ahead. “Over there… seems to be smoke?”
Ming Zhao’s heart skipped a beat as she followed the direction. Indeed, through the gaps in the trees, a faint wisp of bluish-gray smoke seemed to rise, almost blending with the mountain mist unless carefully discerned.
“Uncle Zhao!” she called softly at once.
Zhao Yong had noticed it too. He signaled the group to halt and, with two of his most alert retainers, crouched low and crept forward like stalking leopards.
After a long while, he returned, his expression complex.
“It’s a very small mountain hollow, looks like there might be a few households. Smoke is rising from a half-collapsed shack, very faint, not like a large group of people gathering to make fire. The surroundings are very quiet, no movement of people seen, no livestock either.”
An abandoned village? Or survivors cautiously hiding?
“Let’s go take a look.” Ming Zhao decided promptly. “Be careful. If it’s abandoned, we might find some useful things. If there are people…”
She pursed her lips. “First try to make contact, show that we mean no harm, just passing through as refugees, asking for some food and water.”
Zhao Yong nodded, arranging for most of the people to stay hidden and wait where they were. He then took about ten capable retainers, fanning out in a semicircle as they slowly closed in on that mountain hollow.
Ming Zhao insisted on following behind. Unable to persuade her otherwise, Zhao Yong had no choice but to let her stay behind a large rock a bit farther away, still within sight.
Author’s note: