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43. Footsteps in Snow
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 22:00:03 +0000 UTCThe road to Qinghe began as a frozen ribbon cutting through snow-laden fields and thick, silent woods. Jiang hadn’t even made it a full hour beyond the village before his legs reminded him that, cultivator or not, winter travel was still winter travel.
His journey down the mountain from the Sect had lulled him into something of a false sense of security when it came to the sort of pace he would be able to sustain. Not only was going downhill generally quicker anyway, but the bulk of the mountain and density of the trees had meant the snow hadn’t settled thickly enough to slow him down.
Along the more open stretches of road, however, things were different.
The snow underfoot was shallow but dense, the sort that packed down and iced over instead of crunching cleanly away. Each step came with a slight slide or crunch, and every now and then, a hidden root or stone sent him stumbling. His boots – new, thick, and well-oiled thanks to Old Lao – did a good job of keeping his feet dry, but his toes were still a little cold.
The forest was quieter than he remembered, though in fairness, that could have been related to the fact that he was walking along the road. Animals tended to avoid humanity where possible, and while travellers around these parts would have been relatively infrequent, it would still be enough to make a difference.
Snow dampened sound, and the usual life – birds, squirrels, even the occasional deer – was absent, tucked away in warm burrows or nests, waiting out the season.
Except that not every animal was hiding away. Every so often, the silence would be interrupted by the soft caw of a raven above, dark wings fluttering from branch to branch, keeping easy pace with him.
Jiang glanced up briefly. “You’re welcome to fly ahead, you know,” he muttered.
The raven ignored him, which was starting to feel like a pattern.
He shifted his pack on his shoulders. The new one fit well and distributed the weight better than his old hunting satchel, but it was still weight. Between that, the sword at his hip, and the thick cloak bundled around him, his movements were slower than they should be. Still smoother than any mortal could manage, but not effortless.
Travel was dangerous in winter, even when following the roads. Rivers froze and cracked without warning, trails disappeared under snowfall, and paths that were obvious in the spring vanished into uniform whiteness. Hunters didn’t move far from home, and even traders only ventured between larger towns—and only with loaded carts and plenty of guards.
But cultivators weren’t mortal. That was the idea, anyway.
Jiang wasn’t entirely convinced yet.
Yes, he moved faster. His footing was better. His breathing stayed even, even as the cold nipped at his nose and the wind picked at the corners of his cloak. But the fatigue still crept in eventually, subtle but persistent. His muscles still burned if he pushed too hard, and his fingers still stiffened if he didn’t flex them regularly. He had more stamina, more endurance—but not limitless stamina. He couldn’t just sprint for hours through waist-deep snow like some stories implied.
Or, at least, not yet.
He paused at a low ridge, brushing snow from a nearby boulder before sitting with a quiet grunt. The cold stone bled through even the thick cloak, but it was still a relief to take the weight off his legs.
From here, the forest stretched out in a blur of skeletal trees and pale undergrowth, all dusted in white. A faint trail—mostly animal tracks and the occasional wagon rut—led roughly northeast, and he intended to follow it as far as it would take him. According to his map, there would be a trading post set at a crossroad a couple of day’s travel away, which he was rather looking forward to reaching.
If nothing else, it would be nice to confirm that he hadn’t accidentally gotten lost.
— — —
Jiang found a suitable place to make camp as the light began to fade from the sky, the clouds above turning a pale orange before slipping into dull grey. He’d managed to get a few hour’s distance between him and the town, and though it felt a little bit like a waste, it wasn’t like he would have had coin to spend on a room for the night anyway. The fact that Old Lao accepted contribution points in place of hard coins was a miracle already, and there was no chance any of the other establishments in the town did the same.
Just off the road, a shallow dip in the terrain opened into a small, sheltered hollow. It wasn’t far—he could still make out the frozen wagon ruts if he tilted his head—but it was enough to block the wind and give him some cover. More importantly, the hollow had two sturdy trees close enough together to rig a lean-to.
He unslung his pack and set to work. The first step was clearing the snow, scraping it back with his boots and a flat stick until he could see cold, frozen dirt. He stamped it flat to make a surface, then pulled out his ground sheet—a treated piece of waxed canvas, stiff with cold but pliable enough to unroll. It wasn’t especially warm, but it would stop the moisture from creeping into his bones.
Next came the lean-to. He tied a length of rope between the two trees, then draped the heavy leather tarp over it. The tarp was shaped so that one side reached all the way to the ground, with enough width to pull in a bit at the sides—just enough to block the breeze and bounce a little heat from the fire back toward him. The other side remained open, angled like a wedge so he could keep an eye on the road and the woods beyond.
Once the shelter was up, Jiang gathered firewood. Dry kindling was a rarity this deep into winter, but the inner branches of a fallen pine nearby had been shielded enough to stay dry. He snapped off the best ones and scraped bark from a birch tree for tinder. The fire took coaxing, but he eventually got it burning low and steady, feeding it until the flames licked warmly at the cold air.
He sat back with a sigh, cloaked in firelight and the muted silence of the snowy woods. The cloak around his shoulders doubled now as his blanket, tucked tight to keep the heat in. His sword sat within easy reach, resting against the inside wall of the lean-to – not that he had much practice with it, but having it close to hand was better than nothing. The raven perched above him, just outside the firelight on a branch dusted in frost, watching with dark, unreadable eyes.
It wasn’t the most comfortable setup in the world, but it was familiar. His own hunting trips back in the village were usually short enough that he didn’t bother making a camp this extensive – not to mention that he hadn’t been able to afford such comparatively high-quality camping supplies – but his father had taken him on a few trips when he was younger, so he knew how the setup worked.
Apparently, this was something that his father had perfected while working as a caravan guard. Protected enough to keep you warm, open enough that he wouldn’t be fumbling his way out of a tent if bandits or wild animals attacked.
Jiang glanced up once more at the raven, wondering if it would give him any warning should a wolf try to sneak up on him in the night. He shrugged to himself a moment later. No way of telling, really, but best to assume the worst and be pleasantly surprised.
He bundled his cloak tighter around him, the chill starting to seep in a little more now that he was stationary, and started to gnaw at some dried jerky as the quiet wind whispered through snow-laden trees and his thoughts slowly stilled, reaching out with his Qi and beginning to cultivate before even consciously realising it.
It felt easier than ever.
— — —
It took a heartbeat for Jiang’s mind to register what he was looking at. A deer, no—a stag, massive and broad-shouldered, its antlers curling like driftwood etched with frost. Its coat shimmered faintly, silver-grey, rimed with pale blue at the tips. Breath misted from its nostrils in long, slow plumes.
It would have been an impressive specimen even if its antlers hadn’t been level with the lower branches of the trees around it, almost four meters off the ground.
It was only after he saw it that Jiang was able to sense it. Qi flooded his senses like plunging into cold water. Not violent or oppressive—just present. Too present. Too vast. He couldn’t sense anything else. The woods, the snow, even his own body felt distant, reduced to background noise.
His hand moved on instinct. Fingers curled around the hilt of his sword, slow and silent. What use the weapon would be, he had no idea. Even if he knew how to wield it properly, the length of steel would be the equivalent of a toothpick to a spirit beast of this size.
The stag’s head turned. Dark, glass-smooth eyes met his.
It didn’t move, not a twitch, but something shifted. A flicker beneath the surface, subtle as a change in wind. Jiang’s grip tightened.
Then, just as slowly, he let go.
He released the sword, easing his hand back to his side. His shoulders loosened. Breath came.
The spirit beast remained where it stood, impassive, but its ears flicked forward, then relaxed. For a moment, it held him there, gaze steady and ancient. Then it turned without sound and bounded away, each step impossibly quiet for something so large. Snow barely stirred in its wake.
A sharp caw cracked the silence.
Jiang startled, shoulders tensing as he spun, hand dropping back to the hilt of his sword again. The raven blinked down at him from a nearby branch, feathers puffed against the cold as if amused by the whole thing.
Jiang swore colourfully at it, heart pounding.
The stupid thing didn’t seem to care.
— — —
By the third day, Jiang was getting well and truly sick of the cold.
Not the pain of it—he was dressed well enough, layered and cloaked and moving just enough to keep the worst of the chill at bay—but the constancy. The way it crept in the moment he stopped walking, the way it clung to his boots and stiffened the joints of his fingers, the way every breath stung just a little bit in his throat. He missed warmth. He missed colour. He missed the sound of something—anything—besides the crunch of his own footsteps and the occasional wingbeat of the raven overhead.
The jerky, too, was beginning to lose whatever charm it might have once possessed. He’d been careful with his supplies, heating them briefly over his little campfires each night, softening them enough to chew without cracking a tooth. But it wasn’t food, not really. Not the way he remembered it. He hadn’t tasted anything that hadn’t come out of his pack in days, and the thought of a hot bowl of something—anything—was starting to haunt him a little.
Unfortunately, the lack of a bow combined with the pace of his journey meant that hunting for fresh meat was out of the question – to say nothing of how winter made for slim pickings at the best of times. He’d tried setting a couple of traps each night before he went to sleep but hadn’t had any success so far.
He adjusted the weight of his pack and pressed on.
The road curved gently through the forest, each bend looking much like the last, framed by skeletal trees and muted sky. The world had gone grey again, the kind of dull, overcast light that seemed to stretch on forever without ever truly becoming bright.
It wasn’t that this trip was longer than his old hunting runs—far from it. Three days was nothing. He’d done longer. But there was something different about it. Before, the return trip was half the journey. There had always been a home to go back to.
Now, he was just going forward.
So when the trees finally began to thin, and he crested the last small rise, the sight beyond nearly made him stumble.
The trading post sat nestled in a shallow basin ahead, little more than a scattering of timber buildings and a central firepit, but it was alive. Smoke curled from half a dozen chimneys, rising lazy and sweet into the sky. Shapes moved between the buildings—merchants, travellers, bundled in cloaks and hoods. And best of all, a caravan had arrived. Canvas-covered wagons lined the edge of the clearing, and even from this distance he could hear it: the faint, beautiful murmur of voices raised in casual conversation. Laughter. The occasional clatter of pots and the hiss of something cooking.
Jiang stood there for a long moment, breath steaming, cold forgotten. Then, with a renewed pace, he started down the slope.
