Ella still left in the end.
The heavy sound of hoofbeats faded farther and farther away, until at last it disappeared into the boundless wind and snow.
Shen Luolin stood where he was, his fingernails digging deep into the metal box in his palm. The scabbed wound split open once more, and blood dripped through his fingers onto the snow, blooming into a glaring patch of red.
“Shifu, your hand…”
Moyin hurried forward, her slender fingers reaching out for the bloodstains, only to shrink back halfway in hesitation.
She looked up, her little face smudged by smoke and dirt, full of helplessness.
Shen Luolin lowered his gaze and glanced at the mess in his palm along her line of sight.
“It’s nothing.” His tone was flat. He slipped the metal box into his inner pocket with quick, decisive movements.
The mine tunnel had collapsed completely; the structure, already on the verge of ruin, was reduced to rubble by the earlier fierce battle and cave-in.
The massive corpse of the Frost-Armored Bear King was buried deep beneath tons of boulders, becoming the best tribute this wilderness could offer.
“Let’s go. We can’t stay here any longer.”
Shen Luolin turned, trudging north through the knee-deep snow. Moyin followed silently, stepping carefully in his footprints.
She was struggling.
That desperate blast of Dragon’s Breath earlier had drained all her strength. Now she was pressing on by sheer force of will.
Shen Luolin noticed her labored breathing behind him and paused, turning slightly.
“Get on.” He pointed to his back.
Moyin froze, her cheeks instantly flushing red. She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper: “I can walk…”
Shen Luolin didn’t waste words. He bent down, hooked his large hands under her knees, and hoisted the scrawny girl onto his back without giving her a chance to refuse.
Moyin gave a startled cry, instinctively wrapping her arms around his neck. The thick cloak shielded her from the biting cold, and the warmth from Shen Luolin’s back seeped through, slowly easing her taut nerves.
She pressed her face against his broad shoulder, inhaling the scent of gunpowder, spruce, and a faint trace of blood. In a small voice, she asked, “That Ella-jiejie… she seems to know Shifu very well.”
Shen Luolin’s steps faltered briefly.
“She’s just trouble.” He spat out the words. “Someone who’ll keep coming to bother us.”
Moyin unconsciously tightened her hold on his neck. She memorized that name—and remembered the look of scrutiny and possession in that woman’s eyes as she watched Shifu.
The two trudged through the wind and snow for nearly two hours.
When the blizzard finally abated, a frozen lake, smooth as a mirror, came into view at the edge of their vision.
Beneath a slope by the lakeshore, half-buried in snow, sat a ruined Hunter’s Cabin.
The chimney on the roof leaned precariously, a half-exposed wooden beam stuck out, and the door, battered by the wind, slammed back and forth with a grating “creak.”
Snow piled so high around the cabin it nearly covered the windowsills. The place looked long abandoned.
Shen Luolin set Moyin down and pushed open the loosely closed door.
A rush of cold air, tinged with dust, mold, and rotting wood, swept over them.
Inside, the furnishings were shockingly bare—just a near-collapsing wooden bed, a three-legged table, and a stone hearth heaped with cold ashes.
“We’ll stay here tonight.” Shen Luolin looked around and gave his verdict.
Moyin showed no sign of disgust. Instead, her eyes lit up slightly at the sight of a house—dilapidated as it was—that still had four walls and a roof.
For her, after months on the run, this was the sanctuary she’d dreamed of.
“I’ll go gather firewood. You tidy up in here.”
Shen Luolin tossed out the instruction and went back into the snowstorm.
He needed time to think about what to do next.
Ella’s interference had disrupted his plans. He had to increase Moyin’s bloodline purity again within half a month, or else that vial of Blood Sample would never fool the seasoned Alchemists in the Imperial Capital.
When he returned, arms full of dry pine branches and some birch logs, the sight that greeted him inside made him pause.
The floor, once thick with cobwebs, was now swept clean. Moyin had found some dry reeds by the lake and tied them into a crude broom, busily scrubbing the rickety table.
She’d even unearthed a few smooth, colorful river stones from the bottom of a battered crate, along with a string of wild berries—dried but still faintly crimson.
Carefully, she arranged these on the hearth’s stone ledge, bringing a hint of indefinable vitality to the lifeless little cabin.
Shen Luolin said nothing. He walked to the hearth, skillfully arranged the firewood, and set it alight.
Orange flames leapt up, banishing the cold gloom. Moyin squatted beside the fire, chin in her hands, staring into the dancing light in a daze.
Shen Luolin pulled out his tactical knife from his pocket and went to the door.
The wooden door’s noise in the wind was grating. He knelt and planed the warped frame with the knife. Wood shavings flew—his hands moved with speed and precision.
Then, outside, he stripped off several tough strips of bark, mixed them with shredded dry moss, and stuffed them into the drafty cracks in the roof.
Moyin watched his every move. She watched as this man, with hands made for killing, slowly patched up their broken home.
“Shifu.” She spoke softly.
Shen Luolin didn’t look back, his reply muffled: “Speak.”
“What’s… this place called?” Moyin gazed out at the lake, now cloaked in dusk. The moonlight reflected dimly off the water, lonely and vast.
Shen Luolin brushed wood dust from his hands, stood up, and surveyed the barren ruin.
“No name.” He answered honestly. “There are countless dead houses like this in the Northern Wastes. Call it whatever you want.”
Moyin fell silent for a long time. She looked at the string of red berries on the hearth, then at Shen Luolin’s shadow, stretched long by the firelight.
“Return to Snow.” She whispered, “Returning to the snowfields—a place to belong.”
Shen Luolin raised an eyebrow.
A place to belong? In these lands, where death could claim you at any moment, talk of belonging was an extravagance, a joke.
He almost mocked her, but as the words reached his lips, he saw the faint, bright flame in Moyin’s eyes.
It was hope.
He suddenly realized that, for this girl burdened by deep hatred, a stable emotion—a mental anchor—might matter more than any physical training.
It would help her survive, and make the dragon blood in her veins… more obedient.
This investment might be worth it.
The thought flashed through his mind. He said nothing, gripped the knife, and walked to a block of gray granite outside, its edges worn smooth by wind and snow.
The scrape of steel on stone was harsh in the night’s silence; sparks flashed in the dark. Moyin ran to the doorway, clutching the frame, holding her breath as she watched his back.
Shen Luolin’s hand was steady. As stone dust drifted down, two powerful characters appeared on the rock’s surface.
Return to Snow.
Sheathing the knife, Shen Luolin turned, meeting Moyin’s astonishingly bright silver eyes.
“It’s carved.” His tone was as brusque as ever, but as he passed her, he handed her a piece of birch wood—smooth, beautifully grained.
Moyin cupped the still-warm wood in her palms, gently tracing the patterns with her fingertips.
At that moment, the knife’s sharp scrape sounded to her like the echo of a pact being made. The malice and pain burning in her heart from her quest for vengeance seemed, for a short while, soothed by the warmth of this little cabin.
“Go rest.” Shen Luolin nodded at the straw-stuffed bed. “Training doubles tomorrow.”
Moyin nodded hard, her lips curling for the first time into a soft, unguarded smile.
She lay on the simple bed, wrapped in Shen Luolin’s cloak, listening to the howling wind outside and the crackle of burning wood inside.
Shen Luolin leaned in the shadow by the hearth, eyes closed.
He knew this moment of peace was stolen. Ella’s surveillance, the Emperor’s blade, and the dragon blood in Moyin that could rampage at any time—all hung overhead like swords.
Yet, looking at the string of dark red berries on the stone ledge, feeling the warmth slowly filling the cabin, that instinctive “fear of trouble” surfaced in his heart again.
This false peace would only breed more unnecessary attachment and emotion, becoming an even greater trouble in the future.
But as his gaze swept over the small, curled-up figure on the bed, the thought lost its persuasiveness in an odd way.
The fire’s light danced across her soot-stained face, casting gentle shadows; her long lashes drooped quietly, like resting butterflies.
In this northern land abandoned by the gods, they finally had a place to close the door.
Shen Luolin let out a silent sigh, turning his gaze from her face back to the burning flames.
Trouble or not, at least tonight, the fire was warm.