In winter, a small oasis, situated between various large and powerful nations, was teeming with refugees from all directions—people of Hu He, Fen Tian, and other wandering tribes. Most were the old, weak, sick, or disabled. They lacked warm clothing, and their skin, exposed to the biting wind, was covered in frostbite and bruises. Each of them had sunken eyes, filled with bleak despair, barely clinging to life as the wind howled around them.
They sat in a circle, twenty people huddled together, with a fire burning in the middle. One man took a bite of a large flatbread in his hands, and after swallowing, he couldn't resist sniffing it a few more times before reluctantly passing it to the person next to him. That person took a small bite and then passed it on to the next. And so, this single piece of bread, covered in ash and saliva, was passed around the circle, each person taking just one bite. No one cared what it tasted like, for what mattered wasn't flavor but survival.
At first, each refugee ate only their own food, and when others grew desperate from hunger, they resorted to fighting for it. But as the food was repeatedly snatched and reclaimed, much of it was wasted, leading to the deaths of many. Eventually, though no one could say who started it, they began pooling their food together. Each day, every person was allowed only one bite. No one was allowed to steal, to take more than their share, or to fight. Those with larger mouths who could take a bigger bite were considered lucky; those with smaller mouths simply had to accept their misfortune. After this process was repeated a few times, the refugees finally stopped causing trouble. Humans are resilient creatures—give them just the slightest chance to breathe, and they can endure.
“Brat, how dare you take two bites!” a ferocious shout rang out, and the child who had taken an extra bite received a slap across the face. The man who hit him barked, “Throw him out!” In these circles, if someone was greedy enough to take more than one bite, they would be banished, and that meant certain death by starvation. The boy, though dazed from the blow, stubbornly knelt on the ground, refusing to leave. Though young, his gaze was determined.
“Stop hitting him! I’ll give up my bite for him!” A familiar voice sounded. It was the elderly mother who had been taking from others before. “Let him have mine; he’s just a child. Forgive him!”
The old woman cradled the boy in her arms, both of them covered in bruises.
The child, still refusing to cry, said resolutely from her arms, “Grandmother! I will repay you!”
* * *
Fen Tian.
In the year 332 AD, on the day of Zi Jian, the borders were sealed.
On the streets of Fen Tian’s capital, Heyan, the most common sights were not tea houses or taverns, but arenas for martial contests and apothecaries. Since the recruitment drive of the Mad Blood King, Ruo Wen, there had been a constant stream of eager contestants. In this country, only the strongest were qualified to serve as soldiers. In some sense, the "Nine Pardons, One Execution" policy that Ruo Wen had imposed upon this thin, fragile land had not only brought bloody chaos but also rapid wealth accumulation and monopoly. No matter how many reckless warriors or scheming tacticians fought each other to the death, in the end, the victor was always the national army—the Huangtian Mad Legion.
At this moment, in the training ground of the royal palace of Heyan, a military selection tournament was underway. The Mad Blood King, Ruo Wen, sat arrogantly upon his throne, his sharp gaze fixed on the hundred fierce commanders who had made it to the final round. These were the warriors who had emerged victorious after thirty days of contests across the country. Each one had killed their opponent in the time it took for a cup of tea to cool from hot to warm, and each had claimed no fewer than fifty lives in the process. Now, like ravenous beasts, their eyes glowed with a dangerous red light as they stared at Ruo Wen on the platform.
Ruo Wen sneered derisively. It seemed these men were itching to challenge him.
“Sincerely, Xiang!” Ruo Wen called. “Begin. Let me see what kind of specimens you’ve gathered.”
Cheng Xiang bowed slightly and stood before the hundred warriors. “The Fen Tian army accepts anyone capable. Let the selection begin, starting with the vanguard!”
As he spoke, the hundred men stepped back to the waiting area. There was a loud crack, and ten soldiers rushed onto the platform. “The vanguard must be able to face ten opponents at once! Anyone who wishes to challenge, step forward!” As soon as Cheng Xiang finished speaking, dozens of men stood up. Cheng Xiang smiled, “Good! One by one!”
The sun rose high in the sky as the blood on the platform grew thicker and deeper. After about three hours, nine men remained from the ten-against-one battles. They stood, panting and covered in blood.
“Is that it?” Ruo Wen seemed dissatisfied, taking a bored sip of wine. Beside him sat Ruo Lan and Fei Wen, and on the other side, the only surviving royal blood of Masui—the captive Princess Ge Xin Wei. She looked at Ruo Wen, her gaze filled with confusion. She had been captured for fifty days, yet Ruo Wen had never given her a second glance or touched even a hair on her head. Strangely, however, he always kept her by his side, dressing her in red and forbidding her from moving freely or speaking. They were fed only once a day.
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