The young swordsman was lost in thought, his expression clouded, but he didn’t take out his frustration on her. Instead, he reached into his waist pouch, pulled out a few copper coins, and tossed them over without a glance.
“Thank you, hero!” The little beggar beamed, bowing repeatedly. “You’re truly kind! I haven’t eaten for two days! But I didn’t stop you for money. I wanted to ask—would you like to buy a sword? A very powerful sword! It even comes with a manual, waiting for the right person!”
The strong man beside the swordsman frowned, impatience written all over his face. He thought the girl was spouting nonsense and wanted her gone. But the young swordsman hesitated, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“What sword manual?” he asked.
The little beggar glanced around, her eyes darting. Then she gestured mysteriously for them to follow her to the side of the road. Picking up a stone, she crouched down and began to draw on the dusty ground. Her hand trembled slightly; she didn’t follow proper stroke order, relying on memory and instinct. When she finished, the two men finally recognized the words—and froze.
Their breathing faltered for a brief moment.
When the beggar looked up, both men had already regained their composure. The strong man masked his reaction well—his coarse features and cold eyes gave nothing away. The young swordsman, however, wasn’t as practiced. His lips tightened; the smile he forced was strained, brittle at the edges.
The little beggar’s eyes sharpened. Reading faces had been her means of survival for years—how could she miss such subtle shifts? Her pulse quickened. Danger. She could feel it in the air around them. Still, she kept her expression neutral, pretending calm as she wiped away the marks on the ground until no trace remained.
The young swordsman exchanged a brief glance with his companion. Then he asked, voice steady but edged with suspicion, “Who gave you the sword?”
He didn’t bother asking why—he already knew it wasn’t hers.
The beggar smiled weakly, swallowing her fear. Fingering the stone, she said lightly, “You seem like good people, so I’ll be honest. It was an old man from my village. He gathers herbs in the mountains. A few days ago, he found this lying by the roadside. Didn’t know what to do with it. I told him there are rich folks in the city, so I came here. Hero, do you think it’s valuable?”
The young swordsman’s eyes darkened, his silence heavy. He wasn’t good at deception; his hesitation betrayed him. The strong man scoffed. “Valuable? This piece of junk? Keep it, treat it as your treasure!”
He turned to leave, but the swordsman stopped him.
“Why the rush?” he said, voice calm but tight. “I won’t sleep tonight if I walk away angry.”
The strong man sighed, clearly displeased, but stayed.
“Fine then,” he growled. “Since you’re selling it, let’s see what you’ve got.” His aura grew oppressive—half intimidation, half demand. “You little brat, are you playing tricks on us?”
The beggar feigned fear, shrinking back. “I… I hid it. It’s too precious to carry around. If you want to see it, I’ll fetch it right now.”
The strong man gripped her shoulder roughly, leaning close. “We’ll go with you,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Lead the way.”
The beggar hesitated. Her mind raced. Then, with trembling resolve, she said softly, “No. I won’t take it if you follow. I’m just a foolish child. Please, let me go alone.”
The man sneered. “Afraid we’ll steal it?”
Tears welled in her eyes, half real, half pretend. She turned to the young swordsman, her small face pitiful under the fading light.
The swordsman finally sighed. “Go, then. We’ll wait across the street, in the alley.”
The strong man looked ready to argue, but the crowded street restrained him. Drawing attention here would do them no good.
The beggar sniffled, wiping her tears. “O-okay…” she whispered.
She trotted a few steps, then turned back, her voice trembling. “I’ll be right back! Please don’t leave, heroes.”
The swordsman nodded once. “Go.”
As soon as she turned the corner and saw they weren’t following, she bolted. She ran as if her life depended on it—because it did. Ducking through the winding alleys, she slipped out of sight, diving through a small hole in the city wall like a frightened animal.
By the time she reached the temple ruins, her clothes were soaked through again. She collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Moonlight spilled cold and silver through the shattered roof beams. The long night pressed down, silent and watchful.
The injured woman still lay where she had before, half her face lost in the darkness by the broken window. The little beggar stared at her, irritation flaring without reason. Yet, too weak to crawl closer, she could only glare and curse softly under her breath.
Soon, that strange flicker of emotion faded away, leaving behind only a dull, empty indifference. The little beggar lay still, staring at the cracked ceiling above as her thoughts drifted aimlessly. Her eyelids grew heavy.
There really are no good people in this world, she thought bitterly before sleep claimed her.
When she woke, the west wind howled against the door, making it shudder and wail.
Her teeth chattered uncontrollably—she truly thought she might freeze to death in her sleep. Terrified, she forced herself upright. She curled into a ball at first, but the cold only bit deeper. So she stumbled to her feet, hunching over and stamping her toes to keep the numbness away.
It didn’t help. The cold was relentless, gnawing into her bones.
It wasn’t even midwinter. Why, then, did Heaven have to be so cruel?
Muttering to herself, she grabbed handfuls of straw and stuffed them into her clothes, counting softly as if the numbers alone could warm her.
Last year, she’d owned a thin linen-paper coat—until someone stole it while she was begging. That winter, she’d survived by hiding under broken planks, half-asleep, half-frozen, yet somehow alive.
It had felt just as cold as now.
She shuffled to the window. Outside stood an ancient, gnarled tree, its roots twisted deep into the earth, untouched for years.
Above, the night sky stretched vast and pale, her breath fogging her vision into a milky blur. A lonely moon hung in the branches, its light cold and distant. The stars around it flickered faintly—like dying embers.
She stared so long she began to imagine the white mist as snow about to fall.
But no snow came.
Maybe tonight isn’t as cold as last year, she thought, though her trembling body said otherwise.
A strange calm settled over her. She suddenly knew—if winter truly came, she might not live to see its end. The thought chilled her more than the wind itself.
Curling up against the wall, she tucked her hands into her chest for warmth. As the wind subsided, she heard something—a faint, low moan beneath her ragged breathing.
At first, she thought she was imagining it. But as silence deepened, realization struck—she wasn’t alone.
The beggar crept closer to the woman lying nearby. The woman’s face was flushed red, her skin burning hot to the touch.
The beggar recoiled instantly, wiping her hand against her sleeve as if she’d touched poison. “Hey, you cursed soul! Don’t you go dying on me and spreading the plague! If you croak here, no one’s going to bury you!”
No answer.
Unease prickled up her spine. After a long hesitation, she made up her mind—she’d drag the body out. Sharing a roof with a corpse would only bring misfortune.
She grabbed one of the woman’s legs, turning her head away, muttering as she tugged, “Hero, don’t blame me. I’m not killing you—it’s just, you’re unlucky. I took care of you, didn’t I? Fed you, gave you shelter. I’ve done my part, so please, don’t come haunting me after this…”
But no matter how she pulled, the woman didn’t move.
Then—something shifted.
The beggar froze. A faint gleam flickered in the darkness. She turned—and met a pair of lucid, unblinking eyes.
They stared at each other.
The beggar swallowed hard. Her heart stopped.
The thought of dragging a corpse was terrifying—but seeing one come back to life was worse.
“W-Why are you awake?!” she yelped, her voice cracking.
She slapped her own cheek, blinked hard—but the eyes still stared back. Even in the gloom, their clarity pierced like cold glass.
Her limbs stiffened, her voice trembling, “You… you’re really awake?”
Song Huiya’s body burned as if consumed by fire. Heat coursed through her veins, each breath stinging her skin. Yet, compared to before—on that mountain path—her inner energy was calmer. The medicine she’d taken before blacking out… it was working.
It was no ordinary remedy. It had pulled her back from death’s edge.
She’d slipped toward darkness several times, only to be dragged back each time by the beggar’s foul-mouthed complaints.
With effort, she exhaled and said quietly, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it seems Heaven doesn’t want me yet.”
The beggar felt her scattered soul slam back into her body. Backing away with a trembling grin, she babbled, “H-hero, you’re awake! That’s great! I—I was just scared of the dark, said nonsense, don’t take it seriously.”
Song Huiya propped herself up against the wall, a faint smile curving her pale lips. “Oh? Didn’t you just call me a dog? Now I’m a hero?”
The beggar stiffened. His back tensed, eyes darting around for an escape.
“Don’t bother,” Huiya said softly, picking up a small stone. She twirled it between her fingers, her voice calm but sharp. “Even if I gave you a knife right now, you’d die before you could swing it. Want to test that theory?”
The little beggar collapsed to the ground, his bravado shattering. “Please, hero! Don’t kill me! I—I’m a fool, I talk too much! I wouldn’t dare hurt anyone!”
Song Huiya’s throat burned; even speaking was painful. She had no patience for his whimpering. “Where’s my sword?”
Sniffling, the beggar scrambled to the corner, retrieved the hidden sword and purse, and returned—kneeling down, arms raised above his head.
Huiya took the sword, laying it across her knees. She examined the copper coins in her palm and frowned. “You didn’t pocket any, did you?”
The child gawked, tears halting in disbelief. “You’re so poor, even beggars feel sorry for you!”
Her words made Huiya’s wound throb even harder.
The beggar resumed sobbing—this time, with true regret. His pitiful act melted into a desperate sincerity.
Huiya ignored him, running her fingers along the blade, studying its edge in silence. Only when his cries dwindled into rasps did she glance up.
“Feeling better?” she asked dryly.
The beggar forced a trembling smile. “My hero, you must be thirsty! I’ll fetch you some water.”
But as he moved, the blood-stained scabbard pressed coldly against his throat.
He froze. His eyes widened as he clutched the weapon with shaking hands, nearly crying again.
Huiya sheathed the blade with deliberate slowness, voice like ice. “Stop pretending. Your noise is grating. It disgusts me.”
The beggar froze. There was no warmth in her tone—no trace of pity.
He wiped his tears, schooling his face into a hollow grin. The timidity vanished, replaced by a forced, cunning smirk. But even then, he didn’t dare let his resentment show.
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