Han Xin dropped to his knees beside the village elder, snow crunching beneath him. The old man had rolled across the ground, his robes torn, his body bruised and bleeding. He gently turned him over, lifting him into a sitting position with careful hands.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked, voice low but urgent.
The elder coughed, blood staining his lips and teeth. His breath came in shallow bursts. With trembling fingers, he pointed toward the shattered shrine, where the lantern lay extinguished in the snow.
Han Xin's gaze followed, and he instantly understood. That shrine was more important to that old man that his life.
