In a daze, Fang Hong saw a campfire.
The firelight was filled with dry branches, resting on the forest floor. The branches melted, leaves curled, turning into specks of starlight, dancing in the heat and rising to the night sky. The night sky—he finally awoke, groggily looking around.
A campfire, with some snow cleared away or already melted. Above, a broken tree branch formed a simple shelter with pine-like branches, casting a somber glow in the firelight. Outside, the forest was pitch dark, seemingly snowing, and the falling snow rustled quietly.
On the other side, there was a massive rock. A man sat beside it, leaning against the rock with one leg stretched out and the other bent under him. On his thigh lay a great sword, one hand resting on the knee, the other holding the sword hilt.
The man tilted his head slightly, looking at him, eyes reflecting the faint flames, but he neither spoke nor moved.
