Qin Wang Year Six, winter—a stretch yet before His Majesty the First Emperor would truly take the stage of history. As Li Haimo recalled, it wasn't until Qin Wang Year Nine that the young king ascended in earnest, unleashing a life that seemed scripted by the heavens: forcing back Empress Dowager Zhao, dooming Lü Buwei, then unleashing the armies through Hangu Pass to swallow the six states whole.
But the future First Emperor of now? Still grinding through lessons in forbearance. True to Li Haimo's counsel, he'd slipped off to live among the Farmers, immersing himself in the common folk's daily toil. What shape that experience might forge him into? Leave it to the will of heaven.
Snow swirled in furious flurries as Li Haimo led Xiao Meng—bundled like a bear in her furs—through the drifts, each step a laborious sink into the white void.
"Junior Sister Xiao Meng, did you know? Farther north, beyond even this northern wild, there's a people who dwell in fortresses carved from ice itself. Light a fire within, and it wards off the gales all around," Li Haimo said, evoking the Eskimo igloos in his mind's eye.
"Won't the ice just melt away?" Xiao Meng wasn't the wide-eyed girl fresh from the sect gates anymore—no easy mark for tall tales.
"Who knows? Let's build one and find out," Li Haimo grinned.
Talk led straight to action. They hollowed a snow cave in the drift, propping the roof and walls with branches, carving an entry on the leeward face. Then they gathered armfuls of dry tinder. While Xiao Meng kindled the blaze, Li Haimo snared a pair of rock ptarmigans—delicacies that, in later ages, would command fortunes and prison terms for poachers. Here in the pre-Qin wilds? Fair game for any hand.
Gutted and skewered on sticks, rubbed with wild spices to marinate, he trudged back.
The snow hut glowed from within when he returned: Xiao Meng had coaxed the flames to life, her cheeks flushed rosy in the firelight—utterly endearing.
"No kissing—your lips are like frostbite waiting to happen," she warned, reading his gaze all too well. She shoved him aside with a laugh, snatching one ptarmigan to roast over the coals.
"It really works," she marveled. Half a shichen in, and their maiden igloo hummed like a greenhouse. She shed the heavy bear pelt, revealing the azure-white robes beneath.
"Just hope it doesn't melt through." Li Haimo circled the walls, fingers tracing the damp spots. He etched a shallow trench in the floor to channel the melt away.
The next Heavenly Accord's due in five years, Li Haimo realized suddenly.
"What, you still itching for a rematch with me?" Xiao Meng shot him a sidelong glance.
"Heavens, no—not without Xue Ji in hand," Li Haimo surrendered at once.
"Come here—you roast it." She patted the bear pelt she'd spread on the ground, inviting him close.
He doffed his own fur cloak, set the Ling Xu trio of swords aside, and settled beside her—tending the birds with careful turns.
"A hot spring would make this perfect," he mused.
"Then let's find one tomorrow and hole up for a spell," Xiao Meng suggested.
"Done. We hunt at first light." Li Haimo chuckled.
Dusk draped the world in shadow; the snow cave shrank to fireglow alone. Or so it seemed—till the gems in the Ling Xu blades began a faint, ethereal shimmer.
"Hold me, but no wandering hands," Xiao Meng murmured. Li Haimo drew the great pelt over them both, cradling her slight form against his chest. Three years together, and they'd shared a bed nightly—save that final threshold. All else? Thoroughly explored. As for "no wandering hands," he thought with a private smirk, a woman's "no" has ever meant yes.
Outside, the gale howled fiercer, burying their burrow anew in pristine white. None would ever spy the entwined sleepers beneath the endless snows.
Dawn broke grudging; they clawed free of the drift, rinsed in the numbing chill of a nearby stream, and set forth once more.
By nightfall, an nameless hamlet appeared—a lone inn its flickering heart. Within, merchants rubbed shoulders with wandering blades-for-hire.
"Innkeep—one upper room," Li Haimo called, scanning the room. High-caliber folk abounded: a qin player whose handsomeness bordered on the unfair, ringed loosely by watchful ronin. And in the shadowed corner, a youth deep in his cups—though his bleary glances flicked ever toward the musician.
"Showtime," Xiao Meng whispered, leaning into him.
"Not yet—they'll simmer a bit. Up for a wash first." He tapped her nose.
They mounted the stairs, drawing idle stares from the swordsmen. But the bear pelts marked them as rustics, not threats—no true practitioner would swaddle so.
Bathed and fed lightly, they lounged by the window, timing the inevitable brawl below. No fists flew; instead, elegant strains of qin rose on the air.
"Bei Feng: Striking the Drum," Li Haimo murmured, impressed. As Human Sect leader, he'd mastered such arts—Xiao Meng could pluck a tune or two herself. He favored listening, though.
"This player's no amateur. That touch—rare as phoenix plumes under heaven," Xiao Meng noted.
Wonder if I should end him later, Li Haimo pondered with a twinge of pique.
Mid-phrase, Gao Jianli—the qin master—shivered as if pinned by unseen eyes, fumbling a note. In that fractured instant, blades and spears lunged from the shadows.
"It's on!" Li Haimo scooped Xiao Meng into his arms, vaulting to the balcony rail for a front-row perch.
The musician played on, unruffled. The "drunken" youth from the corner materialized at his side, parrying every strike. His counters lacked flash—raw, almost clumsy, the mark of a fresh江湖 colt, loosened further by the wine. Yet the assailants? Leagues below. They crumpled before nearing the qin, felled by economical grace.
Hubris tripped him, though: a misplaced foot on an empty flask, and he sprawled in a heap. Handsome for all of three seconds, as the tales would have it.
"Who are you? Why stand for me?" Gao Jianli asked, fingers never faltering on the strings.
"Jing Ke. Someone bade me deliver this score to you—said only you could carry its legacy forward," the youth replied, hauling himself up.
"Wei State's swiftest blade, Jing Ke?" Gao Jianli blinked, scarce crediting that General Gongsun's prized pupil—a drunkard of such slovenly mien.
Jing Ke scratched his head, sheepish at his own dishevelment.
"Is he famous?" Xiao Meng wondered.
"Wei's foremost swift-sword, Mohist-vouched grand swordmaster. His Death's Thirteen—lightning strokes, thirteen blades in a blink, fanning thirteen ways," Li Haimo explained.
"Impressive." Xiao Meng arched a brow. Hardly the look of a Mohist-sanctioned legend.
"Not now, he isn't. Six strokes if he's lucky—the thirteen's pure brag," Li Haimo added, a jealous edge creeping in.
The youth glanced up at the balcony duo, his slur suddenly sharp as steel: "You two up top—nailing the show, or just passing through?"
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