Northern Frontier, Winter of 1981.
Snow blanketed the land in a thick, unbroken sheet nearly half a meter deep.
Outside the kitchen, long icicles hung from the roof eaves—formed by the constant cycle of thawing and freezing. Some stretched over a meter long, gleaming sharply in the pale sunlight, heavy and menacing.
Stepping outside to relieve himself, Logan Lee glanced up at the dangling spears of ice. Frowning, he fetched a shovel from beside the wall and knocked them all down.
He remembered this winter all too well. In his previous life, his niece June Lee had been struck on the head by one of those icicles. It had taken months for her to heal, and though the wound closed, a scar remained—a mark that became a cruel target for teasing. That scar had haunted her for years, twisting her once-bright nature into quiet shame.
Now, reborn into this familiar winter, Logan was determined: that tragedy would not happen again.
How he came back, he didn't know. He only remembered dying—and then, somehow, waking up here, in this cold, distant past.
In his previous life, Logan had lived to sixty-seven. A healthy old man with no illness to speak of—until one afternoon, while swatting at a fly inside his home, he leapt a little too fast. His head spun, his vision blackened, and a stroke took him instantly. Dead before he hit the ground.
It had been an easy death. But his elder brother, George Lee, hadn't been so lucky.
George had sacrificed everything for him—his time, his money, even his health. Until one winter, his body gave out. He fell to his death trying to keep the family alive.
That loss had poisoned everything between Logan and his brother's family. Though they lived in the same village, they had grown into strangers—no, enemies.
He died an old man with no one to speak to, surrounded by silence and regret.
Now that life had given him a second chance, he refused to let history repeat itself.
But first, there were more immediate problems: fuel and food.
In this harsh northern land, the commune provided each household with two hundred kilograms of coal for winter heating—a pitiful amount.
In the later years, every family would store seven or eight tons before the frost came. Without it, you couldn't survive six months of bitter cold.
When the coal ran short, people would trek north to dig up red willow roots or saxaul wood—a desperate, destructive act by modern standards, but back then, it was the only way to stay alive.
Originally, the Lee family had enough coal and firewood to last until spring.
But now, Logan was back.
Months earlier, George had paid fifty yuan to get him a job at the Wucheng No.81 Food Factory—a prestigious position in those days. To be a factory worker meant honor, a steady income, and the rare joy of holding hard cash.
Dozens of yuan a month—freedom, by any measure.
Compared to working in the commune fields, where labor credits were tallied at year's end and most families barely received enough grain to live on, Logan had been envied by every young man in the village.
And soon after arriving, the prettiest girl in town—Susan Wu—had made the first move.
But that was before everything fell apart.
Now, Logan had been fired.
He knew what came next: in two days, when the village loudmouth Mark Goodman spread the news, Susan would show up to end things.
In his previous life, that breakup had shattered him. It had planted the seeds of pride and bitterness that shaped his downfall—and even, indirectly, led to George's death.
But now? Logan only smiled faintly.
A woman like Susan—vain, self-serving—wasn't worth regret.
Even if she didn't leave, he would.
Still, he couldn't keep sleeping on the same bed as his brother's family. So that afternoon, George cleared out the old east room, set up a stove, and lit the fire for him.
But that meant one thing: they wouldn't have enough fuel for the winter.
Not even to last until the New Year.
Logan remembered when he was twelve. His father, Patrick Lee, had sent him from their impoverished hometown to live under George's care.
He could still hear his father's voice:
> "We can't afford to feed him anymore. If you can raise Little Logan well, I'll die with peace of mind. Don't worry about me or my burial. Just keep him alive—that's all I ask."
And George had done just that.
Of the grain they received, eight parts were coarse, two parts fine. George and his wife, Mary Liang, ate the rough stuff, saving the best for the children—Logan, June, and James.
Logan was growing fast, eating more than even his brother, but George never complained. He would trade, scavenge, and scrape together anything he could to feed him.
Mary had fought him over it countless times.
But George believed too strongly in the old saying:
> "An elder brother is a father reborn."
And that belief had cost him everything.
This time, Logan swore—never again.
Fortunately, the Tianshan Mountains weren't far.
Up there lay endless fallen timber, and game enough for any man to make a fortune: red deer, bears, wild boars, gazelles, even the fat little marmots that people in the future would find cute enough to put on the internet.
Before the Wildlife Protection Law came, a clever man could carve out wealth in a few short years.
But first… he had to finish his business.
Logan trudged down the narrow path through the snow, to the reed-walled outhouse at the far end of the yard.
Unbuttoning his thick pants, he sighed in relief as steam rose into the freezing air.
His urine carved yellow trails into the snow, forming a shape that looked like an S… or maybe an 8.
Shivering, he fastened his pants and ran back toward the house. In this minus-thirty-degree weather, even a minute outside could freeze the marrow in your bones.
Before he could step inside, he heard his brother and sister-in-law's voices from the west room.
> "Didn't you say Logan wasn't coming back? Now he's home—what about the coal? It's not enough! We can't dig roots in this cold!"
> "Don't worry about it," George said quietly. "I'll figure something out."
> "Figure out what? Borrow from the commune? That's five hundred kilos! We can't pay that back!"
> "I said I'll handle it. I won't let him freeze."
> "Handle it? He got fired! Who gets fired from a good job? You even paid fifty yuan to get him in—can we get that money back?"
> "It's spent. What's done is done."
> "Then ask him how much he made! Maybe he saved something—"
> "No need to ask. If he had money, he'd have said so. Alone in Wucheng, how could he not spend something?"
> "Fine! Be the hero then. But I won't let June or James freeze because of him!"
> "Mom, I want meat…"
The argument stopped there.
Logan sighed softly and stepped inside.
The east room was small but warm. The brick bed radiated heat, the iron stove puffing faint smoke through the vent.
He sat down, gathering his thoughts.
In his past life, he had accepted everything from his brother as if it were owed to him. Never once did he think about how much George sacrificed to keep him alive.
Worse, he had been vain—and soft-hearted. Always eager to help others, even when it cost his own family.
He'd spent their food, their coal, their kindness—trying to be the "good man."
And all it had earned him was loneliness.
This time, no more.
He was done being a martyr.
But the world didn't know that yet.
Just as he began forming a plan, footsteps crunched outside in the snow. A knock came on the next door.
George opened it to find Mark Goodman, the local loafer and gossip, wrapped in a tattered coat.
> "George, I heard Logan's back! Where is he?"
> "Over there," George said cautiously. "What do you want with him?"
Logan heard and opened his own door. A gust of freezing air rushed in.
> "Mark, what's going on?"
> "So it's true—you're back!" Mark grinned, sniffed, and shoved him back into the room. "Come on, let's talk inside."
George started to follow, but Mark slammed the door shut.
From the west room, Mary called out,
> "Close the door! You're letting the heat out!"
George sighed and did so.
Inside, Mark's tone shifted to a conspiratorial whisper.
> "Buddy, I'm in a bit of trouble. I need a favor."
> "Talk," Logan said evenly, smiling faintly though his heart had already gone cold. He knew this man too well. Smooth talker. Always pretending to admire him—until it was time to ask for money.
> "You got any cash?" Mark asked shamelessly. "I'm heading to the Third Commune tomorrow to see a girl, but I'm broke. Lend me a few yuan?"
He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
In his previous life, Logan—trying to appear generous—had lent him over ten yuan, nearly all he had.
That same winter, the Lees had run out of coal. George had to borrow more, a debt that took three years to repay.
And Mark? He never returned a single cent.
Not then. Not ever.
This time…
Never again.
He would no longer play the saint.
He would no longer meddle in others' fates.
(End of Chapter 1)