The snow crunched softly beneath nineteen-year-old Ah Ming’s thin cowhide boots.
His knees were shaking with such violent tremors of hunger and tiredness that every stride felt like wading through freezing river silt. He had dropped his locked iron pike ten paces behind him. His hands were empty, his fingers curled into stiff, purplish claws that could no longer feel the bite of the sleet.
Ahead of him, resting upon the heavy timber sledge pushed by the twenty-foot black glass titan, sat the massive bronze cooking pot. Thick, fragrant white steam rose into the cold air like a welcoming hearth fire. He carried the intoxicating aroma of sweet simmered rice, wild mountain ginger, and rich cured boar broth.
Standing on the wooden step of the sledge was the azure-robed youth. In his hands, Lin Xiao held a wide birchwood bowl brimming with thick, golden-white porridge, topped with a generous cube of melting mountain sweet potato, a drizzle of amber sesame oil. A spoonful of crisp, crimson-flecked pickled mustard greens.
“Here you go, little brother,” Lin Xiao said softly, his voice full of gentle, older-brother warmth. He leaned down and pressed the smooth birchwood bowl into Ah Ming’s trembling palms. “Careful now. Blow on it first. It’s hot.”
