Four days passed.
Huang Ming did not answer Huang Long's question. He did not ask one in return, either. But every morning, whenever he heard the hiss of a sword from the yard, he sat beside the fire a little longer and listened. He did not look outside, but his ears caught every rhythm, every sound of the blade tearing through the air—the steady whoosh, the thwack when the sword's tip struck the old plum tree, the scrape as Huang Long drew the sword back close to his body.
He followed those sounds, trying to imagine the movements, as if he could see with his ears.
On the fifth day, after washing the dishes, Huang Ming did not go sit on the porch. He stood in the corner of the yard beside the plaster wall, picked up a dry branch as long as his arm, shaved away the rough spots, and held it in his hand.
The dry branch had no blade, no center of gravity, no breath of iron. But he still stood straight, feet shoulder-width apart, his right hand raising the branch to brow level.
He remembered the whoosh from the backyard. He swung the dry branch in that direction.
The branch made no sound of steel cleaving the air. It only gave a faint, indistinct flutter, like an apology. He did not stop. One horizontal stroke, one vertical stroke, then he swept the branch in a wide circle. Snow flew up, but it did not form a thin white curtain—it simply shattered in every direction and fell weakly back down.
He continued.
"Oh, come on, look at that. Even the cripple is practicing swordsmanship."
A familiar voice rang out in the distance. Zhao Shanghang and two boys following him came up from the foot of the hill, carrying a few pastries. They seemed to be strolling through the area. They stopped a few steps from Huang Ming and watched him swing the dry branch with an utterly expressionless face.
Huang Ming did not turn around. He kept going.
"Are you crazy?" Zhao Shanghang laughed loudly, breaking off a piece of pastry and stuffing it into his mouth. "You think waving a stick around makes you a swordsman?"
Huang Ming did not answer. He swung the branch for the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth times—each time trying to produce a clearer hiss, but the dry branch simply could not cut through the air like iron.
One of the boys stepped forward. "Did getting beaten make you lose your mind? Cut it out. A cripple is a cripple. Holding a sword won't change that."
Huang Ming stopped. He turned and looked straight at the boy who had spoken. His gaze was calm, without a trace of hatred, but he was no longer as patient as usual.
"You can say whatever you want," he said, his voice neither loud nor soft, "but don't insult my determination."
The children were startled. This was the first time the snow-shoveling cripple had talked back—and he had answered without the slightest hint of submission.
Zhao Shanghang stepped forward, looked at the branch in Huang Ming's hand, and laughed. "A stick? You call that dry piece of firewood a stick? You really think you can learn sword techniques? Your dantian is as empty as a dried-up well. You can't even reach first-tier Body Refinement, so what's the point of learning swordsmanship? To chop firewood?"
Huang Ming tightened his grip on the branch. He could feel his fingers gradually going numb from the cold, but he did not let go.
"Leave the branch behind," Zhao Shanghang drawled. "It doesn't suit you."
Silence settled between them for a while. Falling snow drifted down sparsely.
Huang Ming did not answer. He bent down, scooped up a handful of snow, and squeezed it against the branch. His movement was slow, but full of intent. He raised his head and said, "It's not yours. Don't touch it."
Zhao Shanghang sneered and turned away. "Whatever. I'm bored. A cripple will always be a cripple. Sticks and branches won't change a thing." The boys left the hill together, their laughter echoing through the snowy sky.
Huang Ming stood still and watched until they disappeared. Then he bent down, picked up the branch, wiped the snow from its bark, and resumed swinging it. Not fast, not slow, but he kept going, one movement at a time, like someone learning to read one character at a time.
His hands trembled from the cold and exhaustion. He kept going.
By noon, the branch broke.
Huang Ming stood looking at the half of the branch remaining in his hand. Its bark had peeled away, and the uneven break looked like a wound. He sat down on the doorstep, set the piece of branch beside him, and stared out at the empty, snow-covered yard.
Inside, Mo Xue was cooking. She had not gone outside while the children were there, because she knew Huang Ming would worry about her if she did. But after they left, she stood in the doorway and watched him for a while.
She saw him practicing swordsmanship. She saw the branch break. She saw him sitting silently on the doorstep.
She stepped outside and sat down beside him. Without saying anything, she placed her hand over his. His hand was ice-cold and trembling from the strain in his muscles, but he did not pull away.
"Brother Ming," she said softly, "don't rush."
Huang Ming did not look at her, but he gave a slight nod.
That afternoon, Huang Long came home early.
He set the snow squirrel he had just trapped on the doorstep, walked straight across the yard, and saw the broken dry branch beside the door. He stopped, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand for a moment. Finger marks clung to the branch, pressed into the blurred streaks where the bark had peeled away.
He carried the piece of branch into the kitchen without asking anything.
That night, after Mo Xue had fallen asleep, Huang Long sat beside the fire, warming his hands.
"You've started training."
It was not a question.
Huang Ming sat across from him and nodded.
"With a branch?"
Another nod.
Huang Long said nothing more. He stood, walked out of the house, and left the door open. A short while later, he returned carrying a long, straight piece of wood. It had been shaved smoother than the dry branch, was thick enough to fit comfortably in the hand, and had been carefully rounded at the tip. It was neither a sword nor a stick, but it was a little heavier, with the feel of something closer to a real sword.
Huang Long placed it in front of Huang Ming.
"If you want to learn, use this. A branch breaks too easily."
Huang Ming looked at the piece of wood, then at his brother.
Huang Long had already turned away. He picked up his sword and walked into the yard. Outside, the night was pitch-black, but he still practiced, each movement slow beneath the faint light reflected off the snow. He said nothing more.
Huang Ming held the piece of wood in his hand. It still smelled of fresh timber, with a little pine resin clinging to it. He raised it and tried a horizontal swing, then a vertical one. It was slightly different in weight from the branch—heavier, sturdier—but he felt that his hand held it more steadily.
He went out into the yard. Snow settled on his hair and shoulders. He stood a few steps from Huang Long. Neither looked at the other. Each simply performed his own movements in the darkness.
Huang Long swung his sword. Huang Ming swung the wooden stick. Huang Long turned. Huang Ming turned with him. Huang Long slowed a little. Huang Ming slowed as well.
Two figures stood in the darkness, snow falling around them—one large, one small. The older one did not turn around to correct him or say a word. The younger one only watched and silently imitated him, never asking questions.
Mo Xue was not asleep.
She sat beside the window frame, curled beneath an old blanket, watching the yard. Snow had covered both their shoulders. Their breath mingled with the white mist. She did not call out or go outside. She simply sat and watched.
She thought of the old songs she used to sing. There was one about two pine trees standing side by side in the snow—one tall, one short, but both enduring the bitter cold and both blooming in spring. She did not remember where she had learned it, but she sang it silently in her mind, letting the scene outside become like the lyrics of her song.
Near midnight, Huang Long stopped. He carried his sword into the house without looking at Huang Ming. But as he passed him, he tossed out a single sentence:
"Get up an hour earlier tomorrow."
Huang Ming stood still, the piece of wood in his hand, watching his brother go inside.
He remained in the yard a little longer, looking at the piece of wood, newly smoothed, in his hand. His fingers were no longer numb with cold; they had warmed up by then. He did not know how to practice properly. He did not know whether he could keep up. But he knew one thing.
Tomorrow. He would get up an hour earlier.
Then he went inside, placed the piece of wood beside the fire, and sat down. Mo Xue had pulled the blanket completely over herself, but she was still awake. When he sat down beside the fire, she whispered from beneath the blanket:
"Brother Ming, I'll make a little more porridge tomorrow."
Huang Ming looked at her and nodded. He said nothing more.
He sat there beneath the dying firelight, warming the hands that had been frozen all afternoon. There was a new feeling in his heart—not hope, not confidence, only a certain, unwavering stillness.
He would try.
Even if he was a cripple, even if his dantian was empty, even if the entire town called him a snow shoveler—he would try.
And outside, the snow continued to fall, whitening the smooth piece of wood Huang Long had carved for him.