Chapter 4 – Snowfall and Fractured Memories
The snow fell endlessly through the night.
Thick, weightless flakes drifted down from the heavens like ash from a broken world. It blanketed the trees, the corpses, the forest floor—turning the entire landscape into a haunting white graveyard. The sound of the wind was a whisper through the branches, but beyond that, everything was still.
She did not move.
The great white wolf lay beside him, her immense body curled just enough to shelter him from the worst of the cold. Her fur shimmered like starlight, a contrast to the blood-soaked ground beneath her. Every breath she took was deep, steady, ancient. Her presence was warm and silent—like a sentinel standing watch over a dying ember, refusing to let it flicker out.
All night, she stayed.
The pack did not dare approach her. Twenty wolves sat motionless in the shadows, ten meters away, heads bowed, waiting. They made no sound. No growl, no howl, not even a breath heavy enough to disturb the snowflakes that coated their fur.
And beneath her warmth, he survived.
When morning came, the sky had brightened but was still gray—no sun, just light. The storm had passed, but the snow was now knee-deep across the clearing, hiding everything beneath its cold veil. Bloodstains had become pinkish clouds buried under white, and bodies—twisted, broken, gnawed—were half-submerged, indistinguishable now. Human, wolf, bone—it was all just shadow beneath the snow.
His eyes opened.
Slowly.
Everything was blurry at first. White. Just white.
Then warmth.
Then pain.
Then… her.
She was there, just inches from his face. The white wolf.
Her crystalline blue eyes met his gaze, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
He flinched.
Even though she had saved him, his body trembled. His chest rose in quick, shallow gasps. Fear had embedded itself into his bones too deeply to vanish overnight.
She didn't move.
Didn't growl. Didn't blink.
Just looked.
Even as his heart pounded violently, he couldn't pull his gaze away from her. The sheer size of her… the way the snow shimmered on her fur… it felt unreal. Her breath misted in the cold air, warm and rhythmic.
He turned his head slightly, wincing at the effort.
His body still felt like it had been crushed under boulders. But he noticed something impossible—his limbs were intact.
His arms.
His legs.
They were there.
Bruised, wounded, stiff, but whole.
His memories of the night before were fractured. He remembered fangs on his throat, wolves tearing into his flesh, chains snapping—and then warmth. Now his body was whole again. Not healed, but not mutilated. The spiritual energy she had poured into him had been enough to halt death, to hold him in one piece, to knit flesh just enough to survive.
But it hadn't been enough to restore him fully.
He was alive. Barely.
A groan escaped his lips as he pushed himself upright—slow, trembling, every joint screaming in protest. His arms gave out halfway, and he collapsed onto his side, coughing. The cold bit into his lungs.
She still didn't move.
He glanced around, trying to make sense of the scene.
The wolves were still there, just beyond the tree line, watching him. Twenty of them. Eyes like fireflies in the white mist. Not hostile—but not friendly either.
And the bodies.
Gods.
The snow covered most of them now, but the shapes were unmistakable. Mangled torsos. Gnawed limbs. Frozen pools of dark blood. Some faces were missing entirely, torn apart. Others had frozen in expressions of agony.
He didn't recognize them.
But he didn't need to.
They were his family.
He knew it in his soul.
These were the ones dragged out with him. The ones who had screamed, begged, wept, as soldiers bound them in chains and marched them into the woods. The ones who shared the single ladle of water each day. The ones who had once laughed, danced, and lived.
Now they were nothing but broken meat.
His mind reeled.
He wanted to scream, to weep, but all that came was a breath—shallow and cracked. And then the memories returned.
One by one.
First, his father.
He saw him—kneeling in the imperial court. His head bowed, his voice pleading, hands raised toward the throne. "Please, Your Majesty. Let my youngest live. He is only a boy. He knows nothing of our sins…"
And then blood. The blade falling. His head hitting the marble floor with a sickening thud.
Then the women of the household.
Dragged from their rooms. Stripped in the courtyard. Their screams echoed through the palace as soldiers laughed. Their bodies were painted in blood and shame. Even the older ones—grandmothers, aunts. There was no mercy.
Then… the children.
His brother's son. Not even two years old. Crying. Alone. Clutching a small wooden horse toy. The next moment, a sword struck.
Blood splattered the wall.
The toy fell, cracked in half.
Too much. Too fast.
His mind convulsed, trying to reject it all—but the memories surged forward like a flood, drowning him.
His head dropped. Eyes wide.
He saw heads rolling.
One by one. Men he had grown up with. Uncles. Cousins. Brothers.
His mother.
Her hair covered in blood, eyes empty.
The emperor was there. Laughing.
Sitting on his golden throne, wine in one hand, meat in the other. He raised his cup toward the corpses as if toasting a successful play.
"A lesson," the emperor had declared. "To all who dare whisper treason behind my back."
Then the memory twisted.
A face.
A girl.
Roughly his age.
He couldn't see her clearly—her features blurred, smudged like a dream he couldn't recall. But she was smiling. Not mocking, not cruel. A smile that glowed gently—painfully—in his mind.
Her wrist glimmered.
A bracelet.
Pure gold, delicately carved, and inset with a smooth piece of jade. The jade was shaped into a heart, split in two pieces—one on her wrist, the other…
The memory stuttered.
He saw the bracelet fall.
The jade shattered, pieces flying into the snow.
But she was still smiling.
That same, soft smile.
And then… gone.
He gasped.
Reality lurched back into focus.
The cold. The snow. The dead. The wolves. The white wolf beside him.
His head swam. His heartbeat became erratic, thudding painfully in his chest. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and bile rose in his throat.
"No more," he whispered hoarsely. "No more…"
He tried to stand.
His legs buckled instantly. His knees hit the snow hard. His vision spun, white and red. His lungs burned.
He fell.
Headfirst into the snow.
Darkness rushed in like a tide, and his body finally surrendered.
The last thing he saw before the world faded was a giant white paw stepping near his face—and those calm, blue eyes watching him, ever still, ever patient.
Then, nothing.
But when his eyes opened again, it was darker—early evening, perhaps. The snow had stopped falling. A faint glow from the overcast sky seeped through the trees. He was still alive.
The white wolf was gone.
Or rather… distant.
He could see her, now sitting atop a small ridge, overlooking the clearing. Her pack still lingered around her, all of them motionless. Waiting.
She had not abandoned him.
But she had given him space.
He took in a breath. Cold, but not painful now.
Somewhere deep within, a small flicker of Qi stirred again. Weak, but consistent.
He felt… clearer. Not healed. Not strong. But aware.
For now, that was enough.
And then came a new thought. One that didn't scream or weep.
"I lived."
Somehow… through betrayal, through butchery, through snow and teeth and sorrow—he had lived.
The empire had thrown him to the wolves.
And the wolves…
They spared him.
Or rather—she spared him.
He didn't know why.
But perhaps… just perhaps… he would find out.
Eventually.