Chapter 1: The Calculus of Starvation
Hunger was a blade that never dulled. Wei Yan knew the edge of it better than he knew his own reflection.
He lay flat against the frozen mud of the Whispering Woods, his breathing so shallow his narrow chest barely moved. His clothes were little more than stitched-together rags stuffed with dried moss for insulation, but the biting autumn wind still found its way to his bones. He didn't shiver. Shivering wasted energy.
Thirty paces ahead, hidden beneath a pile of rotting pine needles, was a crude snare. It was made from a single, precious length of hemp wire he had stolen from the village weaver three days ago.
Snap.
A scrawny gray hare thrashed in the underbrush, the wire biting into its hind leg.
Wei Yan didn't rush. Rushing meant snapping twigs, and noise meant attracting the wild dogs—or worse, the older boys from Blackwood Village who made a sport of hunting the hunters. He crept forward with practiced, silent steps, keeping his center of gravity low.
Reaching the trap, he didn't hesitate. He pinned the thrashing animal and used a sharpened piece of flint to end its struggle instantly. He immediately bled it out into the dirt and kicked soil over the stain to hide the scent of fresh blood.
"Well, look what the little rat dragged in."
Wei Yan froze. He didn't turn around immediately, using the fraction of a second to hide the flint blade up his ragged sleeve.
Stepping out from behind a massive oak was Zhao, the village butcher's son. He was two years older than Wei Yan's fourteen, fifty pounds heavier, and carried a thick wooden cudgel.
Wei Yan's mind immediately ran the numbers. He's bigger. He's fed. If I fight, he breaks a rib. A broken rib means I can't hunt. Not hunting means starvation. Even a bruised jaw could lead to a winter fever. A fever means death.
Pride was a luxury for people who knew where their next meal was coming from.
"Hand it over, Yan," Zhao sneered, tapping the cudgel against his palm. "Consider it a tax for hunting on my father's side of the woods."
Wei Yan kept his face entirely blank, masking the cold fury simmering in his chest. Slowly, he stood up, holding the hare by the ears.
"You're right, Young Master Zhao," Wei Yan said, his voice quiet, deliberately keeping his eyes lowered in a show of submission. "I wouldn't want to disrespect your family."
Without missing a beat, Wei Yan pulled a rusted paring knife from his belt. Before Zhao could react, Wei Yan violently hacked the hare in two. He tossed the larger, meatier hindquarters and the pelt directly at Zhao's feet, keeping only the bony front half and the organs for himself.
Zhao blinked, thrown off by the immediate surrender. He looked down at the premium cuts of meat at his feet, then back up at the scrawny boy. He laughed, a cruel, echoing sound.
"Smart rat," Zhao spat. He kicked Wei Yan hard in the stomach for good measure, sending the smaller boy sprawling into the freezing mud. Zhao scooped up his prize and sauntered off toward the village, whistling.
Wei Yan didn't gasp. He didn't cry out. He lay in the mud, waiting until Zhao's heavy footsteps completely faded into the distance.
Only then did he sit up. He wiped a smear of mud and blood from his chin, his dark eyes empty of anything resembling childish innocence. He looked down at the bloody front half of the hare in his hands.
He had lost the pelt and the best meat, but he had kept the heart, the liver, and enough muscle to survive another two days. More importantly, he had kept his ribs intact. It was a calculated loss. In Blackwood Village, you didn't win. You just survived until the next sunrise.
Wei Yan tucked his meager prize into his tunic and began the long walk back to his hidden lean-to on the outskirts of the village. As he walked, a brilliant streak of azure light tore across the twilight sky above the mountains.
The villagers called them Immortals—cultivators who could fly on swords and split mountains. They worshipped them, prayed to them, hoped to be noticed by them.
Wei Yan didn't bother looking up. Immortals couldn't fill his stomach, and a sky full of flying swords wouldn't keep the winter out. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the dirt path ahead.