On the 23rd day of the twelfth lunar month in the 23rd year of the Yuan Dynasty, it was a small year. The wind in Mobei is wrapped with snow particles, like countless small knives hardened by ice, blowing across the grassland along the Onan River. The fifteen-year-old wool yurt of Yeluqi's family made a whine in the strong wind, as if it would be overturned in the white snow at the next moment.
In the center of the yurt, an oil lamp lit with sheep fat danced faintly. The huge flames reflected on the face of seventeen-year-old Yeluqi, illuminating his sharp outlines. He sat cross-legged on a worn-out woolen blanket, with a yellowed and rolled-edged "The Analects" spread out on his knees. His fingers were purple from the cold, but he still held a pen sharpened from birch wood tightly, and copied stroke by stroke on the rough hemp paper, "Learn and practice it from time to time, it's not easy to explain."
The hemp paper was sent by Shangguan Yanyun last month. Before that, he could only write words on pieces of sheep bones, or repeatedly smear charcoal ash on the inner walls of the yurt. Even so, every word is like a kind of fire dug out of the snow, guarded carefully, for fear that a gust of wind will blow away the faint hope in my heart.
"Cough... Cough..."
