The wind wrapped the snow foam like countless finely tempered ice blades, causing pain on the face. Fan Yan stood on the lookout on the top of the mountain, holding a half-curled piece of dry tobacco between his fingertips. The ashes of the burnt tobacco were swirled by the wind, mixed with snow particles, and fell on the back of his chapped hands. He did not move, looking beyond the rolling roofs of the cottage at his feet to the dark outline at the end of the official road in the distance - Mr.'S army was finally here.
