The wind in the north is cold. The iron armor stuck to his body, like a piece of ice that would never melt.
Xiao Chen, King of Zhenbei, reined in the reins, and the horse under his crotch paved its hooves uneasily, spitting out billowing white air. He raised his head and glanced at the gilded plaque of the palace. There was no warmth of returning home in his eyes, only lingering boredom.
Three years. For three whole years, he fought fiercely in the northern border, licking blood from his knife's edge, crawling out of the mountains of corpses and seas of blood again and again, and guarding the country for the Great Xia Dynasty.
But in this capital city, the palace called "home" is colder than the ice and snow in the north.
