Transmigrated into Song Wuwei, a side-branch member of the Song family in the Nine Provinces of the Central Land, whose talent was utterly rotten, I stood among three thousand young men on the training grounds in the twelfth lunar month as snow flew. The flag flapped, its three glaring characters reading World Society. Wen Chouchou’s tall hat and feather fan were blinding, and his thin, piercing voice called out, “We respectfully invite the Chief to arrive!” The snowflakes seemed to tremble. The tip of my nose was red with cold, and I didn’t dare breathe on my hands or rub them together. Xiongba was choosing disciples. I scratched the back of my neck and sorted through my memories: a good-for-nothing who’d been kicked here to kill time, with such poor talent that even sweeping would be too slow. Footsteps drew closer on the raised platform. I clenched my numb fingers. Whether he took me or not, fine, I just had to survive today. Snow whipped into my collar on the wind. I stood up straight and waited for the old man to speak.
