The Golden Age

Qin Ming stood in the snow-laden courtyard, ice crystals crunching beneath his boots like muffled groans. His breath hung ghostly pale in the air, yet the biting cold could no longer penetrate his bones—since returning from the wilderness, an inextinguishable fire seemed to burn within him.

When his foot struck the millstone, the ancient bluestone (older than the village itself) soared skyward before crashing into a woodpile in an explosion of snow. Icicles shattered from the eaves, their dagger-like tips glinting venomous blue as they embedded themselves around his feet. As he reached for the roof's edge, frost-brittled tiles exploded beneath his grip, their shards cutting his palm without drawing blood—only faint silver threads flickered where the wounds should have been.

The grain sack by the hearth hung limp as shed snakeskin. Seven daily meals of walnuts, pine nuts, and mushroom broth had devoured three weeks' provisions in three days. His molars ached from grinding hard substances, the act of chewing persisting even in his dreams.

Old Widow Zhou's body was found at dawn. The elderly woman lay curled on her ice-sealed bedroll, pockets stuffed with chestnuts Qin had given her five days prior—each nut carefully wrapped in birch bark. Her grandson wailed against the courtyard wall, his hoarse cries twisting through the alleys with the north wind's howl.

At midnight, the sky tore open.

First came subterranean vibrations that silenced every chained hunting dog. Then darkness rippled like shredded silk as twin golden suns ignited above the village, their glow making the snow sizzle. When the creature fully extended its wings, their span dwarfed the ancestral hall's width, hurricane-force winds ripping away seven households' roofs.

"Celestial Execution level (Tiangang-level)," the village chief spat blood into the firepit. Only then did Qin Ming realize he'd bitten through his lip. As copper tang flooded his tongue, his stomach convulsed—not from fear, but primal hunger.

Now he stared at the blacksmith's mule, Adam's apple bobbing. The beast stamped nervously, its breath steaming with the tart sweetness of clover.

Two sets of opposing footprints marked the pre-dawn training ground. When he lifted the 440-pound millstone overhead, his spine crackled like burning bamboo. Silver light cascaded down his sweat-slick neck, branding twisted sigils into the snow. Where his bare feet touched the frozen stream, frost no longer melted—instead crystallizing into gauntlets of ice.

As dusk stained western clouds blood-red, Qin Ming tightened his deerskin pack. Mountains bared fang-like peaks against twilight, while a fawn's plaintive cry echoed from the woods. He knew this expedition wasn't merely for sustenance—the seething power within demanded more perilous tributes.

"His eyes glowed last night," a woman washing vegetables at the well clutched her mallet. "Faster than the frozen courier from last winter," the tavern keeper muttered while polishing empty jars. The lame nightwatchman hugged his gong, staring where Qin Ming had vanished: "When that thing returns..."

Fresh snow devoured his final whisper. Twin amber lights flickered between trees—whether owl's eyes, or something imitating owls, none could tell.