The Fangs of Winter: Kill or Be Killed
A merciless blizzard swept through the Liangzhou Mountains, as if the gods had decided to bury all life beneath endless white layers. The towering trees, once mighty fortresses against the wind, now bowed like old men under the crushing weight of frost.
Deep within the forest, inside a cave partially sealed by ice-covered rocks, Lang Xian, now fourteen years old, curled his thin body against the warmth of his wolf pack—the only family he had left. The soft white fur of Bai, the smallest pup, warmed his frostbitten hands, while the massive black wolf, Hei, stood guard at the entrance, his golden eyes glowing with an ancient vigilance, like legendary sentinels from a forgotten realm.
-
It wasn't the deadly cold that made him shiver at night, but the same nightmare that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes: his mother's screams, the scent of his father's blood mixed with dirt, and the laughter of the masked commander, echoing in his mind like a funeral bell.
He would wake up suddenly, biting down on his own hand until he drew blood—just to silence his sobs before the wolves could hear them. He had learned never to show weakness… not even to himself.
-
At first light, he tracked a wild hare to a frozen river. The wolves followed as silent shadows, but he raised a hand, signaling them to stay back. This was something he had to prove—to them and to himself.
When he saw the rabbit trembling at the riverbank, he lifted the crude spear he had carved from the bones of a dead wolf. But his hand wavered for a moment.
Then, he heard it—the whisper of the long-dead silver wolf, carried by the wind:
"The weak do not deserve mercy… even if they are innocent."
He threw the spear.
Blood spilled onto the white snow, but there was no triumph in his expression.
All he saw was the image of his baby sister, crushed beneath a soldier's boot.
He had become one of them.
-
On the way back, the wolves caught a strange scent… a starving bear.
Before they could retreat, the massive beast lunged from behind the trees.
Hei leaped forward to protect Lang Xian, but the bear's claws tore through the black wolf's shoulder with terrifying ease.
The warmth of fresh blood sprayed across Lang Xian's face, bringing back the memory of that night—the massacre.
Something inside him snapped.
All the lessons of hiding, of restraint, vanished.
Gripping the bloodstained spear, he screamed with a voice he didn't recognize:
"You want death? Come and take it!"
The bear charged.
Lang Xian was faster.
Leaping onto a rock, he aimed the spear at the beast's eye.
The bear's dying scream sent birds fleeing from the trees, but he didn't stop—he drove the weapon into its throat ten more times.
When the creature finally collapsed, Lang Xian stood over its corpse, gasping, his body drenched in blood that was not his own.
-
As he treated Hei's wound with herbs his mother once taught him to use, something caught his eye—a glint of metal inside the bear's stomach.
A small iron dagger, its blade adorned with a golden dragon emblem.
His fingers went numb.
It was the same emblem that had been engraved on the armor of the men who had slaughtered his family.
His grip on the blade tightened.
This bear had been feeding near a village—a village that could belong to his enemies.
The wolves saw the strange glow in his eyes and began to howl nervously.
They knew what that light meant.
It meant vengeance was near.
-
That night, as the wolves licked their wounds, Lang Xian sat at the cave entrance, the dagger glinting in his hands.
Above him, the full moon burned bright—like an eye, watching the world.
In the far distance, he spotted the flicker of torches, moving like a golden serpent in the night.
A convoy of armed men heading toward the village.
For the first time in years, he smiled.
"The world still thinks I'm dead… I'll show them how the wolf dances with fire."
Before vanishing into the darkness, he cast one last look at the wolves.
They had taught him how to survive.
But now, he would teach them how to slaughter.