The snow in the seventh year of the Republic of China fell thick and unrelenting.
Half a foot of snow blanketed the bluestone slabs of the military training ground in the Military Governor's Mansion, packed solid by the tread of military boots, ice shards glinting coldly in the sunlight. Shen Yanci stood in the center of the shooting range, dressed in a crisp dark gray military uniform with not a single wrinkle, the collar buttoned all the way to the top. He buried half his face in the upright collar, revealing only an unnaturally calm pair of eyes.
At the age of ten, the boy's frame had yet to fill out, but he already carried the rigid bearing of a soldier. He gripped a standard pistol, its body slightly longer than his forearm, the black metal casing exuding a chill in the snow. Three steps away stood Shen Xiaoshan, the hem of his black silk mandarin jacket fluttering in the wind, revealing gold-embroidered military trousers beneath. His gaze, sharp as a knife tempered in ice, fixed on the boy's hand holding the gun.
"Align three points, hold your breath." Shen Xiaoshan's voice was low, yet carried unquestionable authority. "A Shen's gun either hits the bullseye or kills the enemy. There is no third option."
Shen Yanci's fingertips tightened around the trigger, his knuckles whitening. Bitter wind seeped into his cuffs, numbing his wrists, yet he did not so much as blink. The sight steadfastly locked onto the bullseye, his breath as even as a pendulum—this was the fruit of three months of practice. From trembling hands at the start to unshakable stability now, it had cost him three hundred raises of the gun each day, and layers upon layers of calluses worn into his wrists by the stock.
Bang!
The gunshot exploded across the empty training ground, shaking loose snow from pine trees in the distance. The bullet pierced the bullseye, leaving a small black hole before embedding itself in the snowbank behind, sending fine snow spray flying.
Shen Xiaoshan's brow did not move; he only lifted his chin. "Again."
Shen Yanci reloaded with a fluidity unbefitting a ten-year-old. The crisp clink of metal as he ejected the cartridge cut through the wind and snow. His gaze never left the bullseye, as if everything around him—the howling wind, falling snow, his father's icy stare—did not exist.
Another shot, still dead center.
Shen Xiaoshan finally nodded, his tone unyielding. "Passable. Copy Infantry Drill Regulations fifty times. No dinner."
This was no reward, merely routine. In Shen Yanci's memory, his father's words were forever edged with sharpness, like the ice shards on the training ground, leaving a mark wherever they landed. He never asked "are you tired," only "can you do it"; he never said "well done," only "not enough."
Shen Yanci disassembled the pistol, laying the parts on the snow in textbook-perfect order. He lowered his eyes, his voice steady and unruffled. "Yes, Father."
No grievance, no defense, not even a trace of extra emotion. As if "copy fifty times" and "go without dinner" were as natural as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, as snow covering the earth.
Shen Xiaoshan watched the boy bowing to tidy up. The line of his young profile bore a striking resemblance to Wanqing, especially the curve from his brow bone to the corner of his eye—soft enough to tighten one's heart. Yet the calm in those eyes was just like his own in youth, cold and hard to the point of indifference. A sudden weight settled in his chest. He turned, his military boots crunching on the ice as if venting his frustration.
Only after that figure vanished through the moon gate did Shen Yanci slowly straighten up. Wind whipped snow particles against his face, stinging sharply, yet he wiped his cheek, erasing any trace that might betray his emotions.
He was about to turn back to the study when soft footsteps sounded behind him, accompanied by Uncle Fu's gentle voice.
"Miss Su, walk slowly. The path is slippery in the snow…"
Shen Yanci paused but did not turn. He recognized Uncle Fu's voice, and picked out the unfamiliar, timid female tone—clear and crisp, like melting icicles dripping onto bluestone.
"Thank you, Uncle Fu. I'm not cold."
When he turned, he saw Uncle Fu leading a young girl along the corridor, dressed in a pale white cotton-padded jacket. Around twelve or thirteen, she wore two braids tied with light blue silk ribbons that fluttered gently in the wind. She held something wrapped in cotton cloth, likely a hand warmer, and had hurried a little, snowflakes clinging to her braids like scattered silver.
Their eyes met, and the girl clearly froze, halting in her tracks. Her eyes were bright, holding the glow of snow, and she looked at him without the slightest fear, only curiosity—as if watching a bird perched on a branch.
Shen Yanci's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. He disliked being stared at like this, especially by strangers. Those in the Governor's Mansion either bowed their heads or greeted him respectfully; no one had ever dared to look at him so directly.
"This is the Governor's young master, Shen Yanci." Uncle Fu introduced quickly, then turned to the girl. "This is Miss Su Wan, daughter of Master Su, an old friend of the Governor. After Master Su passed away, the madam invited Miss Su to stay at the mansion for a while."
Shen Yanci only nodded slightly in acknowledgment. His gaze flicked over the cotton bundle in her arms before moving away to fix on the icicles hanging from the corridor pillars—each half a foot long, sharp as small knives.
Seemingly unaware of his coldness, Su Wan took two steps forward, the cotton bundle in her arms shifting, releasing a faint sweet scent. "My mother asked me to bring some date cakes to Governor Shen. They're just out of the steamer." Her voice was soft, as if afraid to disturb the snow. "Uncle Fu said Governor Shen was at the training ground, I didn't expect to meet you here."
Shen Yanci did not reply. In his world, "meeting" was a luxury. Most days, he trained with guns at the grounds, copied books in the study, knelt in punishment at the ancestral hall—like a puppet set on a fixed path, never needing to "meet" anyone.
Su Wan did not seem to expect a response. She simply took a date cake from the bundle, wrapped in clean oil paper, and held it out to him. "This is for you. It's still warm." Her fingertips were red with cold, yet she held the paper steadily. "My father said practicing guns takes strength. You need something sweet to replenish it."
Warmth and the fragrance of dates washed over his knuckles. Shen Yanci's fingertips twitched—this small warmth made him uncomfortable, like a single snowflake falling on solid ice, fragile yet enough to break the stillness.
He did not take it, nor speak, only stared at the cake. Golden pastry dotted with plump red dates, glistening with oil, a sight he had never known. The pastries in the mansion were always exquisite, yet cold and formal, never carrying such warm, earthly warmth.
"Young master still has to go copy books in the study." Uncle Fu noticed his hesitation and quickly smoothed things over. "Miss Su, let's go see the Governor first."
Su Wan's hand hung in the air, confusion flashing in her eyes before she hid it away. She placed the date cake on the nearby stone table and covered it with cotton cloth, as if fearing snow would fall on it. "I'll leave it here, then." She smiled softly at Shen Yanci, said no more, and turned to follow Uncle Fu.
The light blue ribbons faded into the wind and snow, leaving a faint trace.
Shen Yanci stood still, gazing at the date cake on the stone table. Warmth seeped faintly from beneath the cloth, sweet fragrance drifting on the wind, making his empty stomach growl softly after a whole morning without food.
He walked to the table, his fingertips hovering over the cloth for a moment before finally lifting it and picking up the cake. The oil paper still held heat, burning his fingertips slightly.
For the first time, someone had handed him a warm snack after he practiced shooting—not his father's order, not a servant's duty, just a date cake, carrying a reckless, unreserved kindness.
He did not eat it. Instead, he tucked it into his military uniform pocket and turned toward the study. The warmth seeped through the fabric, soothing his frozen skin, as if he carried a tiny sun.
Su Wan settled into the mansion, in the east wing chamber not far from Shen Yanci's study.
Shen Xiaoshan's tolerance toward her was something Shen Yanci had never seen. Su Wan could kick shuttlecocks in the garden, help the aunt in the accounts room sort books, even sit on a small stool reading poetry while Shen Xiaoshan reviewed official documents.
Once, Shen Yanci passed the main hall and heard her voice reciting, "Jianjia is pale, white dew turns to frost." He paused, then heard his father's voice, still deep yet lacking its usual harshness. "This poem is beautiful, but too soft."
"But Governor Shen, softness has its own beauty." Su Wan's voice carried a smile. "Like this snow—it looks cold, but when it melts, it waters the earth."
Shen Yanci did not listen further and turned to the study. He knew his father's leniency toward Su Wan was perhaps because she was the daughter of an old friend, or perhaps because the vivid, warm aura about her was exactly what this cold mansion lacked.
None of this concerned him.
He still went to the training ground before dawn every day, still copied books late into the night, still obeyed his father's every command. Only occasionally, during breaks from copying, he would hear Su Wan's laughter with the maids outside the window, like silver bells, clear and bright in the silent snowy night.
That day he was punished to copy The Art of War. By the seventh copy, snow began to fall outside. Wind whipped snow grains against the window paper, rustling softly. His fingertips were numb with cold, ink bleeding a small black spot on the rice paper, like an insect resting there.
He was about to take a new sheet when there was a soft tap on the window lattice.
Shen Yanci looked up to see Su Wan standing outside, holding a bronze hand warmer, her cheeks flushed red with cold like ripe apples. "My aunt said you're copying books here. It's too cold." She pushed the hand warmer through the window gap. "This is for you to warm your hands. My mother said writing goes smoother with warm hands."
The hand warmer was wrapped in cotton cloth, carrying a faint floral scent, likely the fragrance from Su Wan's chamber. Shen Yanci stared at it, the polished bronze reflecting his own face—there seemed to be a faint, unfamiliar tremor in his eyes.
"There's no need." His voice was still cold, like a frozen lake. "The mansion has rules."
Su Wan's hand paused, but she did not take the warmer back, only set it on the windowsill. "Then I'll leave it here." She smiled, a shallow dimple at the corner of her eye. "You can take it later when your hands are cold. Oh, I brought you a candy too—orange flavor, sweet."
She pulled a glass-wrapped candy from her pocket, placed it beside the hand warmer, then turned and ran. The light blue ribbons left a faint trail in the snow, like an unfinished painting.
Shen Yanci looked at the hand warmer and candy on the windowsill. The glass paper glinted in the snow light, like a star lost on an icy plain.
He did not touch them in the end. But by the time he finished the last copy, dawn was breaking. The snow had stopped, the hand warmer still warm on the sill, the candy lying quietly beside it, the glass paper reflecting the rising sun, warm and dazzling.
He walked over, picked up the candy, and tucked it into his military pocket. He left the hand warmer on the sill, yet the floral scent on the cloth seemed to cling to his fingertips, faint and lingering.
The snow on the training ground melted and froze, froze and melted again. Shen Yanci's aim grew sharper, the books he copied piled higher, the cold hardness about him thicker, as if wrapped in a layer of cold iron.
Su Wan still appeared in his sight occasionally. Sometimes she flew kites in the garden, sometimes fed pigeons on the corridor, sometimes sat on stone steps with a book, sunlight gilding her figure.
She never deliberately approached him. Only when they chanced to meet would she smile, hand him a snack, or slip him a candy. Most of the time he did not accept, but she never insisted—only set the item down and turned away, like a wind that came and went without a trace.
Only once did Shen Xiaoshan make him kneel in the ancestral hall, because he had voiced a different opinion from his father during a tactical deduction. The cold ancestral hall held the memorial tablets of the Shen ancestors, chill seeping from the brick cracks, numbing his knees.
By midnight, the ancestral hall door creaked open softly, and a small figure slipped in. It was Su Wan, holding a thick cotton-padded jacket and a thermos cup.
"I heard from Uncle Fu you were here." She draped the jacket over his shoulders gently. "This is ginger soup my mother made. Drink some to warm up."
The jacket carried a faint soap scent, Su Wan's own fragrance. Shen Yanci looked up at her, moonlight streaming through the window lattice onto her face, soft as an ink painting.
"Leave." His voice was cold, warning. "This is no place for you."
"But you'll catch cold." Su Wan did not move, only pushed the thermos toward him. "Governor Shen is strict, but he wouldn't want you to freeze."
Shen Yanci said nothing, only stared at her. Suddenly he thought the girl was a mystery. Though she lived in the same mansion, she seemed to exist in another world—one with sunlight, laughter, and kindness without motive, utterly alien to his own world of rules and coldness.
"Take it." Su Wan pressed the thermos into his hand and turned to run, pausing at the door to glance back. "I won't tell anyone."
The ginger soup inside was still hot, burning his palm. He watched the figure disappear outside, then looked down at the jacket in his arms. Suddenly, the chill of the ancestral hall did not seem so piercing.
He drank the ginger soup in the end, and wore the jacket. When his punishment ended the next day, he folded the jacket neatly and had a maid return it to Su Wan, not leaving a single word.
Yet from that day on, while copying books, he would occasionally glance at the empty windowsill; while practicing shooting, he would unconsciously glance toward the corridor; even when his father reprimanded him, the sweetness of that orange candy would flash through his mind.
These subtle changes were like pebbles cast into an ice lake—small, yet rippling outward in invisible circles across his silent heart.
He was still the cold, obedient Shen Yanci, still wearing his crisp military uniform, still doing everything his father demanded. But only he knew that beneath his cold iron shell, something was quietly changing, along with that uninvited glimmer of light.
Just as deep beneath the snow-covered earth, there was always a seed, quietly gathering strength to break through the soil, in a corner no one knew.