An eight-year-old kid emptied his scumbag father's warehouse and followed his grandparents into

In the middle of summer in July, drought had lasted for several months at the border between the Rouran, Tatar and Oirat kingdoms.

The once lush grasslands were now devastated. Withered, yellowed blades rustled in the hot wind, transforming into fine dust that danced throughout the air. The few remaining puddles on the cracked earth had shrunk to pitiful sizes, their murky water reflecting the blazing sunlight and emitting a suffocating stench.

The swamps in the distance had long since dried up, their hard clods like scorched animal bones, their edges sharp enough to cut through boots. Occasionally, a few stubborn weeds would peek through the cracks, only to be shriveled and withered by the scorching sun.

"Surround them and capture those antelope alive. We'll roast them whole tonight." The young man's clear voice cut through the parched air. He was about eight or nine, but possessed a composure that belied his age. The Ferghana horse, docile as a sheep under his saddle, slowed down immediately as he gently tightened the reins.

The boy flicked his wrist, and the bullwhip swung through the air with a resounding crack. Where the whip tip pointed, several scrawny antelope huddled beside a palm-sized puddle. The boy's arms, darker than oats, were defined by distinct muscles. His blue-gray eyes narrowed slightly, with the focus of a hawk locking onto its prey.

"Wait till you get your strength, and watch us!" Five or six sturdy men behind him echoed in unison. The lassoes in their hands gleamed in the sun, and the cowhide knots had long been polished to a shine.

The dust kicked up by the horses' hooves hadn't settled yet when the most agile riders had already circled back to the other side of the puddle. The antelopes looked up in panic, their cracked lips still dripping with mud, and their protruding ribs rose and fell violently with their rapid breathing.

A cub was squeezed on the periphery, licking the hot, wet mud in vain. Thick mucus formed in the corners of its eyes, and the wound on its hind leg had festered.

The cowhide noose landed precisely on the horns of the leading ram. "It's trapped! Wait for the force!"

Before the cheers died down, a second ewe also had its hind legs entangled by the rope. The frightened flock scattered in all directions, and the last adult antelope trying to jump over the bushes was entangled by three lassoes at the same time and fell heavily to the cracked mud.

The young man had already dismounted, the hem of his black riding coat stained with grass. He approached the cub as silently as a cheetah and pounced on it just as it was about to escape.

The little antelope knelt on the ground with its front hooves, its wet nose rubbing against the calluses on the boy's palm, and two turbid tears suddenly rolled down.

The boy's blue-gray pupils suddenly contracted. The snowy night four years ago suddenly flashed through his mind—his equally frail self, curled up in a wolfskin mattress, had only just escaped death. If the maid hadn't wiped his chapped lips with wet wool and escorted him out, he would have died on that dark, snowy night.

The Ferghana horse's uneasily snorting brought him back to reality. "We'll roast all the big ones tonight," he said in a low voice, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the young antelope's trembling ears. "Send two to Abu, and the rest will be divided among the brothers."

The followers exchanged delighted glances, some already salivating. The young man suddenly thrust the cub into the arms of the nearest follower. "Take good care of it," he emphasized. "If it dies, you'll be the only one to blame."

He mounted his horse with a fluid motion. His thin frame radiated with astonishing strength, as he stepped onto the saddle, leaped, and settled down in one seamless motion. The horse excitedly reared up, and his single-handed control of the reins resembled the battle-hardened veterans of the tribe.

As the team was about to set off, the burly man holding the young antelope suddenly widened his eyes. "Hurry up, there looks like a dead person over there!" He pointed to a patch of unusually emerald green meadow in the distance. Everyone looked in that direction and could vaguely see the outline of a human figure.

"Haven't you seen enough dead bodies? What bad luck!" The bearded man tugged at his collar irritably, revealing dark brown scars under his leather armor. "There are more vultures than living people in this season." The other riders echoed, and some had already turned their horses around.

The bones at the junction of the three kingdoms had never been collected. Last winter, they had even seen entire caravans frozen into ice sculptures. The young man at the rear was about to catch up with the group when a faint moan suddenly came from the meadow: "Water! Help!"

The reins were tightened in the young man's hands. The horse's front hooves were suspended in the air, and it stopped abruptly. The call was in Chinese, but the pronunciation had a strange tone, like a blunt knife scraping against a grindstone.

"He's not dead!" the strong man exclaimed.

The tall, thin man at the end of the team frowned: "It seems to be speaking Chinese."

As the argument erupted, the young man had already jumped off his horse. His two trusted followers quickly followed, their leather boots shredding the dry reeds, making tiny crackling sounds.

A tall figure crouched in the center of the meadow. When he turned over, the stench of rotting grass and blood hit him. His tattered clothes, once resembling decent material, were now reduced to mud-stained rags.

Half of the man's face, bruised and purple, was revealed through his tangled hair. His cracked lips moved, and his Adam's apple rolled up and down like a trapped animal. When his attendant pried open his clenched right hand, a few golden melon seeds tinkled to the ground—the stuff of Han merchants.

"Shilifa, he really is a Han Chinese!" the older attendant's voice tightened. "If he escaped from the Tartars..." The rest of the sentence was drowned out by anxious gasps. Last spring, they had sparked a border conflict by sheltering a refugee. The Khan publicly flogged ten of his people as an apology and paid them two hundred sheep as compensation.

The boy seemed oblivious. He crouched down, suddenly meeting the man's open eyes—his pupils a startling black, like the night sky before a snowstorm. A tremor deep in his blood shot up his spine, and the boy's breath hitched.

"Afugan, Yukuro." He heard his own voice was unusually calm. "Take him back."

The Arabian horse pawed its front hooves restlessly. The young man stroked its sweaty neck, his fingertips stained with salt-like crystals.

The setting sun stretched the human shadows very long, and the little antelope made faint bleating sounds in the strong man's arms.

As the two followers carried the unconscious man across their horses, the young man suddenly untied his water bag and poured the last few drops of water onto the man's dry, bleeding lips. The water droplets rolled down his beard, creating dark spots in the dust.