Chapter 619: The Arrival of the Cold Winter

When Loki was being tormented, Yu Lin had already returned to Asgard.

He left far behind the wailing from the cave and the sound of venom dripping.

He had no interest in hearing Loki's screams; that guy messed around, and he got what he deserved.

The cause Loki sowed himself, he must eat the fruit himself.

Yu Lin walked on the stone steps of the Golden Palace, the Silver Vine Flower petals blown everywhere, covering the ground, soft underfoot.

He thought of going to Shi Kou Di later to sit, have a cup of tea, and chat.

Just as he was thinking, a sudden disturbance came from the storage space.

Yu Lin halted, raising an eyebrow.

A beam of light shot out from the storage space, landed on his hand, and turned into a branch.

The branch was short, about an arm's length, entirely gray‑brown, rough‑skinned, as if casually snapped off an old tree.

But Yu Lin recognized it.

It was given to him by Mimi'er when he first went to Mimi'er's Spring.

Back then he exchanged a condition for the spring water of Mimi'er's Spring, and Mimi'er gave him the branch as a gift.

Yu Lin hadn't cared at the time, casually tossed it into the storage space, where it stayed for a long while.

Now it flew out on its own, meaning Mimi'er intended to have him fulfill that condition.

Yu Lin tucked away the branch, his form flashing as he vanished from the stone steps of the Golden Palace.

Mimi'er's Spring is at the base of the World Tree.

Mimi'er was there, a head floating on the spring water, beard and hair spreading like a tuft of aquatic plants.

His eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, as if asleep.

Yu Lin landed by the spring, his steps light.

Mimi'er's eyes opened.

"Welcome back,"

"Hmm," Yu Lin nodded, offering no small talk, getting straight to the point, "Speak, what is the request?"

Mimi'er looked at him, those eyes that seemed to see through everything lingering on Yu Lin's face for a moment.

The spring water rippled gently around him, shimmering with fine specks of light.

He spoke, "I would like to ask you, after the devastation, to help them rebuild the Nine Realms."

Yu Lin was stunned for a moment.

He had expected Mimi'er to demand some harsh condition, like sending him to kill a troublesome enemy, or to find a long‑lost treasure, or to unravel a cursed, millennia‑old sealed puzzle.

And that's it?

"So that's all,"

Yu Lin nodded, "That is precisely why I came here; even if you hadn't said it, I would have done it."

"Not swapping for another?"

Mimi'er thought for a moment, then said:

"Then please, after the Third Winter, make the sun rise again."

"That is enough."

"Thank you."

"Fine, I accept," Yu Lin said, offering no more, turning around:

"Then I'm off, farewell."

As the words faded, his form vanished by the spring, like a wisp of smoke blown apart by the wind.

Mimi'er stared in that direction for a moment, then closed his eyes.

The spring water calmed, its surface black as ink, reflecting the sky above.

After Bader's death, the world began to change.

The first to notice the change were those who lived off the heavens.

Hunters said the forest game had thinned; even trekking farther they couldn't catch a single deer.

Rabbits and grouse that used to be seen after half a day's walk now eluded them even after a full day.

Hunting dogs circled the woods, noses to the ground, only to return tail‑drooping empty‑handed.

Fishermen said the schools of fish had scattered; nets came up empty, with only a few seaweeds and broken shells, not even the plump herring that usually swarmed at this time.

An old fisherman sat at the bow, pipe in hand, frowning, saying he had lived on the sea for decades and had never seen anything like this.

Farmers said the crops wouldn't grow, wheat stalks withered, grains failed, even the weeds turned yellow.

They pulled up a stalk of wheat; its roots were short as if bitten off, the grains pitifully few, only a handful in the palm.

They didn't know why, only assuming the year's yield was poor and would pass with endurance.

Then winter came.

It was not an ordinary winter.

It arrived far too early.

Leaves hadn't had time to turn yellow, still green on the branches, were frozen into ice sheets overnight; a gust shattered them with a rustling crack.

Migratory birds hadn't yet taken flight south, still lining the sky, were scattered by a blizzard; some froze to death mid‑journey, some fell into the sea and drowned, some lost their way, never to be seen again.

【55】 Rivers hadn't had time to freeze, still rushing, were chilled from their source, ice spreading downstream inch by inch like a slow‑crawling white snake.

The river hadn't even had time to freeze, still gurgling, when it was frozen by the cold starting at the source, the ice layer spreading bit by bit downstream, like a slow‑crawling White Snake.

Snow fell heavily, not the light, flurrying kind that melts on contact, but a blanket poured from the heavens as if someone were dumping it from above.

Snowflakes came in clumps, striking the ground with a muffled "puff‑puff" sound.

In a day and a night, the drifts rose above the knees.

Two days and two nights, the low house was half buried.

For three days and three nights, people had to use iron spades to dig a road to go out, with snow walls taller than a person on both sides.

Until today, the snow has finally lessened a bit.

People don't know whether this is an improvement or if greater snowstorms will come.

Inside the Wooden House in the mountains, a family sits around the stove.

The Wooden House is small, with two rooms: one for living, one for storing clutter.

The walls are stacked with round logs, the gaps packed with moss, barely keeping out the wind.

The roof is covered with thick sod; snow piled on it presses the beams, making them creak.

The windows are veiled with a thin layer of Parchment, letting in a faint light.

The stove fire burns brightly, the split wood crackles in the firebox, sparks fly out, land on the stone slab, and hiss— out.

At the stove sits the father, about forty, stout and silent, his face etched with wind and frost.

His hands are large, fingers as thick as carrots, palms covered with old calluses; now he holds a short knife, carving a wooden stick.

The wooden stick is shaved thin and smooth, intended to become an arrow shaft.

Against the wall beside him lean two bows, a large one his, a small one his daughter's.

On the floor are piled several animal hides—deer, rabbit, and a tanned wolf skin—soft and ready to be sewn into winter clothing.

The mother sits on the other side of the stove, mending an old coat by the firelight.

Her fingers are deft; the stitches are fine, and the repaired spots show no trace.

Her brows are slightly furrowed—not out of displeasure, but because she is counting stitches, fearing a mistake.

Next to her, a basket holds several skeins of yarn; a half‑knitted gray scarf drapes over the rim—ugly but warm.

The son sits on the threshold, sanding a small knife with sandpaper.

He is fifteen or sixteen, his shoulders broadened, arms thickened, a beard beginning to grow on his face—no longer a child.

He sharpens the knife diligently; the sandpaper strokes across the blade, producing a rustling sound.

Beside him lies an axe, his father's, which he also intends to sharpen; tomorrow they will need to chop firewood, as the stored wood is insufficient.

No one knows how much longer winter will last.

The girl stands at the window, on tiptoe, her face pressed against the Parchment, looking outward.

She is seven or eight, with two small braids.

The breath she exhales condenses on the Parchment into a white mist; she wipes it away, it reforms, she wipes again.

Her eyes are bright, like two black grapes, now wide open, staring at the snow outside.

Snow continues to fall, turning the whole world white.

The old oak in the yard is bowed by the snow, its branches touching the ground as if kneeling.

The fence wall has vanished, leaving only a few wooden stakes protruding from the snow, like a row of teeth.

Distant mountains are invisible, completely shrouded by snow fog.

A snowflake drifts in through the window crack, landing on her nose tip, cool to the touch.

She shivers, reaches out, and catches another.

The snowflake lingers in her palm for a moment, melts, leaving a tiny drop of water.

She turns and calls out to her father, who is carving the arrow shaft:

"Dad, snow!"

The father lifts his head, glances at her, then looks out the window.

He sheaths the short knife back into the leather scabbard at his waist, stands, walks to the doorway, and pushes the door open.

A cold wind, laden with snowflakes, strikes his face, a sharp sting.

He squints, looks outside briefly, then steps back and closes the door.

"Hmm."

"Can we still go collect pine cones?" the girl asks.

"No, the road is blocked; we must wait for the snow to lessen, maybe tomorrow or the day after."

The girl's mouth droops for a moment, then quickly lifts again.

"Then I'll stay home and help mother sew clothes," she says, runs back to the stove, and sits beside her mother.

The mother reaches out, touches her head, and says nothing.

The father returns to his seat, picks up the arrow shaft, and continues carving.

The son is still sharpening his knife, sandpaper rasping the blade, shhh— shhh— shhh— shhh—.

The stove fire crackles, the firewood splitting in the flames, revealing dark‑red embers beneath.

Outside, the snow keeps falling, puff—puff—puff—puff, against the roof, the windows, and the old oak in the yard.

The family sits quietly like this, each busy with their own tasks, occasionally someone speaking a line.

The stove light reflects on their faces, warm and golden, casting flickering shadows on the wall.

Dinner is ready: stewed meat and black bread.

The meat was stored from autumn, salted, and hung under the eaves to air‑dry.

It is cut into pieces and stewed with dried wild greens; the broth is thick, the meat fragrant.

The black bread is baked from black rye flour mixed with bran; it's a bit coarse but very filling.

Mother slices the bread thickly, gives each a piece, then ladles soup with a wooden spoon into each bowl.

Just as they are about to start the meal.

Dong— Dong— Dong—

The sound of knocking began.

Thump, thump, thump.

"Hm?!"

Father set down the bowl, stood up, walked to the doorway, took down the large bow he used from the wall, nocked an arrow, and only then reached for the door.

The door opened, cold wind rushed in, swirling snowflakes, blowing the hearth fire back and forth.

A person stood in the doorway.

"Excuse me, may I come in and sit for a while?"