The snow fell heavily, covering the world in a thick silence, as though the earth itself was holding its breath. The camp seemed engulfed in a sea of silver. There was no respite from the war, and winter, merciless, extended its claws over those trapped in its grasp. The men were exhausted, the dead numbered in the hundreds, and the betrayal of one of their own only added another layer of bitterness. It was not only the war they were fighting, but also the cold, the silence, and the fear.

Jiang Lingxian, clad in his thick black coat, stood in the shadow of the command tent. His eyes pierced the scene with an intensity that left no room for hesitation. Before him, the man bound to the chair trembled, his face marked by sweat, blood, and pain. The traitor. The one who had led a thousand of their men to their deaths. Rage boiled in Jiang’s gut, but he held back the flare of his anger. Every breath was an effort, every thought a struggle against the urge to end it with a single blow.

"A traitor... and now you dare to beg for mercy? After leading a thousand of our men to their deaths?" Jiang’s voice echoed in the tent, cold as metal, carried by the severity of the situation. "How audacious. Truly audacious."

The prisoner lifted his eyes, locking them with Jiang’s, but the pain in his gaze was deeper than anything Jiang had imagined. He was broken, yet not yet ready to confess. Drops of blood slowly dripped from his mouth, mingling with the sweat and dirt on his face. The scene was dark, tense, and the air inside the tent seemed frozen, as though suspended in time.

Jiang stood there, fists clenched, the skin on his hands cracked by the cold, but he knew he had to master his emotions. The situation demanded more thought than brutality. One wrong word, one hasty gesture, and the whole situation could unravel.

A sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. The wet soles of a figure echoed on the hard ground, disturbing the tense silence inside the tent. Outside, the snow continued to fall, but inside, the air was even colder.

Li Wuxin entered, his pale figure emerging from the shadow. His white coat, almost too bright for the macabre surroundings, contrasted with the darkness of the scene. He glanced quickly at the man bound to the chair, showing no trace of emotion on his face. He was calm and inscrutable, an enigma beneath a polished coldness.

"Doctor Wuxin, you are here," murmured Jiang, his voice heavy with fatigue he couldn’t conceal.

Li Wuxin nodded slightly, his cold eyes fixed on the prisoner.

"Commander Jiang," his voice was calm, measured, devoid of any feeling. "Is this the traitor?"

Jiang nodded, his eyes never leaving the bound man. "Unfortunately. He still hasn’t confessed."

Li Wuxin stepped forward, the air inside the tent seeming to grow colder with each measured, calculated movement he made. His immaculate clothes skimmed the ground, almost unreal, blending into the macabre atmosphere. He stopped in front of the prisoner, his eyes analyzing every detail, every microexpression with clinical precision.

"He still hasn't confessed?" Li Wuxin asked, his interest almost detached from emotion.

Jiang observed for a moment, then, without a word, made a subtle gesture with his head. Li Wuxin understood immediately. The time had come to take action. Jiang could no longer bear this scene. He turned and left the tent in a gust of cold, his coat floating behind him like a frightening shadow.

The tent’s fabric slammed shut behind him, echoing in the snow-covered silence. Outside, everything seemed suspended in a tranquil quiet, as if the world was holding its breath.

Li Wuxin remained alone with the man. He observed the prisoner’s posture for a moment, then moved slowly, his movements deliberate, calculated, like an artisan preparing his work. He bent over the man, his eyes becoming even colder.

"Well," he murmured in a voice so soft, almost inaudible, but sharp. "It's time to make you speak."

Moments later, the contained pain exploded inside the tent. The prisoner’s screams tore through the silence of the day, but Li Wuxin had no intention of stopping. He was methodical, every gesture perfectly calculated to force the man to confess. He knew the truth lay buried beneath layers of suffering, ready to be freed.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. Li Wuxin could hear the distant sounds of horses, the murmurs of the camp, but none of it reached him. In this room, there was only him, the man on the verge of revealing everything, and the truth he was about to extract from his lips.

He approached without haste, his hands bare. No tools, no threats. Only his calm, almost compassionate voice:

"You want this to stop, don’t you? Then speak. Speak, and it will be over."

A few moments later, Li Wuxin left the tent, his silhouette cutting through the blinding white of the snow. He stopped outside for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the camp. The fresh, biting air caressed his face, but the trace of blood on his cheek was more than just a reminder. He had seen the truth in the prisoner’s eyes, a truth more complex, deeper than he had imagined.

He slowly turned and faced Jiang, who was waiting for him, tense and worried. The wind blew around him, but he stood still, frozen in the expectation of an answer.

"Well?" Jiang asked, his voice grave, laced with palpable worry.

Li Wuxin raised a hand, gently wiped the blood from his cheek, then replied calmly, "He was a spy. He came from the North."

Jiang’s eyes widened, but he didn’t respond immediately. He knew what this meant. It complicated things. A spy from the North, right inside their army? It couldn’t be a coincidence. War was nothing but a game of strategy, and at this moment, a new piece had entered the board.

Li Wuxin continued, his tone still clinical: "He came from the Fortress of the Howling Sky. We let something slip."

Jiang turned slowly to him, his gaze hardening. "You think he’s not alone."

Li Wuxin nodded slightly. "No. This wasn’t an isolated infiltration. It’s just the beginning."

Wuxin’s words slithered into Jiang’s mind like a slow poison. But he didn’t have time to analyze it all. The stakes were too high, and he knew this was only the surface of something much deeper.

The snow continued to fall, covering everything, as though the entire world was trying to hide the truth beneath its icy blanket.

Later, near the river, Wuxin knelt.

His reflection rippled on the surface, too calm, too unshakable. He touched his face where the blood had dried, then slowly raised his eyes to the gray sky.

Snowflakes fell in complete silence, a silence heavy, almost sacred.

The cold bit like a blade, but the snow, it remained soft, pure, almost unreal. Sitting there, still in his white clothes, Wuxin seemed like a figure frozen in a painting, a silent poem, an homage to the cold, indifferent nature surrounding him.

In the afternoon, the war council gathered in the command tent.

The firelight flickered, casting nervous shadows on the grave faces of the officers.

Jiang Lingxian stood tall, an imposing, rigid figure. By his side, Meng Linhai, the commander’s right-hand man. He Tianyan, the officer from Huengué, stood at a distance, his features as hard as stone. Lin Shuyan, the young scribe, looked paler than usual, exhausted. Wuxin was there too, silent, his eyes fixed on the flickering light of the fire.

"Now that everyone is here," Jiang began, his voice authoritative, resonating in the closed space. "We need to talk about the infiltrator from Xuetie."

The plan was spread out on the table, dotted with pins and ink stains.

Jiang pointed a finger at a spot in the east. "They passed through here. The Jie’an Hills. A weakness."

Meng Linhai nodded. "We must retaliate. Tonight. A targeted strike."

Li Wuxin observed the map without speaking, then declared: "What if that’s exactly what they want? A hasty reaction. A trap."

He Tianyan grunted. "We’re not going to sit here and let them rot us from the inside."

Li Wuxin simply raised an eyebrow. "You think with your muscles, not with your head."

A silence fell. Then Jiang decided. "We wait. Two days. Reinforced surveillance. If nothing moves, we strike."

The looks exchanged were uneasy. No one liked this decision. But no one dared to challenge it.

"What matters now is deciding his fate."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Wuxin broke the weighty pause, his voice faint but sharp.

"I propose we keep him. For now."

A pause.

"He may still be... useful."

Lin Shuyan, who had been silent until then, nodded slowly.

"I agree with Dr. Li. Let’s wait. Until the situation changes."

Jiang closed his eyes briefly, as if to calm an inner storm. Then he straightened and left the tent, his coat billowing behind him, taking the warmth with him, leaving only the smell of tea and a silence colder than the snow itself.

The sun was high in the sky, but the winter days were short. Wuxin returned to his tent.

"A war council for this?" he murmured to himself. "Useless."

His eyes fell on the map spread before him.

"If a traitor has managed to infiltrate among us, it’s because he knew the terrain too well."*

He took the map and stepped out into the cold.

By the riverbank, he used a stick to trace shapes in the dirt.

"Xuetie. The Northern Nation. Moying, to the East. Their war started after the death of the emperor. Some say it was an assassin. Others say... the nobility turned on itself."

He bit into his bread, thoughtful.

"Yinhé, to the South. Huangjin, to the West. One spiritual, the other nomadic. They won’t move."*

He traced a line across these names with a sharp gesture.

"Focus on the North."

He circled a single point on the map.

"Steep mountains. Frozen plains. The Fortress of the Howling Sky."*

He paused.

"A military fortress."*

He stared at the point, his brows furrowed, a growing unease in his eyes.

"If the spy came from there, there’s only one way in. We missed something."*

He swallowed his piece of bread, thoughts rushing.

"I’m not a strategist. But I know this terrain better than some of them."*

He murmured to himself:

"The Fortress of the Howling Sky. The Temple of the Ancient Blade. The Frozen Blood Plains."*

"Even under the blood and filth, the weave of his coat seemed of noble quality."

He squinted, a thought piercing the fog of his mind.

"My theory may not be that far off."

The day slowly waned, and soon, dusk gave way to night.

The camp slept in a muted agitation. Steps here and there. A cough. Low whispers.

In his tent, Wuxin moved with calm precision.

He lit a lamp. The warm light flickered on the parchment and dried herbs. His ink-stained fingers found their place.

His thoughts stretched into the darkness, sliding over the details, the clues, each movement more calculated than the last.