On the winter solstice of that year, the mountain stronghold of the Xuan Tie Gang (Dark Iron Gang) was sealed off by a rare freezing rain.
The thatched roof of the dilapidated herb garden hut creaked under the weight of the ice. Wen Buhuo was squatting in front of the stove, trying to start a fire with a few damp pieces of firewood. The smoke stung his eyes, but his expression remained impassive. Just then, the door burst open, and Li Zhuang and Zhang Xiaopang, wrapped in the biting cold, squeezed in. Li Zhuang was carrying a package wrapped in oil paper—a piece of cured meat he had saved up three days' rations for; Zhang Xiaopang pulled out a small flask of cheap liquor from his bosom—the reward he had received for washing the drill instructor's smelly socks for a month.

The three of them huddled around the flickering fire. The cured meat sizzled over the flames, its greasy aroma filling the small room, overpowering the bitter smell of herbs. Zhang Xiaopang, rubbing his frozen hands, whispered that he had heard the gang would be selecting a batch of official "outer disciples" in the spring, and if they were chosen, their monthly allowance would triple.

Li Zhuang's eyes lit up, and he clenched his fist, vowing to practice the basic martial arts techniques diligently. Wen Buhuo divided the roasted cured meat into three portions, giving the largest piece to Li Zhuang and another to Zhang Xiaopang. He himself chewed on the piece with the skin still on, the firelight reflected in his cold eyes. In the past two months, if it hadn't been for Li Zhuang helping him carry water and repair the house, and Zhang Xiaopang finding him old clothes, he might have survived, but his heart would have been even colder than it was now.

Xiaoya's letters and money were still sent away every month. In his letters, Wen Buhuo never mentioned the humiliation and hard labor, only saying that he lived a leisurely life in the herb garden and had made two sworn brothers.

On that night, after eating and drinking their fill, a tipsy Zhang Xiaopang nudged Wen Buhuo and asked him what he would most like to do if he became successful in the future. Wen Buhuo watched the flickering flames, remaining silent for a long time before finally saying softly that he wanted to return to the village and build a brick house with a courtyard, so that Xiaoya could wear a red dress without patches every day, and he also wanted to treat Aunt Lin to a grand feast. Li Zhuang laughed heartily, patting his chest and saying that he would definitely go and guard the gate for the Wen family then.
The three teenagers sketched out their seemingly unattainable future in the drafty, dilapidated house. This brief moment of warmth allowed them to temporarily forget the mire they were in. However, the cold wind outside the herb garden blew even more fiercely.