"Hey! Little Mo, get up!"

"Little Mo, are you still alive? Can you hear Grandpa Chen's voice?"

"Little Mo..."

An old man's voice rang in Xiao Mo's ears.

As his consciousness gradually returned, the first thing he felt was a violent, splitting headache, as though his skull were being pried apart. But the pain was slowly, mercifully easing, then came the bone-cutting cold wind, and snowflakes falling upon his body one after another. He could feel them melting against his skin, drawing the warmth from within him.

He tried to open his eyes, but found himself so weak he could barely lift his lids.

"Village Chief, this kid's probably beyond saving."

"Aye, Village Chief. Best let him go."

"Every man has his fate. This is probably just little Mo's lot in life."

"That's right, and it's not just little Mo. Think of how many people we've lost on this road alone. You could say all of us... have had poor fortune."

"Our group has to get moving again soon. Otherwise those things will catch up to us."

"We should bury little Mo. If we don't, the beasts will get to him. At least let him have a whole body. Let him rest in the earth in peace."

The voices layered over one another, each carrying the same quiet helplessness.

Their despair was not only for the child lying in the snow before them. It was for themselves, and for what lay ahead. With little Mo fallen in the snow like this, who could say who among them would be the next to go down?

"Ah... it cannot be helped..." The Village Chief sighed softly, his aged eyes glistening. "His parents died young. Before they went, they entrusted little Mo to me. And I..."

"Village Chief, it is not your fault..."

"That's right. In times like these, who is there to blame?"

The men nearby did their best to console the old Village Chief but just as everyone was about to dig a shallow grave in the ground, Xiao Mo's fingers moved. His lashes trembled faintly. His brow furrowed, and then slowly smoothed.

"Wait! Look at little Mo! He moved!"

A woman's startled cry rang out.

The Village Chief and the others looked down to see Xiao Mo slowly open his eyes.

"Little Mo, you've finally come around! How do you feel?" The Village Chief's heart surged with relief. He crouched down immediately, gently patting Xiao Mo's face, afraid that Xiao Mo might slip away again.

As Xiao Mo's consciousness fully returned, fragments of memory surfaced in his mind.

He knew he was experiencing a life within the Book of a Hundred Lives, but that was all. Everything from his present life had been erased entirely. In this life experience, his name was still Xiao Mo, and he was currently in the middle of a desperate flight from disaster.

The reason for the flight was something Xiao Mo had only a vague grasp of. One day, without warning, all the wild beasts and monster-beasts in the area surrounding his village and the nearby settlements had gone mad. They attacked the villagers and destroyed homes in waves, striking again and again as though without end. After the beasts had reduced the villages to half their former state and kept on coming, the village chiefs gathered what livestock they had as offerings and went to pray before the stone idol enshrined in the village, hoping for the divine spirit's guidance.

And to everyone's astonishment, that stone idol had actually responded.

A flash of divine light, and a sheepskin map appeared on the ground before them. The villagers snatched it up with trembling hands. At the map's far end, a red-painted circle marked a destination, with characters written beside it: "Come to this place. A paradise awaits."

And so the people of several villages had begun their migration, hoping to find the sanctuary that had been promised to them.

As for his parents in this life, Xiao Mo had no memory of them at all. For as long as he could remember, it had always been the Village Chief who looked after him.

"Little Mo, what's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?" The old Village Chief pushed his hair aside, wondering if the child was simply dazed.

"Village Chief, I'm all right. Don't worry. My head just hurts a little." The eight-year-old Xiao Mo shook his head and gave the side of his own skull a gentle tap.

"You just came rolling down a slope. Of course your head hurts." The Village Chief let out a breath of relief, seeing Xiao Mo was lucid. "We're about to get moving again. Can you keep walking? If not, I'll carry you on my back."

"Old Village Chief, you're all bones yourself. Who do you think you're going to carry?" A man nearby laughed. "Come on, little Mo. Uncle will carry you."

"Village Chief, Uncle Wang, really, there's no need. I can walk on my own." Xiao Mo pushed himself to his feet. He wobbled at first, but steadied himself quickly.

The Village Chief watched Xiao Mo's determined little face, and felt a pang somewhere deep in his chest. He knew. Little Mo did not want to be a burden to anyone.

"Village Chief! They want to know if we can set off! We really cannot afford to wait. We need to find a place to camp before dark today."

A young man from one of the other villages came running over at that moment to press the matter.

"I know. Just a moment." The Village Chief called back, then turned to Xiao Mo and patted the back of his hand. "We'll head out now. If anything hurts, you say so immediately."

"Yes, Village Chief." Xiao Mo nodded.

Before long, the refugee column set off once more. Two or three hundred people moving through the snow left a trail of chaotic footprints across the ground.

As they walked, the old Village Chief, leaning on his walking staff, turned to look back every so often, as though whatever he feared was just behind them, approaching with the relentlessness of despair.

Without quite noticing, an hour passed. Xiao Mo's legs were growing numb, and his head was still a little light. He licked his dry lips, feeling both weary and hungry, his hands gone deep red from the cold, already a little past feeling but he did not say a word.

Everyone here was barely managing to keep themselves alive. Whatever strength could be saved meant one more chance of surviving. How could he possibly ask to be carried?

In that vast white expanse of snow, Xiao Mo exhaled a small cloud of breath, lifted his head, and saw before him nothing but open wilderness blanketed in white, stretching to the horizon.

Among the refugees, one woman clutched an infant tightly against her chest. A man hauled a small handcart loaded with his family's belongings and their last provisions. An old woman moved forward on a walking stick, her body trembling constantly, her lips already showing a tinge of purple. Others glanced back over their shoulders at intervals, eyes full of fear.

In the hearts of all of them, these days, there was only one hope: to reach the place the divine spirit had shown them.

They believed that once they arrived, there would be fields to farm, cattle and sheep to tend, and a life lived in peace.

They believed it.

The divine spirit would not deceive them.

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