Located in the northern reaches of the Song Dynasty, Yunshan Province was known for its towering mountain ranges to the east. This natural barrier shaped the region’s climate, making it cold throughout the year. Most residents had grown accustomed to the chill, but winter was another matter entirely.

The season brought with it an unforgiving cold, burying the land under thick layers of snow. Every year, at least ten to twenty people perished from exposure, unable to withstand the relentless frost. Firewood became a precious commodity, and its price soared beyond the means of many. Those who couldn't afford it had no choice but to venture into the perilous forests, braving both the elements and the dangers lurking within, all for the chance to survive another day.

A set of heavy footprints pressed into the snow, winding through the frost-laden forest. The figure responsible moved steadily, each step crunching against the ice. Wrapped in layers of worn, patched clothing, the kind only a poor farmer’s family could afford for winter, the person clutched an axe in one gloved hand.

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Though his face remained obscured by thick scarves and a hood pulled low against the biting wind, his breath came in short, visible puffs, and when he finally spoke, his young voice, though roughened by the cold, still held a tone of youthful vigor.

"This should do," he murmured, eyes settling on a sturdy tree before him. "Ironwood… a fine choice for burning. Seems fortune is on my side today."

Without hesitation, he raised his axe.

The sharp crack of metal biting into wood echoed through the stillness. He worked methodically, his muscles straining against the freezing air. Soon, the tree was felled, its sections neatly divided. Carefully, he covered the remaining logs with snow—hiding them for another trip—before stacking what he could onto his back.

Unbeknownst to him, a shadow moved among the trees. A fleeting silhouette, watching. Waiting.

As he trudged through the snow, the weight of the firewood pressing against his back, his instincts pricked at him. Something felt...off.

Then, a low growl.

He froze.

Turning slowly, he saw them—six, no… seven wolves. They emerged silently from the white expanse, their thick fur dusted with frost, their hungry eyes fixed on him.

His grip on the axe tightened.

Step by step, he edged backward.

The wolves mirrored his movements, closing the circle.

There was no escape.