The sharp edge of a sword is nothing to trifle with, but Arn struggled like a fish out of water, gasping for life. His arms had been cut many times over the past few days with upstart bounty hunters from the countryside searching for him. For Five weeks, day and night, Arn ran from Ji westward, avoiding all the well traveled roads. But word of a bounty worth the entire imperial treasury travels faster than lightning.

  As this poor farmer from the Plateau of Bod just before the mountains with a blunt sword pointed it at Arn’s heart, he thought of how foolhardy the whole scheme is. The men and women who chase him will not have the muscles to kill him. If one does manage to kill him, they will not have the power to actually take the reward.

  “I’ll be rich!” The man exclaimed excitedly, rushing at Arn. He clumsily stepped with his gangly and almost emaciated form. Clearly, this man did not eat often, as poor peasants often did not. Arn has not eaten in several days, stealing only what he needed to eat when the opportunity presented itself. Though he survived, it weighed on his heart that he ate while the ones who stole from had to go hungry for a time.

  Just as the sword was about to reach his chest, Arn knocked it away with the back of his forearm. It was a simple, short, bronze blade that could not cut like a maintained blade. The sword flew from the man’s hand, and his balance failed him. Arn’s assailant struggled to crawl his way over to the blade, but Arn pushed him over and got to the blade first, pointing it at the man.

  “Drop your sword covering and go.” He said simply, his eyes unflinching in their seriousness. “Your life is not worth any amount of money the Emperor can give.”

  Fear filled the man’s eyes, and he ran with his sheath left behind. Arn felt no hate towards him, though he cannot remember feeling much disappointment for a long time. What he felt for the Princess and Emperor, far different in nature, both stemmed from that disappointment. From what Arn had been able to gather, the Emperor’s manhunt sparked disarray in many provinces, and even outside of the empire as in Bod.

  A full revolt might happen south of Ji with the greater tragedy of Arn’s betrayal. The Princess was no longer to be wed, having devoted herself to Guanyin, better known as Compassion, and binding herself to celibacy. There was a prince in the south who believed that she was promised to him, and such an oath dishonored his wishes. Even more, now there was no heir in Ji, and the mandate of heaven given by Yudi was seen by the people as lost.

  Yet, Arn would not see any of this. In spite of his depression, his life continued, and his feet kept moving. He felt on his mark a brand. A simple crow with scar tissue and black ink making it unable to be hidden. Unlike his greater scar on his chest, this one was for the world to see.

  Would I have made any other choice? He thought. Casting one of the great empires of the world into disarray, for what? What honor could I gain from this?

  He continued on his way west, blunt blade on his back and hemp top exposing the upper tip of reddened scar tissue. With nowhere else to go, Arn kept going west. With a sword in hand, fewer peasants and farmers will attempt to strike at him.

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  After a time, he arrived at the base of the Himalayas. This was his path of choice because it avoided the Silk Road, which had fallen into disrepair many centuries ago but still had many bandits and vagabonds who would certainly attack him if he was spotted.

  Ill prepared, Arn’s feet kept moving up into the realm of Bharat’s gods. When he approached the summit of the first mountain, snow covered the ground and the sky darkened. The wind howled, his muscles feeling like ice and his poorly kept cuts stinging in pain. Yet his feet kept moving through the snow. The sandals and socks that he wore dampened and completed his total agony in the freezing wild.

  But still, he persevered into the sheer and icy realm, each step slower than the last. The sword on his back became heavy and piercing to the touch. His stomach grew empty and cried out for food. Yet in it all, he saw nothing but white, even the far off stones faded in his view. Arn’s fear of the storm was fear of the thunder that came with it. The wind that howled could not strike the terror into his heart, it merely began to lull his body into tenseness that only a deep sleep could release.

  His knees buckled, and Arn’s face crashed into the snow. For a moment, he thought he would suffocate, that the snow would swallow him whole. With all his might he forced himself up from an icy crave and searched for anything other than the blanket of white.

  From his time east of Persia, Arn thought of the color of white as something to behold. Such pure and undriven white was rare in all corners of the world. The Emperor searched for perfectly white silk, unblemished and unworn for his daughter, far beyond even expensive and fine garments garnished with jewels. Arn had seen its worth. It was a symbol of purity, of unbrokenness. Yet in these cold mountains, the only thing to be seen was a man so broken he could not bear to turn back. All that he could do was seep into the snow as the land of white faded into darkness as the sun set.

  Have I lost my sight? There is nothing out there. He thought, trying desperately to feel his fingers, his arms, even his face. It is so cold. How could anyone pass these mountains? What a fool I am. I continued forward in my cowardice. Death was more befitting of me, though I know that so well. Perhaps if I followed a god of fire, my life would have warmed me. The storm cast me out, and the truth has left me in the winter with no furs nor food nor comfort.

  Before his eyes closed for the last time, a flicker of light drew his attention. The clean white snow that had shone so brilliantly before was cast into the shadows, but in the distance, an even greater purity shined upon him. A woman in white and of white came before him, her feet not even touching the earth. Arn could not make out her face, but her awesome presence he felt the wonder of a child and the meekness of a mouse.

  “Arnold Baur of Germania.” She said in a language that Arn could understand but not place. The words were in a language that not even he could speak. "You who have perished in Persia, and lived in the east. Do you not know that I have sustained you?

  “Arnold, can you hear my voice in the darkness? Just as the mighty were cast down to be humbled in the face of the Truth as you were, so too will the lowly be raised up as the sword of the Truth. In this world, there are no other gods save one to whom all of the world shall kneel.

  “You who kneel in the snow have learned. Stand and take heart, for I will preserve you. Take no consolation in fire nor peace in the cold, my power will make you as an arrow that strikes true. I am Aletheia, the Truth to whom you serve.”

  Her light grew, and Arn’s eyes shut. When he opened them again it was morning, and though the chill had not left him, he stood once more and forged ahead. No amount of snow nor ice slowed his gait. Whether the snow was thin or deep as his waste, he did not want for anything more than to find shelter and live once more.

  After a time, he came upon a cave and entered it. A light shone in it, and the shelter was warm. Caring nothing for the inhabitants of the cave, he ventured in and laid near an inner wall and slept.