On November 22, 3022, in the depths of the snow-capped mountains, Baima gave birth to a child.
The child's father, surnamed Zhang, hailed from a mysterious and unfathomable clan. This clan practiced a stringent system of intra-clan marriage, strictly prohibiting any act that blurred bloodlines.
Yet, humans possess emotions, which cannot be entirely eradicated by any system.
To evade the clan's overseers, her lover ventured alone into a perilous land, leaving behind only an arm to be carried out by his kin, his body never fully recovered.
The Zhang clan's pursuit, her family's pressure – she had initially intended to cease her resistance, but then this child arrived.
Carrying this treasure bestowed by heaven, she evaded everyone, moving alone to the deep snow mountains, surviving the long days with a small patch of land and her livestock.
...When the child grew up, how would she explain his father's absence?
Baima watched over her young child, her once-empty heart gradually filling, and she felt a rare sense of happiness and joy.
Because of this child, the previously desolate snow seemed gentle and lovely, the cold little hut exuded a hint of warmth. Baima's spirits lifted, and bit by bit, she transformed her humble dwelling into a new home.
This child was her greatest fortune, and after much thought, she gave him a name—
Norbu.
Meaning treasure.
"Little Norbu," she laughed happily, two small dimples appearing on her cheeks, roughened by the cold wind, "Grow up quickly, grow up well..."
...Perhaps a boy wouldn't like the overly cute name "Norbu" when he grew up.
Baima would sometimes ponder this with a touch of worry, but it was ultimately a happy worry. If the child disliked it, he could choose a new name when he was older, and Norbu could remain his nickname.
However, her child offered no opinion on his name.
To be precise, the child she carefully nurtured seemed like a lifeless puppet, existing in the world with vacant eyes, as if he were not a truly living person at all.
Her child had no thoughts of his own, no desires, no emotions, no soul.
What was wrong with her child?
He could speak, but never to express his own needs; he could eat, but without any trace of joy.
It was as if his existence was akin to the mountain, the snow, the silent sky, displaying an unshakeable stillness.
Her Norbu was like a stone.
Then, as the child grew a little older, he began to act with self-awareness.
He started to torment himself relentlessly, subjecting himself to all manner of cruel training methods. He would often return covered in wounds, his blood spilling like sharp knives, piercing Baima's heart.
"Norbu, my Norbu, what is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?" Baima could only pick up strips of white cloth to bandage him, tears falling like a broken string of pearls, soaking the edges of the cloth.
But even so, her child's expression remained blank. Though his eyes were open, they reflected nothing, as if he were incapable of capturing any of the world's beauty.
In the quiet of the night, Baima held her child, gazing at his still, unperturbed sleeping face. Sometimes she wondered if this was truly the punishment for her defiance of her clan.
If this was a punishment, it was far too cruel for her Norbu. Her child deserved the right to integrate into the world.
The flowers that grew on the plateau were beautiful and tenacious, unyielding to any wind or rain. Baima was the same.
She took her child throughout the narrow mountain crevices, letting him gently stroke the fur of a snow rabbit, letting him touch the cold snow and the sprouting blades of grass.
This, perhaps, was motherhood: not only to give a child physical life but also to bestow upon him a rich soul.
Through her efforts, her child began to show slight changes.
Baima often asked Norbu, "What do you want, Norbu?"
She wanted to spark thoughts in her child, asking this question again and again until it gradually became a peculiar habit.
While cooking, she would ask Norbu, "Is there anything you'd like to eat?"
When herding livestock, she would ask, "Would Norbu like to try?"
At bedtime, she would sometimes ask, "What story does Norbu want to hear tonight?"
Norbu had never responded.
But when he was twelve years old, faced with the same question, he finally spoke:
"Ama," his voice was still utterly calm, like the unchanging wind that blew through the valley, but it made Baima burst into tears of overwhelming joy, "I want a knife."
...A knife, a sharp knife used for attack. This was language so out of sync with a normal child, but what did it matter?
Her child had finally developed his own request, his own desire, his own thought. This was perhaps the first crack in the stone, proof of her child's soul awakening.
But Baima could not obtain a proper knife. She had not descended the snow mountains in a very long time. Her appearance had not changed much, and she did not know if the people searching for her were still around. She dared not bring such great danger to her young child.
Fortunately, the valley had plenty of hard, cold stones.
She carefully selected the most suitable one and began the long process of forging a knife.
Everything seemed to be progressing in a positive direction, but when Norbu was thirteen, an inexplicable tremor shook the world beyond the snow mountains.
Even through layers of peaks, Baima could see the immense bronze gate, like a sky-obscuring monster, extending its claws towards this world.
And the moment she saw the gate, Norbu's previously dim and vacant eyes suddenly flickered with a wave of emotion.
He said he wanted to go down the mountain.
How could Baima stop her child, who had finally developed emotions? How could she dare to stop her child, who finally wanted to do something?
Norbu refused Baima's company. He left on a cold morning and never returned for a very, very long time.