Morning mist, like a veil, enveloped the small wooden cabin on the Russian border.
Serie stood by the window, her fingers unconsciously caressing the rough window frame.
Her bangs cast a shadow over her eyes, concealing the lingering gloom within them.
From a distance, the dull thud of an axe splitting wood echoed.
She looked up, and through the morning mist, she could faintly make out Elena's figure bending over by the woodpile, working.
The farm girl was humming an unknown folk song, each swing of the axe exhaling white mist, and tiny ice crystals clung to the tips of her red hair.
A lame old dog followed at her heels, occasionally nudging her leather boots with its nose.
In the hazy morning light, it resembled a faded oil painting.
Serie's bare feet padded on the cold wooden floor, each step pulling at her unhealed wounds, making her frown tightly in pain.
The thin bandages barely covered Serie's tall figure, and the winter chill seeped through the gaps into her skin, causing her to shiver involuntarily.
Serie hobbled to the fireplace, cautiously glancing around.
After confirming no one was in the room, her pale fingertips slowly reached towards the dancing flames.
To her surprise, the scorching tongues of fire did not burn Serie; instead, they gently wrapped around her arm, caressing her wounds like a mother comforting a child.
The skin licked by the flames glowed with a faint golden-red light, and the hideous scars healed at a visible rate.
A warm current surged through her entire body, sweeping away fatigue and pain.
Every cell in her body seemed to cheer, making her let out a comfortable sigh.
Until...
"Awake?"
The Old Woman's hoarse voice suddenly sounded behind her.
Serie abruptly pulled back her hand and turned to look at the Old Woman, who had appeared at the bedroom door at some unknown time.
"Um... Grandma, I didn't disturb you, did I?" Serie was startled, looking at the Old Woman's wrinkled face.
Fortunately, those kind eyes still held only concern, no fright or fear.
"Call me Marfa Grandma."
The Old Woman introduced herself, seemingly unaware of Serie's abnormality, only thinking she felt cold and was warming herself by the fire in the living room.
"This used to be my son's." Marfa Grandma brought some clothes and shoes: "They should fit perfectly. They just dried yesterday; I hope you don't mind them."
"How could I? Thank you." Serie took the clothes, which were several men's sweaters and work pants, and a pair of leather boots.
Although a bit worn and faded, they were more than suitable; she didn't mind them at all.
Although Serie had been transmigrated into a young girl for some time, she was still unaccustomed to, or rather, had barely worn women's clothes.
To this day, the only thing that could be called women's clothing was the Mad Eater Witch's long dress, which had long since weathered and torn...
If that could even be considered clothes.
Other than that, it was either bandages or hospital gowns.
Serie shook out the dark gray, coarse-knit sweater; the wool texture was surprisingly soft.
She deftly put on the clothes; the hem of the sweater lifted due to the curve of her chest, revealing a small section of her fair waist and abdomen.
The canvas material of the work pants was a bit rough but fit reasonably well, and she casually rolled up the pant legs twice, revealing her slender ankles.
She turned around in front of the old mirror on the wall.
The Serie in the mirror was unexpectedly handsome—the coarse-knit sweater clung to her upper body's curves, showcasing the advantages of Zoya's physique to the fullest.
The perfect proportion of broad shoulders and narrow waist, the elegant lines of her long neck, combined with the distressed work pants, outlined a unique charm that blurred gender lines.
Zoya's face already carried a hint of heroism, with sharp features; now, paired with men's clothing, she was exactly like a noble young master who had stepped out of an oil painting.
If she were to put on a down jacket to cover the curve of her chest, she might not even recognize herself as a woman.
Serie had to admit that even she, who had once been male, was slightly inferior to Zoya.
"Oh, this is truly..." Marfa Grandma leaned against the door, her wrinkled eyes crinkled into two slits as she smiled.
She looked Serie up and down, gently patting her apron with her rough fingers, "A spitting image of a handsome young man."
"If you ask me," Marfa Grandma suddenly leaned closer and patted Serie's shoulder, "if you were a boy, I'd definitely keep you here as my granddaughter's husband!"
"My Elena just turned..."
Before she finished speaking, she burst into laughter herself, revealing a few uneven teeth.
Serie looked at Marfa Grandma's hearty smile, and her tense shoulders unconsciously relaxed.
"I'll go prepare breakfast; you must be starving, right?"
Marfa Grandma gestured towards the window, "Why don't you go talk to our little songbird? Her father is at the front, and her mother... let's not talk about it. She lives with this old bag of bones out here in the wilderness, hasn't even had a proper education, and hardly has any friends she can talk to..."
Seeing Serie hesitate, Marfa Grandma smiled again: "Don't be fooled by that girl's shy demeanor; she's actually very fond of you."
Serie's heart warmed, and she quickly nodded: "Okay, I'll go now, Marfa Grandma."
Marfa Grandma had just returned to her room when she chased to the door, holding a thick cotton padded jacket: "Hey, wait! You haven't put on your coat yet!"
But Serie's back had already disappeared into the morning mist.
The biting cold wind had no effect on her—the flames flowing within her kept her skin at a pleasant temperature.
Following the intermittent folk song, she quickly found Elena by the woodpile.
The girl was struggling to swing the axe, and the white mist she exhaled formed a thin layer of frost on her eyelashes.
"That..." Serie's thin lips parted slightly.
"Oh!" Elena startled, nearly dropping the axe.
She turned around flustered, but her face flushed crimson the moment she saw Serie—in the morning light, the other person was only wearing a thin sweater, a section of delicate collarbone exposed at the neckline, and the tips of her hair still had unmelted snowflakes clinging to them.
"You, you're awake?" She awkwardly turned her face away, her fingers unconsciously twisting her apron.
"Yes, thanks to you." Serie took a step forward, her boots crunching the thin ice on the ground.
"No... not at all..." Elena waved her hand, her lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile, but her voice grew softer and softer.
She was so nervous she didn't know where to put her hands, so she just kept twirling the axe handle, as if the grain on the wooden handle was about to be worn smooth.
An awkward silence spread between the two.
Until Serie spoke: "How about... I help you?"
"No, no need! Your injury is still..." Before Elena could finish, the axe was naturally taken from her.
Serie effortlessly swung her arm, and the thick log split in two with a resounding crack, the cut surface as smooth as if sliced by a sharp blade.
Elena watched, dumbfounded.
The injured person who was covered in blood and on the verge of death two days ago could now chop wood without batting an eye?
How... how amazing!
Elena stood rooted to the spot, a strange light flickering in her pale blue eyes.
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