rui icuke

When still just a soul inside my mother’s womb, an ancient Japanese belief said that children born below minus 40 degrees would grow strong… strong like snow itself. So my mother—sick, weak, yet brave—climbed the coldest mountain, just to give birth to me there.

White hair, like the snow around me. That was the first mark. Not just me—my sister too. Same white hair. Same mountain. Same storm. But my brother… he didn’t have it. No snow, no mountain. My mother couldn’t climb again. Too sick. He was born in the village, safe, warm… normal. His hair? Just hair. His strength? Not the same.

And he knew it.

He hated that. Hated me. Hated her. Hated how the snow made us different. Stronger. Colder.

Then… the mountain took her back.

She died in our arms. Cold body, frozen tears. Our father never came back. Went out for medicine. Got lost in minus 60 degrees trying to save her. He froze before help ever came.

Two children in the snow. Alone. No mother. No father. Just the wind and silence.

They took me in. The villagers. Said I had the cold inside me. Said I was born to fight. They dragged me to the last man who still remembered Snow Breathing. Old. Silent. But his eyes—like glaciers. He trained me. Years in the cold. Fingers cracked. Skin bleeding. Muscles numb. But I stayed.

Because pain means nothing when the snow raised you.

Few ever survived the training. -98 degrees. That’s where I lived. Where I learned. Where I became what I am now.

My brother hated it more and more.

“You’re not strong. You’re just a stupid kid pretending to be a hero!” His voice still echoes. “We’re gonna die like dogs! Just like them! You think demons care who your sensei is?!”

He thought I’d break. I didn’t. But it hurt. More than the cold.

That night, my sister told me, “Ignore him. He’s jealous. You're stronger than he’ll ever be. Follow your dream.”

She slept. He slept. I couldn’t.

Next morning, she got a golden medal. A snowflake in the center. She made snow art—beautiful things.