The Xia Dynasty was vast, powerful, and serene — or so believed those who had never set foot in the small City of Xīwàng.
Nestled on the curved bank of the great Jing–Hang Canal, Xīwàng was a refuge for fishermen and boatmen. Wooden boats glided through its murky waters carrying rice, silk, and ancient legends. The city, surrounded by mountains sharp as stone spears, seemed protected by the gods themselves — but its people knew the true blessing was above: atop the sharpest peak stood a Buddhist temple with golden roofs, shimmering like fire under the sun.
Every ten years, the Xia Emperor himself climbed those steps to kneel before Buddhas and Bodhisattvas — ignoring, however, the people below, who lived at the mercy of the local Magistrate.
That night, Xīwàng was supposed to sleep in peace. The fishermen's nets had been hauled in, the night market was extinguishing its paper lanterns, and the few drunkards stumbled back to their wooden homes.
But the skies decided to awaken the city.
A thunderclap tore through the silence. Then came the wind.
Violent gusts lashed the still-standing stalls, tore off roof tiles, and toppled poles like twigs. Screams mingled with the sound of breaking wood, goods flew through the air, and old houses, fragile as dry leaves, collapsed. Some died buried beneath the rubble. Others ran without knowing where to go.
But there was no escape — the gale seemed alive, as if searching for something… or someone.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the wind stopped.
While chaos reigned in the square, on a street forgotten by guards and merchants, everything was mist and silence.
In that crooked alley, surrounded by shacks of rotten boards, an old orphanage stubbornly persisted, with gates that creaked at the slightest breeze. No one dared pass there — it was a place of living ghosts, abandoned children, and broken promises.
At the gate, enveloped by fog, a light pierced the darkness.
From within it, a hooded figure descended, light as the breath of a deity. His face was hidden, but he radiated a power so dense that not even the night itself dared approach.
In his arms, a baby — hair as white as the snow on distant peaks, closed eyes, pale skin. So fragile he seemed to glow.
The figure placed the child, wrapped in a simple cloak, before the gate. Then he raised a hand and, with a voice like contained thunder, said:
"May the Heavens forgive him.
And may he never remember."
In a blink, the figure vanished. The mist dissipated as if nothing had happened. And the city returned to calm — but it was no longer the same.
Atop the golden temple, Abbot Mingxu, an elder with eyebrows long as fallen snow, interrupted his prayer before the Great Buddha. His eyes, half-closed for decades, suddenly opened. A chill ran through his bent body.
He whispered, as if confessing to the wind:
"A new era will begin… in the Supreme Heavens."
And the wind that stirred the temple bells seemed to laugh, carrying the promise that nothing would remain the same.
The next morning, when the weak sun of the Xia Dynasty once again warmed the wet roofs of Xīwàng, the city tried to comprehend the damage left by the storm.
The wounded were carried on makeshift stretchers. Merchants gathered broken wood. Children picked up scattered fruit and fish from the streets.
At the orphanage, a woman with a face dry as tree bark opened the creaking gate. Her name was Aunt Ru — no one remembered her real name, only that she had cared for the orphanage for as long as the rotten walls could tell.
She first saw the light cloak, then the locks white as moonlight. She furrowed her brow, suspicious, and looked around — no one in sight. She lowered her gaze to the sleeping child, breathing softly, as if the wind from the previous night had never touched him.
"Heavens…" she murmured, touching the boy's hair. "What misfortune do you bring me now?"
She took the baby into her arms. He stirred but did not cry. When his eyes opened for a moment, Aunt Ru saw the reflection of the sky — a blue so clear it seemed impossible for a newborn.
She took him inside. The orphanage was damp, cramped, filled with children of all ages — thin, barefoot, eyes too big for small faces. When they saw Aunt Ru enter with the pale bundle, some of the older children approached, curious.
"Who is it, aunt?" asked a freckled girl.
"Is he our brother now?" said another, grabbing Aunt Ru's skirt.
She didn't answer right away. She laid the baby on a straw mat near the cracked clay stove. Some children shrank back at the sight of the white hair. They whispered among themselves.
"Looks like a ghost…" said a boy with broken teeth.
"He's a cursed spirit!" spat another, stepping back.
Aunt Ru sighed. She was superstitious, like almost everyone in Xīwàng, but her hunger was greater — one more mouth meant one more problem. Yet something in the baby's calm made her hesitate. She sat, took a clean cloth, dipped it in the basin of water, and wiped the child's sleeping face.
"If he came with the wind, then he shall be called Bai Feng," she said, almost to herself. "White Wind… may the Heavens take him when they want, but until then, he'll eat the same thin porridge as the others."
The children repeated the name, some laughing, others making signs to ward off spirits. But Bai Feng remained quiet, breathing softly, as if he did not belong to that mud floor and crooked walls.
Outside, the sun dispersed the last clouds. But in Xīwàng, no one imagined that the boy with snow-white hair would one day make even the mountains bow.
Years passed in Xīwàng like the calm flow of the Jing–Hang Canal — seemingly serene, but always carrying secrets in its depths.
Bai Feng grew up among broken boards, thin porridge, and spiteful whispers. His white hair never darkened — it shone even brighter under the sun, reflecting a cold light that unsettled superstitious eyes. His pale blue eyes, inherited from no one, seemed to see beyond the moldy walls.
The other children feared and despised him. They pulled his hair, hid his rice bowl, called him a demon sent to curse the orphanage. Aunt Ru, old and tired, did nothing but grumble, as if only her breath was older than the boy.
But Bai Feng rarely cried. When tears came, he hid behind the orphanage, sat beneath a crooked fig tree, closed his eyes, and listened to the wind. There, he seemed to hear whispers he could not explain — as if the whole world spoke to him, and he could not answer.
On the morning he turned twelve, Bai Feng woke before the sun. He ran his hand through his hair, still damp with dew, tied it into a simple ponytail, straightened his old clothes, and left.
By then, he was helping clean the orphanage, carrying water, sweeping leaves. Aunt Ru said nothing — she just left a bowl of cold rice by the stove, like feeding a forgotten dog.
After chores, Bai Feng liked to walk through the market. He watched fishermen bargain for silver carp, merchants haggle over silk, tea sellers shout for buyers.
Almost no one spoke to him. Many turned their faces away. Some made signs to ward off bad luck. Bai Feng walked silently — eyes alive yet distant.
But that day, something changed.
Turning a corner near a fruit stand, Bai Feng bumped into a group of boys dressed in fine silk — a rare sight in Xīwàng. In their midst was a boy with a crooked smile, an arrogant face, hair tied in a neat topknot: Luo Yemu, only son of Magistrate Luo Niejin.
Yemu held a red apple, biting it slowly while his friends laughed, pushing vendors aside. Bai Feng had no time to step away — his shoulder hit Yemu's, and the apple fell into the dirt.
For a moment, everything froze.
Yemu looked at the dirty fruit, then at Bai Feng. His smile was that of someone who had never heard the word "no."
"Look at this," Yemu said, spitting half-chewed apple at Bai Feng's feet. "A white-haired rat who doesn't know his place."
The boys behind him laughed, eager for a show.
Bai Feng lowered his head but did not back down. He looked at the fallen apple, then at Yemu.
"Excuse me," Bai Feng said, his voice firm — not arrogant, not afraid.
Yemu raised an eyebrow. He stepped forward, so close Bai Feng could smell the expensive incense on his robe.
"Excuse me?" Yemu repeated, tasting the word. "An orphan bastard apologizing? Then prove it. Pick up my apple. Clean it… with your filthy clothes. Then hand it back."
Behind him, laughter rose. Vendors froze but dared not interfere — no one defied the Magistrate's son.
Bai Feng remained still. His gaze met Yemu's. The wind blew through the stalls, raising dust. His white hair fluttered like snowflakes.
"No," he said — simple as a breath.
Laughter died on Yemu's lips. For a second, only the wind's hush was heard.
Then Yemu's fist came fast — a short punch aimed at Bai Feng's face. But the white-haired boy, as if guided by the wind, stepped aside. The fist hit nothing.
Yemu stumbled onto the crushed apple, soiling his silk sleeve. Murmurs rose. Some vendors stifled laughter.
Yemu's face flushed — anger, humiliation. Before he could stand, Bai Feng was already walking away, turning once — his eyes as cold as the river cutting through Xīwàng.
At that moment, the spark between the Magistrate's son and the white-haired orphan was born — small now, but destined to ignite far more than a market street.
The market held its breath. Luo Yemu, kneeling on crushed fruit, rose slowly. The fine silk stained with dirt felt like a slap.
"A street rat dares embarrass me?" he spat, stepping closer.
The boys behind him closed in. Vendors stepped back, pushing carts aside. Voices fell silent; only wind moved the colorful flags overhead.
Bai Feng stood still. Inside, he felt that strange calm — something deep anchoring him to the ground, even as shouts and anger swirled.
Yemu nodded at a burly boy with a pig-like face.
"Hold him," he ordered.
The brute grabbed Bai Feng's arms, pinning them behind him. Bai Feng tried to break free, but the hands were heavy as iron.
Yemu cracked his knuckles. He smiled — a wolf's smile.
"An orphan needs to learn to crawl."
His fist came again — hitting Bai Feng's stomach. Air left his lungs, but he did not groan. The second punch struck his face. A faint taste of iron filled his mouth.
Some vendors turned away, murmuring prayers. Others watched, torn between fear and curiosity.
Yemu leaned close, breath sour with apple.
"Kneel now. Lick my boot," he whispered.
Bai Feng spat blood to the ground, raised his eyes, and whispered back:
"No."
One word — stone heavy.
Yemu gritted his teeth, hand rising for another blow — but a sharp voice cut through the crowd:
"Young Master Yemu!"
A man in dark leather, the Magistrate's crest on his chest, approached. A short sword knocked at his thigh. The boys stepped back, intimidated.
"Young Master, your father orders you to the Red Hall. The banquet with the Lin'an officials begins soon. He wants you by his side."
Yemu glared at the guard, then at Bai Feng, still pinned. The smile returned.
"Release him," he said coldly. The brute shoved Bai Feng into the dirt.
Yemu crouched, face close. Bai Feng gasped but did not drop his gaze.
"White-haired rat… enjoy today," he whispered. "Next time, I'll teach you to eat dirt. And no one will stop me."
He rose, adjusted his dirty sleeve, cast a final glare at the vendors — all guilty for watching. He turned and left, guard and cronies trailing behind.
Bai Feng stayed kneeling, tasting blood. He wiped his mouth, lifted his face to the sky. Clouds drifted lazily — but above them, something whispered, as if the wind called his name.
He stood.
Whispers followed him — some said the orphan was lucky to have teeth, others said it was a curse to defy the Magistrate's son.
Bai Feng said nothing. He crossed the market in silence. And as his steps echoed over the wooden pier, something inside him stirred — an ember waiting for the wind to become flame.