After that day in the market, Bai Feng never forgot the taste of blood mixed with the dust of Xīwàng.
The Magistrate's son, Luo Yemu, vanished from the streets for months — always surrounded by guards and flatterers, hidden behind the red-painted gates of his father's mansion.
But for Bai Feng, the wound remained open like a cut that never heals.
At the orphanage, no one asked. Aunt Ru, indifferent as the winter wind, only glanced at the bruise on his face and muttered something incomprehensible. The other children avoided him even more — a demon who had dared to stand against the city's noble blood.
It was then, alone, that Bai Feng began his own crooked way of learning to be strong.
He had no master, no scrolls, no weapons.
He had the wind — which blew at dawn through the cracks in the rotten boards.
He had the twisted trees behind the orphanage — targets for punches and kicks until his knuckles bled.
He had the Jing–Hang Canal — where he dove at night to endure the bone-cutting cold.
And he had rage — a silent flame that fed on every memory of Yemu's voice spitting insults.
"This world belongs to the strong," he repeated to himself, alone, as he buried his feet in the mud to do push-ups that made his skinny body tremble.
"If those with power can crush those without it, then I will be power. I will be wind, stone, river. No one will bend me."
Three years passed.
At fifteen, Bai Feng was no longer the same.
The skinny boy now had muscles as hard as the roots of the fig tree where he always hid. His hair, even whiter, fell loose down his back, tied carelessly with a worn cord. His blue eyes seemed to see through the smiling faces of merchants, through the colorful cloths of the market.
He walked the streets without fear of stares, ignoring murmurs of spirit or cursed one.
He was still poor. Still an orphan. But those who crossed his path noticed something different — the way he stopped in the middle of the street when someone tried to push him. The way his fists closed like stones.
It was on a humid morning that the encounter happened again.
In the Xīwàng market, vendors shouted prices of salted fish and piles of wilted vegetables. Bai Feng carried a bundle of firewood on his shoulders — cut on a slope near the temple, where the breeze was always cleaner.
As he moved forward, he heard familiar laughter — voices that, even after years, still scraped his mind like nails.
He turned the corner. There they were.
Luo Yemu — now taller, a light blue silk robe, hair tied in an even neater topknot. Behind him, two lackeys — the same brute from before, now fatter, and another sharp-faced one who laughed like a hyena.
Yemu bit into a green pear, tossed the core behind him — hitting an old man carrying a basket of fish. The old man bowed in apology; Yemu didn't even look back.
Bai Feng's eyes met his.
For a second, no one spoke. The wind blew dust, lifted dry leaves from the packed earth.
Yemu smiled — a smile Bai Feng knew too well.
"Well… if it isn't the white-haired rat," Yemu said, stepping forward. "I thought you'd turned into fertilizer for rice fields."
The lackeys laughed. Bai Feng dropped the firewood, not looking away.
"Do you enjoy seeing those who can't bow to you?" Bai Feng asked, his voice low, firm.
Yemu stepped closer, forehead nearly touching his.
"No. I enjoy breaking trash like you," he said, breath sour with cheap wine.
Without warning, Yemu's punch came — but Bai Feng, faster, blocked it with his forearm. The dry sound of impact echoed. The brute lunged forward, but Bai Feng twisted his body, smashed an elbow into his chin. The other tried to grab him from behind — but took a kick to the stomach and crashed into a vegetable stall.
In an instant, the market burst into screams and running feet. Vendors fled, but no one dared call for guards.
Yemu bared his teeth like a beast.
"I'll bury you today, bastard!"
He drew a small curved knife from his waist — not the weapon of an assassin, but of arrogance. He lunged, trying to slice Bai Feng's chest. But Bai Feng, remembering the wind, dodged — feeling cold metal graze his arm. Blood ran warm, but it didn't matter. With a short move, he grabbed Yemu's wrist, twisted until it cracked. The knife fell.
A punch from Bai Feng struck Yemu's mouth — teeth and blood spilled. The brute rose, tried to grab him — Bai Feng spun, drove his knee into the brute's face. A dull thud. The other lackey stumbled, slipped on rotten fruit.
Yemu tried to rise, groaning. Bai Feng grabbed him by the silk collar, pulling him so close their noses nearly touched.
"Kneel," Bai Feng whispered. "Lick the ground, like you wanted me to."
Yemu spat — but fear trembled in his eyes. He had no strength left.
In the end, Bai Feng let him go, dropping him into the foul mud of the market.
The stares around them — from merchants, children, elders — were different now. Some fearful, others respectful.
Bai Feng said nothing. He picked up the firewood, ignored the blood dripping from his arm, and turned away.
As he walked, he heard two men whispering under a tea tent:
"They say an Immortal of the Void Blossom Realm once protected the Emperor… one palm from him made fire rain on the Northern army…"
Bai Feng stopped. He listened in silence. Void Blossom? He barely knew what that was. But something inside him burned — a name, an echo, a promise.
High above, on the temple steps, bells rang, as if laughing at fate. Abbot Mingxu, standing at the edge of the steps, opened his eyes.
On his lips, a murmur, carried by the wind to the market below:
"May the empty leaves bloom when the wind decides to blow."
And Bai Feng, walking with blood still dripping, did not hear. But in his chest, something began to bloom — invisible, yet impossible to stop.
Bai Feng continued down the market street, the bundle of firewood on his shoulders now stained with blood. Each step made the wound sting, but he did not stop.
Slowly, whispers grew behind him like weeds: "He defeated the Magistrate's son…""The orphan demon bit back…"
Some turned their faces, others stared — fearing or admiring in silence.
He walked on until he reached the canal dock. There, he sat at the damp edge, dropped the firewood, and washed his wounded arm in the murky water. The cut burned, but he only watched the blood tint the Jing–Hang pale red, vanishing in the current.
"Void Blossom…"
The name echoed in his mind like a whisper.
He didn't fully understand — Immortals, cultivation, secrets of monks and nobles who spoke of men flying like dragons.
But in his chest, something burned: if there was a path to become so strong that no one could crush him again, he would find it.
"One day…" he murmured to the water that carried his blood, "I'll be wind… stone… and no one will bend me again."
On the mountain slope, the Golden Temple watched in silence.
Inside, Abbot Mingxu meditated before the Great Buddha. A cold breeze crossed the open doors, flickering candles. The Abbot opened his eyes.
In the dancing flames, he saw a fleeting image — a boy with white hair, kneeling by the canal, his blood mixing with water — and above him, dry leaves swirling like autumn birds.
Mingxu sighed, stood with effort — bones creaking like old bamboo.
He called to a young monk sweeping the courtyard:
"Fa Xian… prepare a scroll. And send someone to the city. There is a boy — hair white as late snow. Bring him to the steps of the eastern gate. The wind wants him to climb."
The young monk, confused, bowed and disappeared.
The next day, Bai Feng sat in the same corner behind the orphanage, under the twisted fig tree, chewing on a hard piece of bread he'd begged for.
He felt the heaviness of the fight in his body, but inside, something pulsed — a strange strength, like the wind finding a crack.
A monk in a gray robe appeared at the entrance of the alley. He lowered his head, pressing palms together.
"Bai Feng?" he asked, voice gentle as a river. "The Abbot of the Golden Temple wishes to see you."
The boy bit the bread, thought of refusing. Who was he to climb those steps that not even the Emperor touched without wiping his shoes at the entrance?
But then he remembered: Immortal. Void Blossom.
Maybe it was the wind showing him a path.
He stood. Brushed dust from his torn clothes.
"Then let's go."
And he left, leaving the orphanage behind — Aunt Ru muttered inside, not knowing one of her ghosts was about to climb a mountain that could swallow kings.
Above, bronze bells swayed, sending echoes down the slopes like living prayers.
Bai Feng, out of breath, stopped on the first temple steps. He looked at the sky — felt the clouds part as if to make way.
Void Blossom… White Wind…
Maybe it wasn't a coincidence.
Inside, old Abbot Mingxu smiled, as if he already knew every step the wind would make him take.
Bai Feng climbed step by step, knees burning. Each stone broad, cold, marked by moss and age.
The young monk — Fa Xian — walked ahead, silent as a breeze slipping through paper windows.
When they reached the main courtyard, Bai Feng stopped.
His chest rose and fell — not from exhaustion, but from something he couldn't name: a strange peace mixed with subtle strength, as if the wind whispered that he belonged there.
In the courtyard's center, the Great Buddha — carved from white stone, almost as white as Bai Feng's hair — looked south, toward the city, the canal, and all who would never dare step there.
Fa Xian gestured for him to kneel. Bai Feng hesitated — then knelt.
The old boards beneath his knees creaked as if they recognized his weight.
Abbot Mingxu appeared from behind a pillar — slow steps, head bowed. His saffron robe looked like a tired flame swaying in the wind.
"You have eyes of wind and hair of mist," the old man said, voice so low it seemed part of the whispering leaves. "Do you know why I brought you here?"
Bai Feng raised his eyes. His blue eyes met the Abbot's half-closed ones.
There was no answer on his lips — only the silence of someone who had never dared ask why he was born.
Mingxu sat on a low cushion facing him. Behind him, prayer bells chimed like distant laughter.
"Three nights ago, the wind told me about you."
"The wind?" Bai Feng frowned.
"Yes. The wind speaks — but few listen." Mingxu smiled, teeth yellow like ancient scrolls. "And the wind told me: Guard the boy who carries empty leaves in his eyes. One day, he will cut the void with his own blade."
Bai Feng didn't understand. But his fists closed — to hold those words so they wouldn't blow away.
"Master…" he dared to say, voice hoarse, "I'm just an orphan."
"So are we all," Mingxu interrupted, raising a thin hand. "Even the Emperor is an orphan when he closes his eyes."
Silence wrapped them. The wind blew, scattering dry plum petals across the stone floor. Some clung to Bai Feng's white hair.
"Tell me, boy," the Abbot asked, "what do you want in this world?"
Bai Feng hesitated. He saw Yemu's face twisted in hate, the taste of blood, the punch in his gut, the mocking smile.
Then he saw the river, the fallen firewood, the open sky like a promise.
"I want to be strong," he said at last. "Strong enough that no one can bend me again."
Mingxu laughed — a laugh that shook his thin shoulders.
"Then listen: true strength is not only the fist or the sword. There is an ocean inside every man — an Inner Sea. Whoever feels it makes a Celestial Seed sprout that breaks the shell of his flesh. If he is worthy, that seed will take root, blossom… and maybe carry him beyond the clouds."
Bai Feng didn't understand it all — but carved each word into his mind like a map of escape.
Mingxu raised a wrinkled finger, pointing north.
"The year I was born, a man named Qiu Yun — an Immortal of the Void Blossom — meditated here for three days and nights. When he opened his eyes, the rains stopped for a hundred days, saving the empire's rice. He was so light it's said he floated — the wind made him a leaf. A man like that fears no Magistrates, no soldiers, no emperors."
Mingxu stood, signaling Bai Feng to stand too.
"If one day you wish to be like him, climb this mountain again — not to see me, but to see yourself."
The Abbot turned away, leaving Bai Feng alone in the silent courtyard.
For a moment, Bai Feng closed his eyes. He felt the wind playing with his hair, the sun warming his back, and deep in his chest — something opened, like a tiny sprout.
When he returned to the city, Bai Feng was no longer the same boy who had left that morning.
Not yet Immortal. Not yet strong.
But he had taken his first step to hear the wind within.
And while the Jing–Hang Canal carried its boats, the mountains whispered among themselves:
The Leaves of the Void have begun to fall.