The next morning, Bai Feng woke up with his arm throbbing. The cut left by Yemu's knife still burned, but it no longer bled.
Sitting under the twisted fig tree behind the orphanage, he felt the wind passing through the dry branches, whistling words he still couldn't decipher.
The visit to the Golden Temple felt like a dream — Abbot Mingxu, his words about the Inner Sea, the Celestial Seed, all of it still spun in his mind like the currents of the Jing–Hang Canal.
He knew nothing would change overnight.
He was still an orphan. There were still hungry mouths in the orphanage. There were still the Magistrate's guards roaming the streets.
But something inside was changing.
As he carried buckets of water for Aunt Ru, Bai Feng felt the eyes of the other children following him. Before it was fear; now it was something else — curiosity mixed with a mute respect.
No one dared look him directly in the eye.
When he passed by, they stepped aside.
At night, after sharing the thin porridge with three younger boys who slept curled against his legs, Bai Feng slipped out in silence.
He walked to the edge of the Jing–Hang Canal.
The moon mirrored itself in the dark water, trembling like a poorly kept promise.
He took off his shirt, knelt on the damp bank, and took a deep breath.
He closed his eyes.
He searched within himself for the Inner Sea that Mingxu had spoken of.
All he found was the sound of his own heart, the cold night air brushing his skin, the wound on his arm throbbing as it healed.
For a moment, he felt ridiculous — but he stayed there.
Breathing.
Trying to hear the wind the Abbot said would speak.
On the third day, when the sun rose, Bai Feng was still there.
He had slept little, his stomach ached from hunger, his knees were marked by the cold mud.
But inside his chest, he felt a strange certainty — as if, with each breath, something heavy was breaking apart, like cracking ice.
He returned to the orphanage before the others woke up.
He washed his face, shared the little rice he had, gathered fallen firewood from the yard.
His arm hurt, but the pain no longer weighed on him like before.
In the afternoon, while selling buckets of water at the market, he heard whispers about Luo Yemu.
They said the Magistrate's son was locked inside the mansion, face swollen, spitting threats behind red gates.
They also said armed men had been seen asking about a white-haired orphan.
But Bai Feng only gave a small smile — for the first time, he did not feel fear.
Not even the wind seemed afraid.
That same night, he climbed the temple steps again — but stopped halfway up the slope.
He sat in a clearing where the wind hit strong, making the leaves spin like small green blades.
There he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and let the cold cut through his skin.
He tried to feel his Inner Sea — imagined it like the Jing–Hang Canal, dark, deep, carrying away his fear, his anger, leaving only what was strong enough to float.
Abbot Mingxu, high above, lit incense and looked down the slope.
Silently, he murmured to the ashes dancing in the air:
"May the roots hold firm in the mud. Only then can they bloom in the void."
And so Bai Feng stayed — between the mud and the wind, between the healing wound and the strength beginning to grow.
No masters. No scrolls.
Only the wind, the water, and the certainty that, one day, no one would bend him again.
Bai Feng stood there, in the stone courtyard, while Abbot Mingxu disappeared into the temple, as if swallowed by the red columns and hanging bells.
The wind, which once sounded like a whisper, now seemed to push at his back, inviting him to climb higher — but also to return.
Fa Xian, the young monk, watched him in silence, holding the scroll he had brought there.
When Bai Feng turned his face, the monk only smiled, as if to say: "Not everyone makes it this far."
Without words, Bai Feng folded his hands, feeling the knuckles still marked from striking Yemu.
The pain was still there, but it was a good pain — it reminded him he was real, that he had endured.
Fa Xian broke the silence:
"Will you come back?"
Bai Feng looked at the temple gate, then down at the valley below.
The Jing–Hang Canal was a murky silver ribbon cutting through the heart of Xīwàng.
He took a deep breath:
"One day."
The monk nodded. Then, with a humble gesture, he showed him the path back.
As Bai Feng descended the stone steps, each step felt lighter — not because it was easy, but because each step seemed to steal a piece of the weight he carried on his shoulders.
When he reached the slope, the wind brought the smell of cooked rice, smoke, and dried fish — the smell of Xīwàng, poor and vibrant.
He passed a line of pilgrims climbing slowly, murmuring prayers.
Some stopped when they saw him: white hair, torn clothes, a bandaged cut on his arm.
He looked like a monk in reverse — descending the temple instead of climbing it.
Back at the orphanage, the gate creaked as always.
Aunt Ru sat on a broken bamboo stool, mending a tattered blanket.
She lifted her eyes, muttering something that was neither blessing nor curse:
"Brought the wind back on your shoulders, did you?"
Bai Feng did not answer. He walked past her, leaving behind a trail of dust and silence.
The children watched him — some now made respectful gestures, others simply stepped aside to clear the way.
In his usual corner, under the twisted fig tree, Bai Feng sat.
The wind passed through the dry branches, making the leaves dance around his feet.
He closed his eyes, resting his head against the rough trunk.
Between the pain pulsing in his arm and the weak winter sun's warmth, he felt, for a moment, the Inner Sea the Abbot had spoken of — vast, silent, hidden somewhere behind his ribs.
He did not know how to cultivate. He had no manual, no master.
But he had the wind. And an open wound through which the world blew.
Meanwhile, atop the mountain, Abbot Mingxu meditated again before the Great Buddha.
Beside him, Fa Xian watched the flickering flame of an oil lamp.
"Will he come back?" — asked the young monk.
Mingxu smiled, eyes closed.
"If the wind wills it," — he murmured, as if speaking to the clouds. — "And the wind always wills it."
At the Magistrate's mansion, Luo Yemu lay on a wooden stretcher.
A doctor applied bitter herbal ointments to the cuts on his face, while Yemu clenched his teeth, eyes wet with rage.
Beside him, his father, Magistrate Luo Niejin, looked out the open window.
Outside, Xīwàng seemed to sleep under the pale moonlight.
"Whoever humiliated my son…" — said Luo Niejin, without turning his face — "…will soon learn that no wind blows against those who have walls of stone."
Yemu did not answer.
But in his mind, Bai Feng's face burned like a thorn embedded in flesh.
A silent hatred, heavier than any wound.
Back under the fig tree, Bai Feng opened his eyes.
A single leaf broke loose from a high branch, spinning until it landed in his lap.
He picked it up, held it between his thumb and forefinger.
He whispered to himself:
"The wind blows. And I go with it."
Then he closed his eyes again — and slept, like one who watches over his own dream.
The wind that cradled Bai Feng beneath the fig tree brought more than dust and dry leaves.
It brought distant voices — arguments in the street, the hoarse cries of a salted fish vendor, laughter of children who still dared play near the orphanage.
But in his chest, all was silence.
The fight with Yemu had not been just a settling of scores — it had been a spark.
And now, each breath seemed to feed a flame he did not yet know how to name.
He rose slowly, cracking his shoulders as if shedding an old skin.
He looked at the children peeking at him behind a broken window.
Some widened their eyes, maybe expecting a shout or an order.
But Bai Feng only turned his back.
He walked down the alley leading to the canal, feeling the cold mud under his bare feet.
When he reached the Jing–Hang's edge, the sky was beginning to darken.
Boatmen pulled in their nets, the sound of water knocked against the hulls.
He squatted, dipped his hands, washed the strands of hair stuck with dust and sweat.
As he did, he remembered the Abbot's words:
"There is a sea inside every man."
Bai Feng looked at the canal. Inner Sea...
The muddy water reflected the lanterns beginning to light on the opposite bank.
Fish leaped on the surface.
He closed his eyes, trying to feel within himself that same flow — a hidden current the wind might awaken.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps creaked on wood.
Bai Feng lifted his face. Two young men — not Yemu's friends, but they looked like errand boys.
One of them had a small seal-string hanging at his waist, a mark of a servant of the Magistrate.
"You Bai Feng?" — asked the older one, voice rough like he chewed tobacco.
Bai Feng did not answer — he just stood up, drying his hands on his pants leg.
The other, younger, spat to the side.
"Our master wants to see you." — he said, twisting a smile. — "You coming walking or tied up?"
Bai Feng stared at them, sizing them up.
The wind blew from the canal, cold, brushing the healing cut on his arm.
He took a deep breath.
Inside, something said: don't run.
Outside, he knew it was not yet time to fight — not yet.
"I'll go," — he said, simply.
The older one gave a crooked smile.
He slapped Bai Feng's shoulder, pushing him toward the plank road.
"Knew you were smart," — he growled. — "Young Master Yemu's got things to say to you."
As they walked through the dark alleys, Bai Feng smelled dried fish, damp wood smoke, and further ahead, the faint scent of expensive incense drifting from the Luo mansion walls.
Each step felt like walking on thin snow — it could collapse at any moment.
Inside the Luo mansion, the inner courtyard was lit by red silk lanterns.
Servants walked silently, avoiding eye contact as Bai Feng was shoved past by the two thugs.
In the main hall, Luo Yemu sat in a wide chair, a thin bandage wrapped around his bruised cheek.
Beside him, Magistrate Luo Niejin sipped jasmine tea, blowing the steam away like one swats flies.
When Bai Feng stopped in front, hands loose at his sides, the Magistrate lifted his eyes — black, deep, hard as obsidian.
"So this is the white-haired dog that dared bite my son?" — Luo Niejin said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. — "Look at me, orphan."
Bai Feng lifted his chin.
The silence cracked between the columns painted with red dragons.
Yemu leaned forward, spitting a laugh.
"Father, let me handle this." — he said, the crooked smile returning. — "A dog only learns when it feels fire burning its tail."
The Magistrate raised a hand — Yemu fell silent.
Then he turned to Bai Feng, as if observing a rat trapped in a jar.
"In my city, the wind obeys those with walls." — said Luo Niejin. — "You think you are wind. But I am stone. And stone does not bow to the breeze."
The silence of the hall was broken only by the drip of tea falling into the bowl.
Bai Feng took a deep breath.
Inside, something boiled — not fear, but a brutal will not to lower his eyes.
The Magistrate rose slowly, stopping a step away from Bai Feng.
"Tell me, orphan," — he murmured, so close Bai Feng could smell the bittersweet tea. — "Do you want to live?"
Bai Feng opened his mouth.
For an instant, he felt the wind brush the back of his neck.
Then, in a breath:
"I want to be strong."
Yemu laughed loud, the echo cutting the courtyard.
But the Magistrate did not laugh.
He only placed a cold hand on Bai Feng's shoulder — a weight of stone.
"Then live. But remember: if you ever blow against me or my blood, no wind will save you." — Luo Niejin said, his voice sharp as a knife. — "Now… get out of my house."
He signaled with a finger.
The two thugs pulled Bai Feng back, shoving him toward the heavy wooden gate.
As he was dragged away, Bai Feng turned his face one last time — he met Yemu's eyes, who smiled like a snake.
In the dirt street, they threw him in the mud.
Bai Feng stayed there for a moment, knee dirty, breath cutting the night.
Then he stood up.
The wind blew from the canal, cold, light — like a promise.
And Bai Feng walked into the darkness, each step carving a vow into his mind:
Stone does not bow to the wind… but the wind wears down stone. And one day, I will be a storm.