Bai Feng woke before the sun.
In the orphanage, everything still slept — Aunt Ru snored wrapped in her patched blanket, the children curled up like frightened sparrows.
He slipped out in silence, stepping as lightly as a shadow.
He walked up the slope toward the Golden Temple. The cold dawn wind bit at his cheeks, but inside him burned a warmth that didn't come from fire — it was the flame that never dies, the same flame that flared every time he remembered the Magistrate's voice saying, "The wind obeys those with walls."
He climbed the steps slowly, reaching the eastern gate where Fa Xian was already waiting.
"The Abbot asked to prepare tea," the young monk said, smiling as he saw the cut on Bai Feng's arm nearly healed. "He said the wind would bring you today."
Bai Feng didn't answer — he just followed Fa Xian down the stone corridors, passing hanging bells and lanterns swaying as if they breathed.
When he entered the inner hall, the smell of incense wrapped around him. Abbot Mingxu sat on his usual cushion, back to the door, gazing at the Great Buddha carved into the wall.
Without turning, the old man spoke: "Sit, boy with mist-colored hair."
Bai Feng obeyed, folding his legs on the cold wooden floor.
Mingxu raised a steaming bowl of tea and handed it to Fa Xian, who placed it in Bai Feng's hands.
"Drink," said the Abbot. "The wind within you needs roots so it won't be lost."
Bai Feng drank slowly. The taste was bitter but left a gentle warmth spreading through his belly.
Silence. Only the wind whistling outside, blending with the soft chime of bells.
Then Mingxu spoke, his voice low but firm as contained thunder: "Do you know what you saw inside yourself when you tried to feel the Inner Sea?"
Bai Feng hesitated. He remembered the dark water of the canal, the pulsing in his chest.
"I felt… something flowing," he said. "But I couldn't hold it."
Mingxu smiled. "That's how it is at the start. The Inner Sea is not a pond — it's a river that runs. Holding it is like trying to catch the wind with empty hands."
The Abbot turned his face, his eyes deep as ancient wells.
"What you now call the Inner Sea is only the surface of cultivation," he said. "Our world — which common men call the Abyssal Lands — is a deep swamp, boy. Here, the path of cultivation is as short as a breath. Few manage to plant the Celestial Seed. Fewer still make it sprout. And almost no one sees its flower bloom."
Bai Feng gripped the bowl between his hands.
"And beyond the flower?" he asked, unafraid of sounding ignorant.
Mingxu laughed — a hoarse sound that echoed through the hall.
"Beyond the flower… there is only a myth," he said, gaze drifting. "We call it the Supreme Heavens. They say that if one transcends the Path of Foundation, his spirit leaves the Abyssal Lands and ascends like a leaf carried by the wind. But who has ever returned to tell the tale? Who has proven it's not just dust returning to dust?"
Fa Xian, standing beside them, whispered: "Master, is it true there are cultivators who live a thousand years?"
Mingxu nodded. "There are. A rare few. Those who reach the state called Flower of the Void are treated as Immortals here — but they're still prisoners of the same mire. They're roots that grew too deep to die — yet did not dare to open their flower to the Sky."
The Abbot laid his thin hand on the wooden floor, tapping it lightly.
"And the sects that guard these secrets?" he went on, turning to Bai Feng. "They live isolated, perched on mountains, towers, hidden valleys. They rarely mingle with mortals, because they gain nothing from it. To them, peasants, merchants, even magistrates… are dust blown by the wind. Worth less than a flicker of their power."
Bai Feng drew a deep breath. The bowl of tea trembled in his fingers.
"And you?" he asked. "Why tell me this?"
Mingxu smiled again — but his eyes did not smile.
"Because you carry wind in your bones, boy. You have no scrolls, no lineage. But you have the void — and the void is fertile soil." He leaned forward, his voice a whisper that seemed to tear invisible veils: "Today, you will plant your seed."
Bai Feng felt his chest tighten.
"Now?"
"Now," said the Abbot, raising a bony finger. "Close your eyes. Forget the temple, forget my face. Listen only to what runs within."
Bai Feng obeyed. He breathed in the cold air, feeling it mix with the warmth of the tea.
Silence.
Then, something vibrated. As if a thread of wind spun inside his chest, swirling, circling. His heartbeat slowed — but each beat seemed to open space, digging a deep hollow within his body.
A drop of sweat slid from his forehead to his chin. His hands trembled — but not from fear. It was as if a river flowed through his bones.
Mingxu murmured, his voice broken and calm: "Don't grasp the wind. Let it pass. Let it carve. It carves to plant."
Bai Feng felt a twinge below his navel — a strange, warm pain rising like an ember.
His breath shortened. An image rose in his mind: the Jing–Hang Canal, but not of muddy water — a canal of light, pulsing like living veins. He plunged in, not knowing how, not wanting to stop.
Outside, the wind brushing the bells seemed to howl.
When he opened his eyes, Bai Feng was panting. His chest rose and fell, heavy — but something was different. Inside, an invisible seed pulsed, like a living spark planted in the darkness.
Mingxu smiled, satisfied. "The breath has torn the veil," he said. "You now have roots. Still nothing to the sects that float above us, but everything to one born in the mud."
Fa Xian knelt beside Bai Feng, amazed.
"He… reached the first stage?"
Mingxu nodded in confirmation.
"The Path of Foundation is long — but the first step always begins in the mud."
Bai Feng, still breathless, looked at the Buddha carved in the wall. A strange peace mingled with the warm pain in his belly.
"Master…" he said, voice hoarse. "If there is a path to the Supreme Heavens, I will find it."
Mingxu closed his eyes, as if listening to the wind carrying news from afar.
"May the wind blow in your favor, boy of the orphanage," he whispered, so softly it seemed he spoke only to the mountains. "And may the stone not break your bones before the flower blooms."
Bai Feng still felt the warmth burning below his navel — a tiny flame, but alive.
When he opened his eyes fully, he noticed Fa Xian watching him as if seeing a rare spirit.
"It's just a seed," the Abbot said, breaking the silence. "Don't be deceived, boy. Many plant, few water."
Bai Feng took a deep breath. Even tired, his arms felt light, as if an old pain had been washed away.
"And how do I… water it?" he asked, still feeling for the words.
Mingxu struck his bamboo staff on the floor, producing a dry sound that echoed through the temple.
"The seed drinks from the wind, the water, and the will," he explained. "Meditate under the crooked fig tree, breathe through the canal, let the night teach you. But know this: without discipline, even the river dries up. Without courage, even the wind dies."
Fa Xian handed Bai Feng a small bundle. Inside, a few dried leaves, tied with a rough strip of cloth.
"Root tea," the young monk said with a smile. "It'll keep the fire burning while your body adapts."
Bai Feng tucked the bundle into his chest.
"Thank you."
The Abbot gazed into the void, as if speaking not just to Bai Feng, but to the walls, the bells, the ghosts that dwelled there.
"Many years ago," he began, his voice becoming almost a chant, "there were men who crossed the Abyssal Lands like thunder. They founded sects on high mountains, raised jade walls, carved secrets into stones that no one reads anymore.
They thought themselves above mortals — and still do. They call themselves Immortals, but they eat, sleep, and bleed like us.
They meddle little in the world — there's no profit in protecting those who don't cultivate. To them, every common man is a body born to die. A short breath in the midst of a long storm."
Fa Xian sighed, reciting old words:
"The sects watch the sky but ignore the mud."
Mingxu nodded, unsmiling.
"And still, every century, a fool is born who tries to open the sky with his own hands. Some speak of the Myth of the Supreme Heavens — a world beyond ours, where nothing rots, where there are no walls, no disease, no stone that resists the wind."
Bai Feng lowered his chin to his chest, letting the words slip out like a promise made in secret:
"Then that's where I'll go."
Mingxu raised an eyebrow, surprised by such audacity.
"Not even I know if it exists, boy," he said, his voice carrying a sad laugh. "Some say that if a man blooms beyond the Foundation, he transcends. Others believe he dissolves — returns to dust. For in the end, from dust we came."
"Better dust than stone," Bai Feng murmured.
The Abbot glanced at Fa Xian — the young monk stifled a nervous laugh, proud of the boy from the orphanage.
Mingxu sighed, his face tired but his eyes glowing like embers under ash:
"You have roots now. Water them. Defend them. Because soon, others will come to tear them out.
And remember: every breath of wind makes enemies when it passes over walls."
Outside, the wind shifted direction — it whirled through the temple's cracks, striking the bronze bells. A thin, metallic sound rang out like distant laughter.
Bai Feng rose slowly, feeling the new weight inside his body. It wasn't an armor — it was a spark.
"Master," he said in a low voice. "If one day I return… I'll come back stronger."
The Abbot did not reply. He only closed his eyes, murmuring between his teeth:
"May the Supreme Heavens hear your steps… and may the stone not swallow you first."
Fa Xian walked Bai Feng to the door. He handed him a small clay lamp.
"For when the wind is too strong," he said. "And the night, too deep."
Bai Feng held the lamp, feeling the oil slosh inside. He gave a short bow — not like a monk, but like a boy who knows he is still hungry.
When he descended the temple steps, the moon was high. The Jing–Hang Canal reflected a trembling strip of silver.
For the first time, Bai Feng smiled alone. The cut on his arm hurt, his knees burned from the cold stone — but inside him, something burned stronger than all the pain.
The wind blew on the slope. And this time, he felt it — it wasn't just the wind outside. It was the wind within him, breathing along.
Two years passed.
Bai Feng was now seventeen — taller, broad-shouldered, fists like fig tree roots: hard, calloused, but alive.
The orphanage was still his shelter of mud, but the Jing–Hang Canal was his temple. In his chest, the Celestial Seed grew silently, fed by dawn training, cuts on skin, rage turned to wind.
It was night when the reunion happened.
The Xīwàng market was filthier than ever, lit by lanterns hanging from frayed ropes. Bai Feng carried a bundle of firewood on his shoulder, passing through suffocating alleys where voices hid like rats.
Then he heard it: a familiar laugh, dragged by the wind.
Luo Yemu — now with harsher features, his chin marked by a scar that told the story he never forgot.
Beside him, four shadows: the same two lackeys, now bloated with arrogance, and two guards armed with short spears and heavy stares.
One of them Bai Feng recognized — the same one who'd dragged him to the mansion years before. He had scars on his neck, eyes hollow from seeing too much death.
Yemu snapped his fingers, spitting on the ground.
"Well, well… if it isn't the white-haired mutt," he said, stepping forward. His breath stank of cheap wine, again. "Still carrying firewood? Didn't the wind give you wings?"
The lackeys laughed like hyenas.
The older guard only shifted the spear's weight from one hand to the other, uneasy.
Bai Feng dropped the firewood slowly, as if dropping a burden that no longer belonged to him.
"The wind doesn't carry stone," he said, his voice so cold it killed the laughter.
Yemu gritted his teeth, stepping in until their foreheads nearly touched. There was hate there, old as the cut that split their memories.
"I'm burying you for good today," he spat.
It happened fast.
Yemu's first punch came like a short blade — but Bai Feng was no longer the same.
He sidestepped, drove an elbow into Yemu's ribs, making the air leave him like a slaughtered pig.
A lackey lunged, swinging a stick — Bai Feng turned, caught the man's wrist, twisted until he felt the pop, kicked his knee from behind.
The man fell screaming, clutching his limp arm.
The second lackey tried to grab him from behind — Bai Feng ducked, used the man's weight to hurl him into a stall of rotting fish.
The boards flew apart, scattering scales and blood on the ground.
The older guard stepped forward, raising his spear. His face showed hesitation.
"ENOUGH!" he growled, trying to hold Yemu back — but Yemu, crazed, was already pulling a short dagger from his belt.
"Young master, this isn't the time—"
But Yemu didn't hear him.
With a raw scream, he lunged, blade aimed at Bai Feng's chest.
It all happened in seconds.
Bai Feng grabbed the arm coming at him, felt metal rip his sleeve, hot blood spurting.
The wind blew — not the wind outside, but the wind inside him.
In reflex, he slammed Yemu against a mud wall.
The blade fell, bouncing in the muck.
But Yemu still kicked, scratched, spat insults.
Bai Feng raised his fist — one, two, three dry strikes.
The sound of bones cracking, breath cut short.
The guard tried to pull him back:
"ENOUGH!" he shouted, desperate.
Too late.
One last punch — and Yemu went silent.
His head slumped to the side, eyes empty, staring at the sky full of broken lanterns.
Silence. Only the sound of a fish still flopping in a filthy puddle.
Bai Feng let the body drop, panting.
He looked at his hands — they trembled, hot, alive — then at the still face of the boy who for so long had been stone in his throat.
The guard shoved him back, his face a mask of dread.
"You… you killed the young master!" he whispered, almost a prayer. "You're… you're finished, boy!"
The lackeys crawled away, spitting blood and fear.
The wind blew again — carrying Yemu's final breath.
Bai Feng said nothing.
He picked up the dropped firewood, tossed it aside.
The guard who'd tried to stop them bowed his head, almost as if mourning.
"I warned you, boy…" he murmured. "But now, no one will save you."
Bai Feng turned his back.
He crossed the alley, stepping through the blood-warm mud.
In his chest, the flame did not flicker — it burned stronger.
But now it wasn't victory.
It was a warning.
When the news reached the Luo Mansion, the Magistrate stood before a screen painted with carp.
A servant knelt, forehead touching the floor three times before speaking.
"Young master Yemu… is dead. Killed by the orphan."
The screen nearly fell when Luo Niejin turned — his face pale, lips trembling like a crack about to split open.
He didn't shout.
He didn't cry.
He simply shattered the tea bowl in his hand, letting blood drip.
"Send for Qiu Xian," he said, voice low as contained thunder. "Tell him he owes me old favors… and it's time to pay."
The servant trembled:
"M-Master Qiu Xian of the Blood Lotus Sect?"
Luo Niejin nodded, staring at the sky beyond the screen, darker than any summer night.
"If Bai Feng thinks wind can topple stone… then I'll let the root rot in the mud."
Outside, thunder murmured in the mountains.
And on the bank of the Jing–Hang Canal, Bai Feng washed the blood from his hands, feeling the cold wind.
Inside him, the Celestial Seed pulsed, as if it knew the storm — now — was inevitable.