The Baishen family returned to the capital that day. Their banners flew with pride, the nobles sang of harmony, and the priests praised the will of the gods. The fires that once scorched the sky were now the stuff of myth. Peace returned. The cursed child who had shaken the heavens was left behind, buried in silence and smoke. No longer called Baishen Qigai. He had no family. No name. He was just Qigai now. A mistake preserved in dust and stone.
Fifteen years passed.
High above the main halls of the Shrine of Eternal Ember, tucked into the farthest and most forgotten corner of the temple complex, stood a tower that few knew existed. No records spoke of it. No path pointed to it. It was older than the shrine itself, built long before even the first flame was ever lit in worship. Its spiral staircase began at the back of the eastern wing, behind a crumbling bronze door half-covered by a collapsed mural. The stairs twisted endlessly, carved from black stone that pulsed with cold, not warmth. No railing stood between the steps and the void beneath. The walls were lined with torches that had long since burned out, leaving only shadow and silence. Cobwebs hung from every corner like ghostly banners, and dust clung to every inch.
At the top of the winding stair stood a door. Once, it must have been grand. It was carved with ancient runes long forgotten, with a brass handle tarnished green from centuries of time. The wood had splintered in several places, and the hinges groaned when moved. Beyond that door was a vast round room, reaching high into a dome above, where a single circular skylight cast a beam of light upon the center floor. The walls were packed from floor to ceiling with books, scrolls, and brittle tomes. Bookshelves towered like cliffs, with narrow wooden ladders leaning against them, forgotten mid-climb. Dust drifted like snow in the still air. In the heart of the chamber sat a strange orb of brass and crystal, cracked in places, now long dormant. The scent of old paper, wax, and mildew filled the air.
Once, this was the shrine's grand library. Now, it was a prison.
A boy sat upon a stack of books, his back pressed against one of the high shelves. His long pitch-black hair spilled across the floor like dark water, tangled and unkempt. His thin frame was draped in the simple clothes of a commoner. A loose cotton tunic dyed a faded brown, with fraying sleeves, and wide trousers tied with string at the waist. His feet were bare and gray with dust. A wooden mask covered his face completely. It had no mouth. Only two narrow slits for eyes. The surface was smooth, stained dark with age, and slightly chipped at the edge. The mask had no decoration, no symbol. It was not meant to honor a god or hide from spirits. It was made only to cover a face no one wished to see.
The boy's breathing was soft, his thin chest rising and falling slowly. His back hunched unnaturally, twisted from birth. He clutched a book to his chest, as if guarding it in his sleep. This was Qigai. Not a child anymore, yet not quite a man. Fourteen years old. Forgotten. Unseen.
He had never stepped beyond this room. Not once.
The sun, when it reached him, came only in fractured rays from the window high above. Sometimes warm, sometimes too pale to feel. His only companions were the books. He had read them all. Not once, but many times. He had memorized the shapes of letters, the faded corners of pages, the smell of each scroll. Stories were his only world. He knew the teachings of every kingdom. The names of gods and emperors, the tales of great warriors and cursed beasts. But none of them spoke of a boy who looked like him.
When Qigai was five, Daoming, the priest assigned to care for him, brought him to this tower and never returned. At first, Daoming visited often. He lit candles, brought fresh water, whispered gentle prayers. But time eroded even kindness. Now, the most Daoming did was slide food through a small hatch at the bottom of the door. No words. No eye contact. No footsteps lingered long enough to count. The door would open, a bowl would clatter in, and the lock would turn again.
Still, Qigai did not hate him. Daoming was the only person he had ever seen. The only voice he had ever known besides his own.
A book slipped from Qigai's arms, striking the stone floor with a dull thump. The sound echoed between the shelves, pulling him from his sleep. His eyes opened slowly. One was cloudy white, veiled by an ancient injury. The other burned a sharp crimson, unnaturally bright in the darkness. He turned his head toward the staff beside him.
The staff was as tall as a man, carved from old oak wood, gnarled at the top like twisted roots. A single jade bead was tied beneath the curl with faded red string. The base was flat and worn smooth from years of dragging. Daoming had given it to him when he was six. "So you do not fall," he had said. Qigai had not walked properly without it since.
He gripped the staff and pulled himself to his feet, his motions slow and uneven. One of his legs was shorter than the other, weak and crooked. His limbs were thin, almost skeletal. His back bowed painfully. Every step was a limp. But he did not wince. He had long forgotten the feeling of pain. He crossed the floor, leaning heavily on the staff, and reached the door where a wooden bowl waited just behind the hatch.
He knelt beside it.
The smell hit him first. A thick, sour stench, like spoiled milk and wet ash. The porridge inside was gray and lumpy, streaked with something green. Bubbles formed slowly on the surface. He did not flinch. He had smelled it before. Tasted it many times. It was the only thing he had ever eaten.
"Same," he croaked, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. "Every single week."
He picked up the bowl, his hands shaking faintly, and slumped against the wall beside the door. He ate with his fingers, scooping the thick paste into his mouth without expression. The sound of his slurping echoed across the room, bouncing off the shelves and shelves of forgotten words. It was not hunger that moved him. It was habit. It was survival. He swallowed slowly, his breathing thin, and paused only when his hand brushed the bottom of the bowl.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then he licked his fingers clean and set the bowl aside.
In the silence that followed, a single beam of sunlight touched his shoulder. He leaned his head back and watched the dust swirl in the light. A faint hum echoed in his ears, a trick of the silence. A dream he could not recall.
His name was Qigai.
He had never known the world.
And the world had never known him.