Age 7
The shelter placed him with a new family within a week.
The Johnsons were older, retired, with grown children who visited on Sundays. They were kind in a distant way—meals on time, a bed made, no questions asked. Gu Chen ate what he was given, slept when he was told, spoke when spoken to.
He lasted six months.
Then Mrs. Johnson died. Heart attack. Sudden. Mr. Johnson stood at the funeral, pale and silent, and when Gu Chen asked if he was okay, the old man looked at him like he'd forgotten he was there.
"I can't…" Mr. Johnson said. "I can't take care of you. Not now."
Gu Chen nodded.
He understood.
See? the Beggar said. Even death leaves you.
The Orphan said nothing.
Age 8
A new family. The Chens. Three other foster children already in the house. Chaos. Noise. Constant fighting for attention.
Gu Chen didn't fight.
He found a corner, made it his, and stayed there. The other children noticed—at first. Then they forgot. He became part of the furniture. Invisible.
That was good. Invisible meant safe. Invisible meant no one had expectations. Invisible meant when they left—because they always left—it wouldn't hurt.
It'll still hurt, the Beggar said. It always hurts.
Gu Chen ignored him.
Age 9
The Chens moved. To another city. Better jobs, they said. More space.
They didn't take him.
"You understand," Mrs. Chen said, not quite meeting his eyes. "With three of our own now, plus the others… we just can't."
He understood.
He was nine years old. He understood everything.
Age 10
A single mother. Ms. Lin. She worked two jobs, came home exhausted, fell asleep on the couch most nights. She tried—really tried. She remembered his name. She asked about school. She left money for food when she couldn't be home.
He learned to cook. Simple things. Rice. Eggs. Noodles.
"You don't have to do that," she said once, catching him at the stove.
"I know."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then: "You're a good kid, Gu Chen."
He said nothing.
Good doesn't matter, the Beggar whispered. Good doesn't make them stay.
Age 11
A boyfriend appeared. Mark. He smiled too much and looked at Gu Chen like he was a problem to be solved.
"He's a quiet one," Mark said.
"He's a good kid," Ms. Lin said.
"Sure. But we're starting a life together. You know? Fresh start."
Ms. Lin's face flickered. She knew what he meant. So did Gu Chen.
A week later, she sat him down. Crying.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Mark thinks—he thinks we need—I can't—"
"It's okay."
She looked up, surprised by his calm.
"I understand."
He did.
Age 12
Back to the system.
Another shelter. Another social worker. Another set of questions he answered without feeling.
"Do you have any preferences for your next placement?"
"No."
"Any family you'd like us to contact?"
"No."
"Gu Chen… is there anything you want?"
He thought about it. Really thought.
"No."
That night, lying on another cot in another room full of strangers, he stared at the ceiling.
The Orphan spoke. Soft. Broken.
Maybe the next one. Maybe the next one will stay.
The Beggar laughed.
Sure, kid. Sure.
Gu Chen closed his eyes.
He had stopped counting the homes. He had stopped hoping.
He was twelve years old, and he had learned the only lesson the world would ever teach him:
No one stays.
Age 12
Middle school was a new kind of invisible.
In elementary school, teachers noticed. They pitied. They tried. By middle school, pity was exhausted. There were too many kids with too many problems. Gu Chen was just another quiet one in the back row.
He preferred it that way.
His grades were average. Not bad enough to attract attention, not good enough to stand out. He did his work, handed it in, and disappeared into the crowd.
Perfect, the Beggar approved. No one sees you. No one expects. No one disappoints.
But no one stays, the Orphan whispered.
That's the point.
—
One teacher noticed.
Mr. Zhao. History. Young, idealistic, the kind who thought he could make a difference. He kept Gu Chen after class one day.
"Gu Chen. Your essays. They're good. Really good. But you're not trying."
Gu Chen said nothing.
"I've seen your file. Foster homes. Placements. I know it's hard. But you have potential. Real potential. If you'd just apply yourself—"
"I apply myself."
"To being invisible. Not to learning."
Gu Chen looked at him. Flat. Empty.
"Is there a difference?"
Mr. Zhao opened his mouth. Closed it. For the first time, he looked uncertain.
"Talk to me," he said. "Tell me what you're thinking."
Gu Chen thought about it. Thought about the voices. The memories that weren't his. The woman in white who appeared in dreams. The way his body sometimes felt too strong, too fast, too much.
"No," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll leave."
Mr. Zhao blinked. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm your teacher."
"For now."
The word hung in the air. Mr. Zhao had no answer.
Gu Chen walked out.
Age 13
He started researching.
Not schoolwork—other things. Legends. Myths. Stories about immortals and cultivators and mountains where gods walked.
He didn't know why. The words drew him. Pulled at something deep in his chest, something that ached when he ignored it.
Kunlun Mountains, he read. Gateway to the heavens. Home of the immortals.
He stared at the screen. The cracked core in his chest pulsed—just once, just slightly.
What are you? he asked it.
No answer.
But that night, he dreamed of a woman in white.
The dreams started slowly.
At first, just flashes. A garden. Flowers he couldn't name. A laugh—warm, familiar—that faded before he could place it.
Then the woman.
She stood beneath a tree, watching him. Her face was sad. Ancient. Beautiful in a way that hurt.
Who are you? he tried to ask.
She didn't answer. Just watched. Just waited.
He woke with tears on his face and no memory of crying.
Age 14
The voices grew louder.
Not just the Orphan and the Beggar now—others, too, faint and distant. A soldier, shouting orders. A monk, chanting sutras. A king, demanding loyalty.
They spoke over each other, argued, fought for his attention.
Listen to me! the Soldier roared. Strength is all that matters. Crush them before they crush you.
Peace, the Monk murmured. Forgiveness. Let go.
Rule, the King commanded. Dominate. Make them fear you so they cannot leave.
They'll leave anyway, the Beggar laughed. They always leave.
Please, the Orphan begged. Please just let someone stay.
Gu Chen pressed his hands to his head.
"Shut up," he whispered. "Shut up, all of you."
Silence.
Then, softly, a new voice. Female. Gentle. Familiar.
Wait for me.
He looked up, heart pounding.
No one was there.
That night, he dreamed of her again.
The woman in white. Closer now. He could almost see her face.
Who are you?
She reached out. Her hand hovered near his cheek—close, but not touching.
Soon, she whispered. Soon you'll remember.
Remember what?
But the dream faded, and he woke alone.
Age 15
New city. New school. New foster home.
The pattern was familiar by now. A social worker drove him to a small house on a quiet street. A middle-aged couple waited at the door, smiles fixed, eyes assessing.
"This is Gu Chen," the social worker said. "He's quiet. Keeps to himself. You won't have any trouble."
"We don't want 'no trouble,'" the woman said. "We want a child."
The social worker's smile tightened. "He is a child."
The woman looked at Gu Chen. He looked back. Flat. Empty. Waiting.
"Well," she said after a moment. "Let's get you settled."
The room was small. A bed. A desk. A window that looked out at the neighbor's fence.
Gu Chen sat on the bed and stared at the wall.
New city. New school. New people who would leave.
Maybe, the Orphan whispered. Maybe this time—
Shut up.
The voice was his own. For once, not one of them. Just him.
He was fifteen years old. He had been abandoned twice that he could count. He had lived in more homes than he had fingers.
He expected nothing.
He hoped for nothing.
He belonged nowhere.
And somewhere, deep in his chest, the cracked core pulsed—waiting.
Waiting for the day when everything would change.
—
Outside, in the street, a woman in white stood beneath a dying tree.
She watched the window where a boy sat alone.
"Two down," Su Wan whispered.
"Seven to go."
She did not move for a long time.