The Xia Dynasty was vast, powerful, and serene—or so believed those who had never set foot in the small City of Xīwàng.
Nestled on the curved bank of the great Jing–Hang Canal, Xīwàng was a refuge for fishermen and boatmen. Wooden boats glided through its murky waters carrying rice, silk, and ancient legends. The city, surrounded by mountains sharp as stone spears, seemed protected by the gods themselves, but its inhabitants knew the true blessing was above: atop the sharpest peak stood a Buddhist temple with golden roofs, shimmering like fire under the sun.
Every ten years, the Xia Emperor himself climbed those steps to kneel before Buddhas and Bodhisattvas—ignoring, however, the people below, who lived at the mercy of the local Magistrate.
That night, Xīwàng was supposed to sleep in peace. The fishermen's nets had been hauled in, the night market was extinguishing its paper lanterns, and the few drunkards stumbled back to their wooden homes.
But the skies decided to awaken the city.
A thunderclap tore through the silence. Then came the wind.
Violent gusts lashed the still-standing stalls, tore off roof tiles, and toppled poles like twigs. Screams mingled with the sound of breaking wood, goods flew through the air, and old houses, fragile as dry leaves, collapsed. Some died buried beneath the rubble. Others ran without knowing where to go. But there was no escape: the gale seemed to have a life of its own, as if searching for something… or someone.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the wind stopped.
While chaos reigned in the square, on a street forgotten by guards and the wealthy, everything was mist and silence.
In that crooked alley, surrounded by shacks of rotten boards, an old orphanage stubbornly persisted, with gates that creaked at the slightest breeze. No one dared pass there—it was a place of living ghosts, abandoned children, and broken promises.
At the gate, enveloped by fog, a light pierced the darkness.
From within it, a hooded figure descended, light as the breath of a deity. His face was hidden, but he radiated a power so dense that not even the night itself dared to approach.
In his arms, a baby. Hair as white as the snow falling on distant mountain peaks. Closed eyes, pale skin. So fragile he seemed to glow.
The figure placed the child, wrapped in a simple cloak, before the gate. Then he raised a hand and, with a voice that sounded like contained thunder, said:
"May the Heavens forgive him."
"And may he never remember."
In a blink, the figure vanished. The mist dissipated as if nothing had happened. And the city returned to calm—but it was no longer the same.
At the top of the golden temple, Abbot Mingxu, an elder with eyebrows long as fallen snow, interrupted his prayer before the Great Buddha. His eyes, kept half-closed for decades, suddenly opened. A chill ran through his bent body.
He whispered, as if confessing to the winds:
"A new era will begin… in the Supreme Heavens."
And the wind that stirred the temple bells seemed to laugh, carrying the promise that nothing would remain the same.
The next morning, when the weak sun of the Xia Dynasty once again warmed the wet roofs of Xīwàng, the city tried to comprehend the damage left by the storm.
The wounded were carried on improvised stretchers, merchants gathered pieces of wood, children picked up the remaining fruits and fish scattered on the streets.
At the orphanage, a woman with a face dry as tree bark opened the creaking gate. Her name was Aunt Ru—no one remembered her birth name, only that she had cared for the orphanage as long as the rotten walls could tell.
She first saw the light cloak, then the locks white as moonlight. She furrowed her brow, suspicious, and looked around—no one in sight. She lowered her gaze to the sleeping child, breathing softly, as if the wind from the previous night had never touched him.
"Heavens…" she murmured, touching the boy's hair. "What misfortune do you bring me now?"
She took the baby into her arms. He stirred but did not cry. In his eyes, when they opened for a moment, Aunt Ru saw the reflection of the sky: a blue so clear it seemed impossible for a newborn.
She took the boy inside. The orphanage was damp, cramped, filled with children of all ages—thin, barefoot, with eyes too big for such small faces. As soon as they saw Aunt Ru enter with the pale bundle, some of the older children approached, curious.
"Who is it, aunt?" asked a freckled-faced girl.
"Is he our brother now?" said another, grabbing Aunt Ru's skirt.
She didn't answer right away. She laid the baby on a straw mat near the cracked clay stove. Some children shrank back at the sight of the white hair. They whispered among themselves.
"Looks like a ghost…" said a boy with broken teeth.
"He's a cursed spirit!" spat another, stepping back.
Aunt Ru sighed. She was superstitious, like almost everyone in Xīwàng, but even more superstitious was her hunger—one more mouth was one more problem. Still, something in that baby's calm made her hesitate. She sat down, took a clean piece of cloth, dipped it in the basin of water, and wiped the child's sleeping face.
"If he came with the wind, then he shall be called Bai Feng." she said, almost to herself. "White Wind… may the Heavens take him whenever they want, but until then, he'll eat the same thin porridge as the others."
The children repeated the name, some laughing, others making signs to ward off evil spirits. But Bai Feng remained quiet, breathing softly, as if he did not belong to that mud floor and crooked walls.
Outside, the sun dispersed the last clouds. But in the city of Xīwàng, no one imagined that the boy with snow-white hair would one day make even the mountains bow.
Years passed in the City of Xīwàng like the calm flow of the Jing–Hang Canal: seemingly serene, but always carrying secrets in its depths.
Bai Feng grew up among broken boards, thin porridge, and spiteful whispers. His white hair never darkened—on the contrary, it became even lighter under the sun, reflecting a cold light that disturbed superstitious eyes. His pale blue eyes, inherited from no mystery, seemed to see beyond the moldy walls.
The other children feared and despised him. Whenever they could, they pulled his hair, hid his bowl of rice, shouted that he was a demon sent to curse the orphanage. Aunt Ru, old and tired, did nothing but grumble, as if only her breath was older than the boy.
But Bai Feng rarely cried. When tears came, he hid in the back of the orphanage, sat beneath a crooked fig tree growing where no one cared, closed his eyes, and listened to the wind. There, he seemed to hear whispers he could not explain—as if the whole world spoke to him, and he was unable to answer.
On the morning he turned twelve, Bai Feng woke before the sun. He ran his hand through his hair, still damp with dew, tied it into a simple ponytail, crumpled his old clothes, and left.
By then, he was already helping clean the orphanage, carrying water, sweeping leaves. Aunt Ru said nothing; she just left a bowl of cold rice by the stove, like one feeding a forgotten dog.
After finishing his chores, Bai Feng liked to walk through the market. He watched fishermen bargaining for silver carp, merchants haggling over silk fabrics from the east, tea sellers shouting for customers.
Almost no one spoke to him. Many turned their faces away, some made signs to ward off bad luck. Bai Feng walked silently—with lively yet distant eyes.
That day, however, something changed.
Turning a corner near the fruit stand, Bai Feng bumped into a group of boys dressed in fine silk—something rare in Xīwàng. In their midst was a boy with a crooked smile, an arrogant face, hair tied in a neat topknot: Luo Yemu, only son of Magistrate Luo Niejin.
Yemu held a red apple in his hand, slowly biting it as his friends laughed loudly, pushing vendors aside to clear a path. Bai Feng had no time to move away: he felt his shoulder collide with Yemu's, and the apple fell onto the dirt floor.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Luo Yemu lowered his eyes to the dirty fruit, then looked up at the white-haired boy. His smile was that of someone who had never heard the word "no."
"Look at this," Yemu said, spitting a piece of half-chewed apple at Bai Feng's feet. "A white-haired rat who doesn't know where he's going."
The boys behind him laughed, eager for a show.
Bai Feng lowered his head but did not back down. He looked at the fallen apple, then at Yemu.
"Excuse me," Bai Feng said, his voice firm, neither arrogant nor afraid.
Yemu arched his eyebrows. He stepped forward, so close that Bai Feng could smell the expensive incense on his clothes.
"Excuse me?" Yemu repeated, savoring the word. "An orphan bastard apologizing? Then prove your remorse. Pick up my apple. Clean it… with your filthy clothes. Then give it back to me."
Behind, the friends laughed louder. Some vendors stopped to watch, but no one dared interfere—no one defied the Magistrate's son.
Bai Feng remained still. His gaze met Yemu's, and at that moment, the wind blew through the stalls, raising dust. His white hair fluttered like snowflakes.
"No," he said, simple as a breath.
Laughter died on Yemu's lips. For a second, only the sound of the wind was heard.
Then Yemu's fist came fast, a short punch aimed at Bai Feng's face. But the white-haired boy, as if guided by the wind, stepped aside halfway, and the fist hit nothing.
Yemu lost his balance, fell onto the crushed apple, dirtying the expensive silk sleeves. Silence turned into murmurs, then stifled laughter from some braver vendors.
Yemu's face flushed—half with anger, half with humiliation. Before he could get up, Bai Feng was already walking away, turning only once to look back—his eyes as cold as the river that cut through Xīwàng.
At that moment, the rivalry between the Magistrate's son and the white-haired orphan was born—small as a spark, but destined to ignite much more than just a market street.
The market seemed to hold its breath. Luo Yemu, still kneeling on the crushed apple, slowly stood up. The fine silk fabric stained with dirt felt like a personal affront—and his eyes burned like embers.
"A street rat dares to embarrass me?" he spat the words, stepping closer once again.
The boys behind him surrounded Bai Feng, forming a semicircle. Vendors stepped back, pushing carts and vegetable baskets aside. The merchants' voices fell silent; only the sound of wind moving colorful flags echoed through the alleys.
Bai Feng took a deep breath. He didn't step back. Inside him, he felt that strange stillness—as if something deep anchored him to the ground, even in the face of shouts and anger.
Yemu looked at one of the boys behind him, a burly kid with a round pig-like face.
"Hold him," he ordered.
The big guy stepped forward, grabbed Bai Feng's arms, pinning them behind his back. Bai Feng tried to break free, but the brute's hands were heavy as chains.
Yemu cracked his knuckles. He smiled—a wolf's smile.
"An orphan bastard needs to learn to crawl."
Without warning, Yemu's fist came again—this time hitting Bai Feng's stomach. The air escaped his lungs, but he didn't groan. The second punch hit his face. A faint taste of iron spread in his mouth.
Some vendors turned their faces, murmuring prayers to Buddha, fearing to call the Magistrate's wrath. Others watched silently, caught between fear and curiosity.
Yemu leaned close to Bai Feng's face, so near their breaths mingled.
"Will you kneel now? Lick my boot?" he whispered, the sour apple breath souring the air.
Bai Feng spat a trickle of blood on the ground, took a deep breath, and stared at Yemu.
"No."
One word, but spoken as if it were stone.
Yemu gritted his teeth. He raised his hand for another blow—this time aiming the punch with full force at the face.
But before he could land it, a voice echoed through the market:
"Young Master Yemu!"
A man in dark leather armor, with the Magistrate's symbol embroidered on his chest, approached with long strides. He carried a short sword at his waist, clinking against his thigh with each step. The boys surrounding Bai Feng stepped back, intimidated.
The guard stopped behind Yemu, breathing heavily. He bowed briefly, though without lowering his head much.
"Young Master, your father orders your presence at the Red Hall. The banquet with the Lin'an officials will begin soon. He wishes you by his side to greet the guests."
Yemu glanced sideways at the guard, then at Bai Feng, still held by the arms. The contemptuous smile returned.
"Release him," he said coldly. The brute obeyed, pushing Bai Feng onto the dirt floor.
Yemu crouched, bringing his face close to Bai Feng's, who was gasping but not lowering his gaze.
"White-haired rat… enjoy this day," he whispered, his voice like poison. "Next time, I'll teach you to crawl until you eat dirt. And no one will stop me."
He stood with elegance, adjusted the dirty sleeves of his tunic, cast a cold glance at the vendors—as if they were all guilty for having seen. Then he turned and followed the guard, trailed by the boys, disappearing among the market tents.
Bai Feng remained there, kneeling, tasting the bitter flavor of blood. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his forearm, cleaned the red streak, and raised his face to the sky. The clouds moved lazily—but above them, something seemed to whisper, as if the wind was calling him by name.
In silence, he stood up.
Whispers began again behind him—some said the orphan was lucky to still have teeth, others murmured that it was a bad omen to face the son of the most powerful man in the city.
But Bai Feng said nothing. He slowly passed through the market, feeling the eyes on his back. And as his steps echoed over the wooden boards of the pier, somewhere inside him, something awakened—like an ember waiting for the right breath to become fire.