Chapter Text
The memory of Yiling’s winters was a phantom chill that Wei Ying could never quite shake. He remembered the sting of frost on his bare cheeks, the aggressive snarl of feral dogs over a scrap of garbage, and the desperate, hollow ache in his belly. When Jiang Fengmian had found him on those frozen streets, knelt down, and offered him a sweet melon, Wei Ying had thought the worst of his life was behind him.
He had been brought to Lotus Pier on the back of the Sect Leader's horse, treated with a gentleness he didn't know adults were capable of. But the warmth of that welcome evaporated the moment Jiang Fengmian left him alone.
Wanting to settle the ragged boy into the disciples' quarters, Jiang Fengmian had temporarily stepped away to speak with his wife, Yu Ziyuan, leaving a servant to guide Wei Ying toward the rooms. The servant, distracted by the sudden domestic storm brewing over the Sect Leader's return, had left the eight-year-old Wei Ying standing hesitantly just outside the doorway of the young master's chambers.
That was when Jiang Cheng found him.
The young master of Lotus Pier was small, his eyes red from a combination of weeping and sheer, possessive rage. He had already heard the whispers from the servants: his father had brought home the son of a servant, a boy he smiled at, a boy he had carried. To a child constantly starving for his father's approval, Wei Ying's presence was an existential threat.
Jiang Cheng blocked the threshold, his small chest heaving as he glared at the intruder. "Get out!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with raw, childish fury. "This is *my* room! You're not allowed in here! I don't want you here!"
Wei Ying shrank back, lifting his hands defensively. "I... the Sect Leader told me—"
"I don't care what my a-die said!" Jiang Cheng yelled, slamming a fist against the wooden doorframe. "You don't belong here! If you don't go away—if you don't run far away from here right now—I'll make sure the dogs find you. I'll tell the guards to let them loose, and they'll bite you until you leave!"
To Jiang Cheng, it was a desperate, jealous tantrum meant to assert control over his changing world. But to Wei Ying, whose shins still bore the deep, jagged scars of feral jaws, it was a terrifying, literal promise. Panic seized him. He couldn't stay here. The dogs would come.
Terrified and acting entirely on survival instinct, Wei Ying didn't wait for Jiang Fengmian to return.
That very night, while the residents of Lotus Pier were locked behind closed doors listening to the bitter arguments of their leaders, Wei Ying crept into the kitchens. With the practiced, silent hands of a street thief, he sneaked several strips of dried meat, a handful of mantou, and a small flask of water, bundling them tightly into a spare piece of rough cloth.
He didn't look back at the purple banners or the grand docks. He slipped over the compound walls, vanished into the dark tree line, and ran.
---
He ran for days, driven entirely by the fear of barking hounds and furious young masters.
The sneaked food ran out by the fourth day, forcing him back into the old habits of survival. He foraged for bitter roots, hid in the hollows of ancient trees, and kept his ears sharply tuned to the wilderness. He blindly kept moving, running without any sense of direction, simply putting as much distance as his small body could manage between himself and the terrifying promise of the dogs.
By the second week, his feet were bleeding through his worn straw shoes. His small body burned with a fever brought on by exhaustion and exposure. He finally collapsed at the base of a long, winding stone staircase that cut through a dense, fog-shrouded mountain forest.
When he woke, he was no longer on the cold dirt. He was lying on a simple, clean bamboo mat, the scent of burning sandalwood and fresh mountain air filling his senses.
An old monk with a serene face and snow-white robes was pressing a warm hand to his chest, channeling a steady, soothing stream of spiritual energy into his meridians. This was Baixue Temple— a peaceful sanctuary dedicated to the spiritual path, untouched by the political games of the Great Clans and bound only to the pursuit of righteousness.
"You have a remarkably bright spiritual crib, child," the Grandmaster of Baixue Temple murmured, noting how eagerly the boy's body absorbed the spiritual energy. "What is your name?"
"Wei Ying," he rasped, his throat dry. "Just... Wei Ying."
He never spoke of the Jiangs, and the monks, true to their vows of detachment, never pressed for details of his past.
Wei Ying adapted to temple life with a fierce, desperate devotion. He learned to meditate, sitting perfectly still until a golden core began to form inside him, burning like a steady, warm ember. Unlike the rigid, competitive training of the Great Clans, the cultivation at Baixue Temple focused on spiritual clarity, fluid swordplay that mirrored the wind, and absolute self-reliance. Wei Ying thrived, his natural genius blossoming without the suffocating weight of political expectations.
By the time he was twelve, he was already the most formidable young disciple the temple had seen in generations. He spent his days practicing with a wooden training sword on the cliffs, his laughter finally returning, bright and unburdened.
It was during that year at the temple that a new boy was brought up the mountain steps.
The child was barely seven years old, solemn-faced, carrying a quiet, heavy grief in his eyes. His name was Song Lan.
Because Wei Ying was the senior disciple in their small, independent sect, the duty of guiding the newcomer fell squarely on his shoulders. Song Lan was four years younger than Wei Ying—a quiet, rigid child who took every rule to heart, contrasting sharply with Wei Ying's fluid, experimental nature.
On Song Lan’s first evening, Wei Ying sat cross-legged on the steps of the main pavilion, tossing a small wild apple into the air and catching it. Song Lan stood a few paces away, his hands neatly tucked into his white sleeves, watching him with wary, dark eyes.
"Hey, little shidi," Wei Ying called out, a bright, easy grin stretching across his face as he caught the apple and pointed it toward the younger boy. "Don't look so stiff. In Baixue Temple, we don't care about where you came from. Around here, I'm your Senior Brother. Come over here, and I'll show you the best spot on the mountain to watch the sunrise tomorrow."
Song Lan blinked, his small shoulders relaxing just a fraction as he looked at the older boy who seemed to embody the very freedom of the wind. Slowly, he took a step forward.
Far away in the south, Lotus Pier was still searching for a ghost. But here, high above the clouds, Wei Ying had finally found a home where no one would ever tell him to go away.