The Imperial Hall was alive with the glow of lanterns, casting long shadows against the gilded walls. The scent of roasted duck, spiced pork, and warm rice wine filled the air, yet Shenyan could barely stomach the sight of it.
Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—his twentieth birthday. Yet the weight in his chest told him otherwise.
At the long banquet table, nobles and officials feasted and laughed, their silk robes embroidered with gold and silver dragons. Seated at the head of the table was his father, Emperor Bai Jinhai, a man whose mere presence commanded fear and respect. Next to him sat Bai Shenglie, Shenyan's elder brother—firstborn son, war hero, and a cultivator so powerful that people whispered his name with praise and respect.
And then, there was him—Shenyan, the second prince. The disappointment.
A delicate chime of porcelain rang as wine cups were raised in a toast. His uncle, Bai Zhiwei, smirked over the rim of his cup, voice thick with amusement.
"Twenty years old already," Bai Zhiwei mused, his words carrying easily over the idle chatter. "And yet, what have you to show for it, dear nephew? No cultivation, no scholarly titles, no military achievements. Nothing at all."
A ripple of laughter followed.
Shenyan kept his face carefully blank, gripping his chopsticks tighter.
One of his cousins, Bai Renzhi, leaned forward. "At least if you were a scholar, there would be something to praise. But ah… that's right. His Majesty never let you study, did he?" Bai Renzhi turned to Shenyan's father, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Such kindness, Uncle. You must have known he would embarrass himself, so you spared him the effort."
More laughter.
Shenyan swallowed the bitter taste in his throat.
He didn't need to look at his father to know that Emperor Bai Jinhai would say nothing. His silence was louder than any insult.
Across the table, his brother Bai Shenglie finally spoke. His voice was even, almost indifferent. "Perhaps you should pick up a brush instead, Shenyan. Poetry is fitting for those who are weak."
The words were not meant to wound. Shenglie didn't have to try—his existence alone was an insult to Shenyan. A man born for greatness, a warrior, a cultivator strong enough to tear through mountains.
A prince worthy of the Bai name.
Unlike him.
Someone scoffed.
"If he cannot be a scholar, a cultivator, or a warrior, perhaps we should find another path for him," Bai Zhiwei said smoothly. "What do you think, Your Majesty?"
Emperor Bai Jinhai didn't even lift his gaze from his cup.
"Let him do as he pleases," the emperor said, tone disinterested. "It matters little."
It matters little.
Shenyan felt something snap inside him.
For years, he had endured this. The mockery, the dismissals, the quiet shame of being nothing more than a shadow in his own home. He had kept his mouth shut, had swallowed every cruel word.
But tonight, on his own birthday, he found that he could no longer sit there and let them drag his name through the dirt like he was not even worth the air he breathed.
He set his chopsticks down with a quiet click.
"I see," Shenyan said, his voice soft but sharp. "So this is the great Bai family—proud warriors who find joy in tearing apart their own blood."
The laughter died.
Eyes turned toward him, some amused, some shocked at his sudden defiance.
Renzhi raised a brow. "Oh? The little prince has finally found his tongue?"
Shenyan exhaled, pushing back his chair. The scrape of wood against the marble floor was deafening in the silence.
"Forgive me," he said with a thin smile, bowing slightly. "It seems the wine has made me weary. I will take my leave."
No one stopped him. No one cared enough to.
As Shenyan strode out of the Imperial Hall, he felt the weight of a hundred gazes on his back. But he did not stop.
Not until the cold night air hit his face.
Not until the palace lanterns grew distant behind him.
And not until he heard it—that low, ancient whisper curling through the trees beyond the palace walls.
Come.
The night was deep, but not yet late. The air was thick with the lingering scents of roasted chestnuts, dried herbs, and the faint aroma of wine, though most vendors had long begun packing up their stalls. A few remained, their tired hands stacking wooden crates and sweeping away stray grains of rice from the cobblestone roads.
Shenyan kept walking.
He did not know why, nor did he care.
His silk robe dragged lightly against the ground, its fine embroidery catching the glow of the lanterns that flickered in the wind. But no one paid attention to him. Not the hunched old woman locking up her medicine shop, nor the butcher rolling down the bamboo screen of his stall.
The few people still on the streets had other concerns—drunkards slumped against walls, murmuring nonsense, a stray dog sniffing at abandoned scraps, a pair of men in hushed conversation beneath the eaves of a teahouse.
Shenyan walked past them all.
It was quiet now. The palace, the banquet, the insults—all of it felt distant. As if it had happened in another life, to another person.
The only thing that remained was the voice.
It was soft, almost gentle, like water running over smooth stones. Not a whisper, not a command—just a presence, existing somewhere in the night, luring him forward.
Come.
Shenyan tilted his head slightly. He wasn't afraid. If anything, there was something… calming about it.
It was the only voice that had not ridiculed him tonight.
For a moment, he wondered if he was going mad. If the years of being nothing—being worth nothing—had finally driven him to the edge.
But if that were the case, then so be it.
He exhaled softly, his breath visible in the cold night air.
Even if this path led to his death, what did it matter? Like his father had said, "it matters little"
The life he was living wasn't a life at all.
And so, he walked on.
The lantern-lit roads of the city soon faded behind him. The voices of men, the clatter of hooves, the distant hum of music from teahouses—it all melted into silence.
The stone roads turned to dirt. Then, to grass.
And then, to nothing but the dark sight of the trees.
The cold crept in first.
Not the wind, not the storm—just the kind of cold that settled in the bones when one had been sitting in a place they didn't belong for too long.
Shenyan's head was still ringing from the words spoken over the banquet table, a feast that had never truly been for him. His uncles, distant relatives, even nameless officials who had no right to speak—each one had taken turns, dissecting him, breaking him apart piece by piece with smiles on their faces.
"A prince who does nothing but loiter in temples and drink with commoners."
"The younger son—what a pity. If only he had his father's fire or his brother's strength."
"He doesn't even have cultivation. What can he protect? He will never understand what it means to bear the weight of a kingdom."
His father had not defended him. His mother had not been there. His brother had not cared.
He had clenched his fists so tightly under the table that his nails had bitten into his palms. And then, before the rage could boil over, before the shame could settle—he had left.
Left the banquet. Left the palace. Left the place that had never once felt like home.
And now, he was here.
The forest had swallowed him in silence, save for the soft crunch of fallen leaves beneath his feet. The capital's lantern lights no longer reached him. The warmth of civilization had long since faded.
Still, he kept walking.
The air was still, unnaturally so. The sky above was clear. It was supposed to be an auspicious night. The mage had promised as much. The heavens smile upon you today, Your Highness. The weather shall be gentle, the omens favorable.
What a lie.
Because just then, the wind came.
A whisper at first. A breath against his skin.
Then a sharp gust, rustling the trees above.
Then a howl.
The forest groaned. The towering trees bent and creaked as if bowing to something unseen. Leaves scattered, a storm of them swirling through the darkness.
Shenyan's robes whipped around his body. His long hair was torn loose from its binding. The wind—wild, relentless—lashed at him, pressing into his chest, forcing him to stumble back.
Something was wrong.
This was not a storm. Storms did not rise out of clear skies, did not shake the very bones of the earth.
This was something alive.
Shenyan turned, ready to leave, ready to turn back even if it meant facing his family again. But as he took a single step—
The wind spoke.
It did not have words, but it carried something within it. A voice. A feeling.
A call.
And it was calling him.
His pulse pounded in his ears. His mind screamed at him to leave, but his body did not move. His feet—traitorous, foolish—remained rooted.
The wind surged again.
A force unlike anything he had ever known slammed into him, stealing the breath from his lungs. The world tilted violently. His knees buckled. His vision blurred.
The sky and the trees and the earth melted together into a whirl of black and gold and white—
And then nothing.
The last thing Shenyan felt before the darkness took him was the sensation of hands—not real ones, but something unseen—reaching for him.
And the voice, no longer just a whisper, but something clearer now, something supernatural, something patient.
You finally heard me.
Then, silence.