Chapter 5: Whose Child?

Ahead of them stood the grand gates of a building. Even the tall figure of the old grandfather looked tiny in front of the gates. These gates were intricately carved with images of local dunes and black iron, unlike any Wuyi had ever seen.

His shoes were filled with sand, his robes heavy with dust, but he couldn't recall how long they had been standing there. Everything was blurred in the sandstorm, and all that remained was this moment.

Soon the elder lifted the heavy iron knocker attached to the gate and let it fall three times. Each knock reverberated through the silence, breaking the sandy atmosphere. The gates before them creaked open. Standing there was a seasoned town guard, older yet still formidable. He examined them closely, his eyes filled with years of practiced scrutiny, before finally stepping aside to let them in. To the guard, the old man seemed agitated, not with fear but with simmering frustration. Neither the old man nor Wuyi entered.

Abruptly, the old man let go of Wuyi's hand and grabbed the collar of his simple robe, thrusting him forward as if offering a stray dog for adoption. "I bring this boy to you," he announced, his voice coarse from years of labor and hardship. The guard continued to look at them, his face devoid of judgment or even a hint of curiosity.

"For five years this boy has eaten at my table. Not a word or silver from his father, though my daughter claims he knows about the child he sired with her. No more will I cloth or feed him when my own life is aging and my daughter is shamed by the child she bears. His father can take responsibility now," the elder declared.3

As he finished speaking, he let go of Wuyi's collar abruptly. Losing his balance, Wuyi fell onto the stone threshold before the guard. Scrambling to sit up, he looked on, eager to see how the tension between the two men would unfold. But the guard was pretty calm.

"Whose child?" the guard asked, his tone void of curiosity.

"Yuanjing Xuan's," the elder responded, already turning his back and walking away. "Young Xuan, the Heir Presumptive of Yuanjing. He's the one responsible for the boy."

The guard watched the elder as he took measured steps down the sandy path. Then, without a word, he bent down to lift the boy by his collar, moving him out of the doorway so he could secure the door behind him.1

Once the door was fastened, he looked at the boy. His face showed no real surprise, just the kind of stoic acceptance that comes with years of service. "Get up boy, and follow," was all he said.

Thus, Wuyi was led into a new chapter of his life, away from the only home he'd ever known in this world, into the unknown corridors of the hall. He trailed behind the guard through a dimly lit hallway, passing rooms furnished with humble essentials, their windows still sealed against the lingering sand.

Finally, they reached a set of polished wooden doors adorned with intricate carvings. Here, the guard paused to adjust his own attire. He kneeled to straighten the boy's robes and pat down his hair. Whether this act was born of genuine care or simply to ensure his 'package' looked well-tended was unclear.

Standing upright, the guard knocked on the double doors. Without waiting for an answer—none that the boy heard, at least—he pushed them open, ushered him in, and closed the doors behind them.

The chamber they entered was a stark contrast to the gloomy hallways they'd just left. It was comfortable and filled with furnishings, woven silk, and wall hangings. Scrolls and tablets were scattered over shelves, showing signs of regular use. The room was very comfortable compared to the heat outside. There was an aroma of incense.

Seated behind a large table was a stout man, deeply engrossed in a pile of documents. He didn't look up right away, allowing Wuyi a moment to observe his thick, unruly dark hair.

When he finally lifted his gaze, his piercing black eyes took in both the guard and the boy in a swift glance. "Well, Jiao Shen?" he inquired, resignation in his voice as if bracing himself for a tiresome interruption. "What is this?"

The guard nudged the boy gently forward. "An old man brought him, Master Zhenli. Claims he's Yuanjing Xuan's illegitimate son, sir."

The man behind the desk, now identified as Master Zhenli, studied the boy for several moments, his expression one of initial confusion. Just then, Wuyi felt something - some energy reaching out to him, trying to touch him. The sacred chamber in his mind shook and the statue absorbed the energy that came through. Wuyi noticed Master Zhenli frown then grow curious.

His features relaxed into something resembling a smile. Rising from his seat, he rounded the table and stood with his hands on his hips, examining the boy. The statue gave Wuyi feedback that the man was just curious about him, so Wuyi didn't feel threatened. Rather, he sensed that something about him intrigued this Master Zhenli.

Master Zhenli's dark eyes were framed by thick brows, and his tunic stretched over a broad chest. His hands were sturdy, their skin scarred from labor but stained with ink on the right fingers. Slowly, his grin widened, finally erupting into a chuckle. "Well, well," he said at last. "The boy does bear a resemblance to Yuanjing Xuan, doesn't he? This will surely amuse his clan."

Master Zhenli looked at Wuyi again, his eyes narrowing a bit. "Ah, the Qiyuda tribe and their blockade, that was a tough year. Your father, Yuanjing Xuan, was sent by the Sacred Sword Sect to sort that mess out. They needed Meteorite Iron, you see. It's a rare material, only found in a few places like the south plateau of this desert."

The statue gave Wuyi feedback that Master Zhenli was telling the truth, and he was deeply intrigued by Wuyi's background.

"Your father used a long distance array teleportation to get here. That's high level stuff, only possible for powerful sects and clans like the Sacred Sword Sect and the Yuanjing Clan. He was here for months," Master Zhenli chuckled, looking at Wuyi. "You're unlucky, kid. Your father went back to his clan, which is hundreds of thousands of miles away, maybe more."1