Morning in the Sacred Village was always quiet, as if the air itself was afraid to disturb the prayers that rose from its thousand shrines. Bells rang faintly across the mist, and incense drifted through narrow stone streets like the breath of forgotten gods. Yet in one small house at the edge of the valley, silence took a different shape. It was not the silence of reverence, but of rejection.
Yun Wuxian sat on the threshold, watching the world with eyes that reflected nothing. The children of the temple ran past him carrying wooden talismans, laughing as they pretended to banish evil. When they reached the end of the path, they stopped and whispered among themselves, their faces half-curious, half-fearful. No one dared to step too close.
"Don't look at him," one boy murmured. "They say Heaven can't see him. If you stare too long, Heaven might not see you either."
Another laughed nervously. "But if Heaven can't see him, maybe he can do anything he wants."
Their laughter faded when Yun Wuxian turned his head. He said nothing, only watched them with that distant calm that felt older than the mountains. The boys ran, the sound of their feet vanishing into the mist.
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, thin, clean—yet no warmth clung to them. Even the sun, pale as it was, refused to rest on his skin.
Inside, his mother Yun Lian sat before a half-burnt candle. Her hair had turned gray before its time, her fingers trembling as she sewed small charms of warding into his robes. She whispered incantations not for power, but for hope.
When he entered, she smiled—soft, weary. "You shouldn't sit outside, Wuxian. The villagers…"
"They already hate me," he replied. His voice was calm, but not childish. It carried the stillness of a grave.
"They don't hate you," she said, though she couldn't finish the lie. Her gaze fell to the charms in her lap. "They fear what they don't understand."
He tilted his head. "Then why do they pray to it?"
Her hands froze. For a moment, the candle flame wavered, and the room dimmed.
"Because," she whispered, "they would rather fear Heaven than live without it."
The next day, the priests came. Three men in white robes bearing the seal of the Divine Court arrived to perform the annual Purification Rite, a ritual meant to cleanse the village of karmic residue. Every family was to offer a bowl of their blood to be sanctified in the temple's sacred fire. When purified, it would glow with faint gold light—the mark of divine acceptance.
When Yun Lian brought her son forward, murmurs rose among the villagers.
"Why bring him?" one woman hissed. "His blood will taint the altar."
"He has no mark," said another. "The fire won't take him."
Yun Lian kept her eyes low. "Every soul must be offered. Even one Heaven ignores."
The High Priest's gaze was sharp, cold beneath his serene smile. "Bring the child forward."
Yun Wuxian stepped without hesitation. He stood before the altar as the golden flame flickered. The priest drew a blade of spirit steel and sliced his palm gently. Blood fell—dark, silent, like ink sinking into water.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the fire screamed.
A sound like glass breaking filled the temple. The sacred flame turned black. The priests recoiled as the air filled with the stench of burned divinity. The bowl cracked, the runes of purification twisting into meaningless ash.
Yun Lian rushed forward, clutching her son. "Stop! He's just a child!"
The High Priest's calm shattered. "A child? No, this is no child of Heaven. His blood rejects light itself."
He turned to the others. "Cleanse the altar. Destroy the remnants. The Rite is defiled."
But the flame would not return to gold. No prayer could mend what had been undone.
That night, whispers swept through the Sacred Village. Some said the boy's blood had burned through the fire because it contained no karma to balance. Others claimed it was proof that he had no soul.
Inside the small house, Yun Lian held him close, her voice trembling. "You must not go near the temple again. Promise me, Wuxian."
He looked at her. "If Heaven rejects me, why do you still pray to it?"
"Because if I stop," she said softly, "there will be nothing left to protect you from."
The next morning, a faint knock came at their door. It was Elder Ming, the oldest of the priests, a man who once blessed Yun Lian's wedding. His face was worn by regret.
"Lian," he said quietly, "the Divine Court has spoken. The child is not to be seen in the village again. They will come for him."
Her breath stopped. "He's only a boy."
"He is a wound upon Heaven's order," Ming replied. "If he remains, the balance may falter. They believe his existence stains the karma of all who know him."
"Then let them take me instead," she said.
He shook his head. "He is beyond exchange."
That night, she packed what little they owned—clothes, herbs, a silver hairpin that once belonged to her mother. When dawn touched the mountains, she led Yun Wuxian through the forest path that wound behind the shrines.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
"Somewhere Heaven doesn't look," she said.
They traveled for days, the air growing colder, the path narrowing until only shadows remained. She found a cave beneath an ancient willow tree, half hidden by moss and forgotten offerings. There they stayed, far from the village, far from the world.
Time passed quietly. Yun Wuxian grew, though his body changed little. His eyes remained unreadable, his presence faint. Yun Lian taught him letters and chants, though his voice never echoed when he spoke them. He watched the seasons shift without wonder, for he felt no warmth, no cold—only existence itself, heavy and unyielding.
Sometimes, she caught him staring at the candlelight for hours, as if trying to understand why it danced for others but never for him.
One evening, rain fell hard against the mountains. Water seeped into the cave, extinguishing their fire. Yun Lian tried to relight it, but the wood refused to catch.
"Mother," he said quietly. "It won't burn for me."
Her hands trembled. "Then I'll make it burn for both of us."
She cupped her hands around the spark, whispering prayers until the flame rose once more. Its light touched her face, but not his.
He watched her, and for the first time, he asked, "Why are you not afraid of me?"
She smiled faintly. "Because fear belongs to Heaven. Love does not."
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley.
Days later, footsteps echoed in the rain. The priests had found them. The High Priest himself entered the cave, his robe spotless despite the storm. Behind him, the other clerics carried talismans that shimmered with divine power.
"Yun Lian," he said, his tone like steel wrapped in silk. "You were warned."
She stood before her son, her body frail but unmoving. "He's done nothing. He only exists."
"And existence is his sin," the priest replied. "The heavens cannot permit a being without balance. The Court decrees his erasure."
He raised his staff. Divine light gathered, painting the cave walls in gold. Yun Wuxian watched the light with quiet indifference. It flickered on his skin but did not touch him.
When the priest struck, the air split. The divine flame collided with something unseen—a stillness so deep it devoured sound. The light broke apart, scattering into pale dust.
The priests staggered back, their faces pale. The High Priest stared in disbelief. "Impossible… even the flame of Heaven refuses to mark him."
Yun Lian fell to her knees, clutching her son. "Please… if Heaven cannot touch him, then why not leave him be?"
Ming, the old priest, lowered his gaze. "Because his existence reminds us that Heaven is not perfect."
The High Priest turned coldly toward Yun Wuxian. "Child, the world will never accept you. Your very breath is a stain upon the sky."
Yun Wuxian met his gaze for the first time. "Then perhaps the sky was never clean."
The words hung in the air like a prophecy.
The priests left soon after, shaken and silent. But before departing, the High Priest spoke once more to Yun Lian.
"You cannot hide him forever," he said. "He is not meant to walk this world. One day, Heaven will correct its error."
She did not answer.
When they were gone, she turned to her son and touched his face. "Do not speak such things again, Wuxian. Heaven has ears everywhere."
He looked at her gently. "But not for me."
The rain continued for days. The cave became their only world—dark, small, yet safe in its solitude. Yun Lian grew weaker, her health fading with each passing season. Still, she smiled when he brought her wild herbs or covered her with his thin robe.
Once, as dawn crept over the valley, she whispered, "Wuxian… if the world hates you, do not hate it back. Just walk it until it forgets you."
He asked, "And if it never forgets?"
"Then make it remember why it should have."
When her strength finally left her, she lay upon the cold stone, her eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cave. Her last breath was a prayer that Heaven would never find him.
Yun Wuxian sat beside her until the candle died. The world outside moved on without him—the priests returned to their temples, the village purified its altars, and Heaven continued its endless cycle of judgment.
But in the forgotten cave beneath the willow tree, a child without light sat in silence, staring into the void that was both his home and his reflection.
No tears fell. No words were spoken. Only the soft whisper of wind through the leaves, carrying a single truth through the darkness:
Heaven could deny him, but it could no longer erase him.
For every act of rejection becomes a seed. And someday, even a seed buried in darkness learns to grow toward the light it was never meant to touch.
Far away, in the Divine Court, the High Priest awoke from a restless dream. He looked toward the heavens and murmured to the silent stars, "That child… he will become a stain upon the sky."
And though the stars did not answer, a single one flickered, dimmed, and died.