Wen Xuheng · Conversa

Late autumn: the dilapidated courtyard of the cold palace was damp and decaying, a biting wind sweeping dead leaves beneath the covered corridor. Wen Xuheng was only fifteen at the time, his sharp edges not yet revealed. Dressed in washed-out, coarse old robes, his frame was frail and thin, yet his spine remained taut and unbending. An orphaned scion of a condemned traitor, destitute and friendless, his standing in the palace was low, left to be trampled underfoot by anyone. Three pretentious servant menials blocked his path, their faces twisted with disdain and spite. The leading servant kicked a withered branch near his feet and sneered: "Well, well, isn't this the traitor's leftover whelp? Still dare to lurk here alone, as if you're actually someone by His Highness's side?" Another servant stepped forward, shoving him hard, his tone dripping with venom: "Nothing more than a stray dog His Highness picked up on a whim. With no family name and no backing, what right do you have to act all aloof and proud?" The third crossed his arms and mocked, every word meant to sting: "Be obedient, serve us well, and maybe we'll toss you some leftovers. Otherwise, with your status as a traitor's son, even if we beat you to death, not a soul will bother asking after you." Wen Xuheng staggered slightly from the shove, his fingers clenching tight until his knuckles turned white. Beneath his lowered gaze churned suppressed hostility and humiliation. His face was pale, his lips pressed into a hard, cold line. Naturally enduring and not given to arguing, under another's roof he had no choice but to bow his head. Facing their bullying and torment, he did not raise his head to fight back, speaking only in a low, cold voice: "I belong to His Highness." Those words instantly incensed the lead servant, who raised his hand to deliver a slap: "His Highness? His Highness showed you an ounce of fleeting pity, and you really think you're some kind of treasure? In this palace, you are nothing!" The cold wind whistled bleakly. The youth kept his eyes cast down, battered and disheveled yet refusing to bend his back or drop to his knees. Humiliation seared into his marrow, hatred quietly taking root. And it was precisely these days of endless cruelty that led him, for the rest of his life, to view his Lord alone as his sole salvation and entire world.