The Pale Wind did not give miracles for free.
It gave wind that sanded skin raw, winters that made men count their own breath, and summers that promised harvest only to steal it with drought. It gave work. It gave routine. It gave the kind of life that made people stop dreaming simply because dreaming cost energy they could not spare.
That morning began like all the others.
Smoke rose thin from chimneys. Tools bit into wood. Women called children back from the river before their feet went numb. A rooster screamed as if it could shame the sun into climbing faster.
Li Shen stacked firewood while his father split heavier logs. The axe rose and fell with the same rhythm Li Heng used for everything: measured, stubborn, unwilling to waste motion. He said little. He did not need to. In their house, silence was not avoidance—it was a way to keep grief from spilling into everything.
Li Shen wiped sweat from his brow and reached for another piece.
Then the village's sound changed.
Not louder. Not quieter.
Sharpened.
A dog stopped barking mid-threat. A child's laugh died in his throat. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, as if it had tasted something metallic in the air.
Hooves.
Fast.
Not a farmer's mule. Not a merchant's cart. Not the slow clop of someone who had time to be polite.
This was a rider who did not come to ask.
He came to deliver.
Li Heng paused with the axe half-raised.
Li Shen looked up.
They both listened as the hooves tore through the village road and did not slow until they hit the central yard.
A horse came into view, lathered and trembling, its flanks dark with sweat. The rider swung down before the animal had fully stopped. His boots hit the earth hard, as if the ground owed him space.
He wore a short coat reinforced at the shoulders, the kind of clothing soldiers favored—practical, built for movement. A short saber hung at his hip. His face was drawn from travel and lack of sleep, but his eyes were sharp in the way eyes became when a man had been told his time belonged to someone higher.
He scanned the yard once.
Then he spoke, voice flat and impatient.
"Village Chief. Elder. Whoever answers for this place. Now."
It wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
When the world beyond the village spoke like that, you either listened or you suffered.
The Chief appeared quickly, trying to look like authority rather than a man whose job was keeping arguments from turning into knives. Two elders followed him—old men with narrow eyes and stiff backs, the kind who had survived long enough to be treated as pillars simply because they were still standing.
The rider did not bow. He did not greet.
He reached into a satchel strapped across his chest and pulled out a scroll-case wrapped in oiled cloth.
Red wax sealed the cap.
A stamped mark sat in the wax like a bruise.
The elders went visibly still.
"This is a royal decree," the rider said. "It is to be read in every registered settlement. I will read it once. I do not have time to repeat myself."
The Chief swallowed. "We are only a small—"
"I don't care what you are," the rider cut in without hesitation. "You are on the registry. That means you hear it."
He snapped his fingers toward the Chief.
"Gather them."
The Chief barked orders. A runner bolted down the lane. Doors opened. People were pulled from chores and meals and sleep. Children were grabbed by wrists. Old men were hauled out of shade as if the shade itself had become illegal.
The central yard filled fast—faster than it ever did for weddings or funerals.
Not with celebration.
With a pressure that made people stand too close and breathe too shallow.
Li Shen arrived with Li Heng and stopped near the edge, where he could see without being crushed. He watched familiar faces tighten into new shapes: fear, hope, greed, disbelief.
Zhou Liang forced his way toward the front, eyes bright with the hunger of someone who wanted the world to finally pick him.
Qian Mei stayed back, like Li Shen. She watched the scroll-case more than the rider, as if she understood the seal mattered more than the man holding it.
Da Niu hovered near a stone basin, big hands clenched and unclenched, like his body wanted to solve the problem with strength and didn't know where to hit.
Old He was not visible.
Li Shen didn't look for her. Old He did not come when called. She came when she decided the moment was worth her time.
The rider waited until the yard was packed enough to satisfy him.
Then he broke the seal.
The wax cracked softly.
In the silence, it sounded loud.
He unrolled the decree and began to read.
His voice stayed flat.
That was what made it terrifying.
This was not news.
This was policy.
"By authority of the Crown," he read, "in coordination with the Great Sect of the Dawn Plains, a Selection Assessment shall be held in Haoyang City, on the first day of the fourth month."
The name landed like weight.
The Great Sect of the Dawn Plains.
Even in a village where people barely understood cultivation, that name was not a rumor. It was a fact of the world, like mountains or storms—something too large to argue with.
The rider continued.
"All settlements within the designated districts shall present eligible youth for assessment. Failure to comply will be recorded as non-cooperation and punished accordingly."
A ripple ran through the elders—real fear, the kind that made old men suddenly look very old.
Punished accordingly meant nothing concrete, and that was the point. Unclear punishments were the most efficient kind.
The rider's gaze did not move from the paper.
"Eligibility: children between the ages of six and fourteen, inclusive. Bone-age and spirit imprint will be verified on site. Fraud will be punished."
Six to fourteen.
The yard shifted.
That range was not "a few lucky ones."
That range was half a generation.
A child of six still carried baby fat on their cheeks.
A child of fourteen could already work like an adult.
And all of them—if eligible—were suddenly dragged into the orbit of Haoyang.
The rider read the next line with the same indifferent tone.
"Eligible youth must arrive before dawn on the day of assessment. Late arrivals will not be accepted. Disorder will be punished. Violence will be punished. Interference with the Great Sect's process will be punished."
Punished again.
The decree used it like a hammer.
Then the rider paused, and the rhythm of his voice changed slightly, as if quoting the sect's own language rather than the Crown's.
"The Great Sect does not extend charity. Those without talent will be dismissed. Those with talent will be taken."
Taken.
The word hit the crowd in two ways at once.
Some heard salvation.
Some heard theft.
Li Shen heard something colder:
Selection meant sorting.
The rider finished the final lines quickly.
"Local authorities shall not obstruct movement. Registered settlements are advised to travel in groups. The Crown's orderkeepers will maintain road discipline where feasible."
Advised.
Where feasible.
Nothing here was a promise. It was a warning with paperwork wrapped around it.
The rider rolled the decree back up as if the future of the village was just another delivery.
He looked at the Chief.
"You will comply," he said.
The Chief nodded too fast. "Of course. We—"
"I don't have time for your explanations," the rider cut in.
He swung up onto his horse in one smooth motion.
Then he looked down at the crowd—a yard full of people who had just been handed the outline of a different universe.
"One more thing," he said.
The entire village leaned in without meaning to.
The rider's mouth did not soften.
"Haoyang will be crowded. There will be thieves. There will be fights. If your settlement embarrasses itself, your Chief's name will be remembered."
He said the last word while looking directly at the Chief.
Then he kicked his horse forward.
Hooves struck earth.
And he was gone, cutting down the road as if the village had never existed.
Dust lingered.
Silence returned.
But the village did not feel the same.
---
For three breaths, nobody moved.
Then the yard detonated.
Not into joy.
Into calculation.
Into panic.
Into hope so sharp it cut.
People spoke over each other.
"Six to fourteen—my son qualifies!"
"My daughter too!"
"Haoyang—how many days on foot?"
"We need shoes."
"We need food."
"We need a cart."
"What if the road kills them?"
"What if one of ours is taken?"
That last question was not asked like a simple possibility.
It was asked like a prayer.
The elders huddled with the Chief, faces tight. They were shaken—truly shaken—because they understood what the villagers did not:
this was not a festival invitation.
This was a compliance test.
A way for the Crown and the sect to measure who could obey quickly, who could mobilize, who could be controlled.
Old Gao, one of the elders, swayed slightly, as if his knees had remembered famine.
"All of them," he muttered. "They want all of them."
"They want the talent," another elder hissed back. "And they want the rest of us to kneel in gratitude."
The Chief raised his hands and shouted.
"Quiet! QUIET!"
The yard quieted in layers—never fully, but enough.
The Chief drew himself up, borrowing authority from the decree the way a starving man borrowed warmth from a fire that was not his.
"You heard the decree," he said. "This is not a chance we refuse."
Heads nodded immediately, violently, as if refusal itself had become impossible.
"In ten days," the Chief continued, "this village will send every eligible child to Haoyang."
A mother gasped, clutching her son tighter.
An old man whispered, "Every one?"
"Every one," the Chief repeated, and the words were not mercy.
They were strategy.
"If one is taken," he said, voice rising, "this village gains face. If one becomes a disciple—"
He didn't finish.
He didn't have to.
The yard finished it for him with its imagination:
No more being stepped on.
No more soldiers requisitioning grain because they could.
No more winter that killed quietly.
The elders' faces did not soften. They knew the fantasy was expensive.
But they also knew something else:
no one would forgive a Chief who wasted an opportunity this rare.
The village would rather break itself than let the door close unopened.
The Chief pressed on.
"Families will prepare," he said. "Those who can travel will travel. Those who can't will still send their children. We will form groups. We will share carts. We will share provisions."
Share.
Li Shen almost laughed at the word.
Sharing in this village usually meant someone with strong hands took more than their portion.
But the decree had changed the rules.
For a moment, even the greedy had to pretend to be generous—because everyone was watching.
A man stepped forward from the side with a practiced smile.
Wu Jinsong—known in the village as Uncle Wu—held himself like someone who had never truly been hungry, even when his bowl was empty.
"Chief," Uncle Wu said smoothly, "this is wise. But we need organization. Supplies. Lists. Otherwise people will panic and the road—"
An elder snapped at him. "Do not add chaos to a decree you do not understand."
Uncle Wu's smile held, but his eyes hardened.
The Chief's jaw tightened. "We will handle it."
Then he turned and began naming children, pulling names from the village registry like fish from a net.
As each name was called, a family's posture changed.
Some straightened, proud.
Some shrank, afraid.
Some became calculating—already thinking about what they could demand in exchange for letting their child be "the village's hope."
Li Shen heard Zhou Liang's name and saw Zhou Liang's mother clutch his sleeve like she was trying to keep him from being taken and push him forward at the same time.
He heard Qian Mei's name and saw Qian Mei's father's hand land heavily on her shoulder—not as a warning, but as an anchor.
Then he heard his own name.
"Li Shen."
Eyes turned.
Not because he was special.
Because he was different.
The village remembered the Li house: too quiet since Li Mei died, too stubborn, too proud to beg.
Some people looked at Li Shen with sudden expectation.
Others looked at him with contempt, as if merely being eligible was an insult to the village's sense of who deserved escape.
Li Shen did not move.
He did not smile.
He did not perform gratitude.
He simply absorbed the attention the way he absorbed winter—by not giving it the satisfaction of breaking him.
Beside him, Li Heng's hand brushed his shoulder once.
Brief.
Firm.
Not comfort.
Confirmation.
The Chief rolled the registry back up.
"Ten days," he declared. "Prepare. Anyone eligible who does not go will be remembered."
Remembered.
Li Shen understood the threat immediately.
A village didn't need prisons.
It had reputations.
Reputation could starve you faster than hunger.
The Chief began shouting instructions—who would meet when, who would speak to who, who would help which family, where carts would gather, how they would depart.
But the yard no longer belonged to him.
The decree had made everyone a strategist and everyone a gambler.
Families broke into clusters, bargaining and whispering.
A man hissed at his son, "Do not embarrass us."
A woman whispered to her daughter, "If you are taken, don't forget us."
Someone cried quietly.
Someone laughed too loudly.
The most dangerous people were the ones who stayed silent and watched.
Li Shen saw it clearly: the village had stopped seeing children as children.
Now children were chances.
Tokens.
Investments.
That was what an opportunity in gold did to poor places.
It did not make them noble.
It made them desperate.
Zhou Liang pushed his way toward Li Shen, face bright with hunger.
"We're going," Zhou Liang said, almost breathless. "Haoyang. Six to fourteen—so many of us. That means the odds—"
"It means the village will throw everyone at the door," Li Shen said quietly.
Zhou Liang blinked. "That's good."
Li Shen looked at him.
Zhou Liang wanted to believe the world was finally fair.
Li Shen did not have that luxury.
"We go," Li Shen said. "That's all."
Zhou Liang frowned, then forced a grin back onto his face and ran off to share his excitement with someone who would feed it.
Qian Mei approached more calmly.
"They're sending everyone," she said.
Li Shen nodded. "No one refuses something like this."
Qian Mei's gaze moved across the yard: the elders, the Chief, the families already arguing over carts.
"And it'll make people ugly," she added.
Li Shen didn't deny it. "It already has."
Qian Mei studied him. "Are you afraid?"
Li Shen almost answered automatically: No.
Then he remembered he was ten, and pretending to be older didn't change reality.
He said the truth.
"Yes," he said. "But I'm going anyway."
Qian Mei nodded once, as if that answer was enough.
"Me too," she said.
They stood in silence for a moment as the yard churned around them.
Then Li Heng's voice cut through close by.
"Come," he said to Li Shen.
Li Shen followed his father out of the crowd.
Not because he was avoiding it.
Because a child didn't steer a village.
A child survived it.
---
On the way home, Li Heng spoke once.
"That decree," he said, eyes on the road, "was not meant for us."
Li Shen looked up. "Then why read it here?"
Li Heng's jaw worked. "Because the world counts everything. Even villages like ours."
Li Shen felt that settle in his chest: the cold understanding that the village had been touched by something vast and indifferent.
They reached their yard.
The woodpile was still there. The stove would still need fire. The world did not stop because a door had opened somewhere else.
Li Shen stood at the threshold and listened to the village behind him—voices still raised, plans being made, panic turning into motion.
It was an opportunity in gold.
That was true.
But gold did not make people kind.
Gold made people reveal themselves.
Li Shen touched the small sachet under his shirt—his mother's scent worn thin but still there, still stubborn.
And quietly, without saying it to anyone, he made a decision.
He would go to Haoyang.
Not because the village wanted him to be its hope.
Not because the Chief demanded compliance.
Not because Zhou Liang's excitement was contagious.
He would go because the world had just shown him, in the bluntest way possible, that power existed—and it moved on horseback, under seals, without slowing down to notice who got trampled.
If he wanted to keep anyone he loved alive in a world like that…
He needed a way to stand in its path.
Even if he was small.
Even if he was slow.
Even if, in Haoyang, the verdict would be the same as it always was for boys like him.
He would go anyway.
Because this was the first real door the world had opened.
And in the Vent Pale, you did not wait for a second one.