An unknown number of years ago...
Above the sprawling labyrinth of a medieval city's underbelly, where narrow, cobblestone streets twisted and turned like a tangled web, the sun began its descent
As the sun descended, casting a warm glow over the city's more affluent districts, the slums plunged into an eerie darkness broken only by the flickering light of candles and occasional torches.
A young boy, clad in tattered rags that barely covered his slender frame, navigated the maze of alleyways with practiced ease, his movements as nimble as a stray cat.
Despite his youth, an air of weariness settled upon his delicate features. The weight of hardship was etched into the lines around his eyes. His white hair, a rarity in this world of dark locks and sun-kissed hues, set him apart, making him an object of curiosity and, often, scorn.
He battled with hunger, the persistent growls of his stomach echoing the days since he last tasted sustenance.
The ever-present ache served as a haunting reminder of his dire circumstances.
Despair, akin to a relentless predator, chewed at the edges of his spirit. threatening to swallow him whole. "Mother.. Father," he whispered.
"Give me strength." Drawing his sleeves close, he fought against the urge to shed tears. His eyes were watery but resolute.
With a breath drawn deep into the fabric, he pressed his lips against it, inhaling the familiar scents. It had a foul odor, how much time had passed since its last cleanse remained a mystery.
Many found it repulsive, but to him, the stench served as a comforting embrace, a connection to the past that fueled the fire within his eyes.
Moving with silent steps, the boy navigated a dimly lit alleyway, emerging into a bustling marketplace that contrasted sharply with the desolation of the slums.
The air vibrated with the clamor of street vendors hawking their wares. He observed the trade of various merchandise, his eyes locked on one stall in particular. The vendor, a burly middle-aged man with a scruffy beard, was advertising a wide array of fruits.
His mouth watering, the young boy stepped forward, dissolving into the crowd.
Engaged in an animated conversation with an equally as burly fellow, the vendor exuded an air of camaraderie.
As they exchanged pleasantries, the vendor's friend leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a hushed tone. "Strange things have been happening in our town lately, have you heard anything?"
"Strange.." The vendor paused for a moment, shaking his head. "I don't think so," he replied.
His friend raised a brow. "You really haven't heard anything?"
"Well Mark, if I spent as much time as you do in the tavern, maybe I would've." The vendor teased, grinning slightly.
"I've actually stopped going," Mark retorted in a proud tone.
"What?!" The vendor shouted, air drifting into his wide, open mouth. "The world must be ending."
"I'd have a bottle in my hands if it was! No, it's something else," Mark exclaimed as he glanced to his left and right. "People have been going missing lately," he revealed, his voice barely above a whisper.
"What's so strange about that?" he inquired, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism.
"It's the type of people going missing."
"Yeah, peasants, bad for the slave traders, but got nothing to do with you."
"Nobles.."
"What?!" The vendor's eyes widened in disbelief. Taking a moment to regain his composure. "Who? How?" He questioned.
"How? No one knows exactly, but who?" Mark gulped as he continued. "First it was just peasants and a few commoners, then, a couple days ago, someone in black robes walked out of the Lord's mansion.
When or how he got into it, no one knows, but when the guards went back into the mansion, it was empty.
The vendor's jaw dropped, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation. "And the city guards?" he asked, his voice filled with trepidation.
His friend's face fell. "They've been vanishing too," he confessed, his voice tinged with fear. "It's like a plague sweeping through our city, snatching people away into thin air."
A sense of dread crept over the vendor as he watched his friend's face contort in worry. "Just what is happening?"
The vendor abruptly whipped his head to the side and shouted, "Hey! Get back here!" His eyes locked onto the receding figure of the white-haired young boy, whose arms overflowed with oranges.
The vendor, in his annoyance, dashed forward, hot on the tails of the young boy.
The bustling marketplace transformed into an obstacle course as the boy, being far from an amateur in the art of stealing fruits, weaved through the crowd with practiced ease, the vendor's path constantly impeded by unsuspecting passersby.
"Move! Damn it!" The vendor growled, his frustration mounting as he collided with those who stood between him and his elusive target.
"Dirty rat! You've got some guts stealing from me again!" With a burst of renewed determination, he managed to close the gap, his outstretched hand nearly brushing against the boy's shoulder.
But in a blink of an eye, a wisp of ethereal gray mist swirled around the boy's feet, and he deftly pivoted away, leaving the vendor grasping at thin air. The boy continued his escape, savoring a juicy bite of the stolen orange as he disappeared into a shadowy alleyway.
"Shit!" veins bulging out of his skin, the vendor cursed. However, he did not give chase; the words of his friend rang in his mind. The mysterious black-robed man might show restraint in public, but what about down the alleyway? The vendor didn't want to risk it.
He reluctantly watched on as the boy's figure gradually faded into the distance.
'Huh? He's not chasing?' The young boy raised a brow and thought. He then heaved a deep sigh and said to himself, "One day, I'll become a strong martial artist and repay this debt." His words mumbled slightly as he chewed.
Walking down the alley, he felt a slight unease. "What were those two talking about, though? People going missing?" He frowned. "I need to get stronger," he declared, a resolute expression on his face.
"Boy, would you share one of those oranges with this old man?" Suddenly, a raspy and tired voice resounded out. Turning his head in the direction of the voice, the boy was met with a strange sight.
Sitting on the cobblestone floor with a wooden bowl in his hands was a slender old man, his face full of wrinkles. There were many old peasants in the area the boy was in right now. It wasn't the old man himself that the boy found odd; it was his hair.
Purple and lengthy, it cascaded all the way to the old man's knees. Apart from his father, he had never seen anyone else with such a strange hair color. It wasn't simply the color of his hair that piqued his interest, however. It was the meaning behind it.
A solemn mood surrounded them as the two locked gazes. It was an encounter between two outcasts, one a clever-looking white-haired young boy and the other a wizened old man with violet hair.
"Sure." The young boy said this, breaking the silence. He stretched out his arm, and in his opened palm was an orange. The old man smiled faintly and reached for the orange.
Just as he was about to lay his hands on it, a gray mist appeared, faint and permissible; it swirled around the young boy's fingers.
The old man's hand made contact with air, the young boy had swiftly pulled his arm back.
"Haven't you heard of the saying that there is no free food in this world? old man," the young boy teased, a mischievous smile across his face.
"You're right, it must be attained by oneself, using one's strength." His voice raspy like a rusty ancient gate, the old man replied.
"Exactly." The young boy's smirk grew wider as he brought the orange towards his lips, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He could almost taste the sweetness—the tangy burst of flavor that would awaken his taste buds.
He bit down, his teeth crashing together. Surprised, he glanced toward his palm.
It was empty.
"Where did it go?" He asked in confusion.
The sound of chewing resounded out. "To think an ordinary fruit could have such taste." The old man expressed, his eyes sparkled with delight as he savored the succulent orange within his grasp.
"Boy, what is your name?" he questioned, a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
The young boy squinted his eyes, staring intensely at the figure before him. 'One second I was holding it, and the next, it was just gone.'
'Could he be... a cultivator? He thought, his eyes twinkled, and after a moment of silence, "Huisè," he asserted.
"Huisè, your act of kindness, I'll remember it," the old man said, his eyes closed with a wide smile on his face.
"And you are?" Huisè inquired in a curious tone.
"Me?" The old man paused for a second and continued, "I am but a fragile, old beggar."