The wind whispered through the temple walls like a forgotten ghost. It carried with it the scent of incense, pine, and something older, something sorrowful. Lu was five years old now, her feet bare against the stone floor, her hands small but calloused from sweeping leaves and scrubbing floors.
The monks called her Xiao Lu, little deer, because she had eyes that held storms, even when she smiled. And she did smile often, even. But there was something about that smile that made people uneasy. It was soft, yes, innocent even, but behind it flickered something unreadable. Fire waiting for wood.
She woke each morning before the sun. Master Wang said the world was quietest before dawn, and only in silence could the soul be heard. Lu didn't know if she believed in souls, hers felt like a missing thing, like an old coat someone had taken from her when she was too young to remember but she obeyed.
She always obeyed not because she was docile. No, Lu listened because learning was the only weapon she had. And one day, she would need weapons.
She did not know her parents' names anymore. She had forgotten their faces. But she remembered the cold. She remembered the moon. She remembered the sky above her the night she had been left like garbage at the temple gates.
She remembered not crying. Even then, even as a newborn, something in her had refused to scream. Sister Li braided Lu's hair in the mornings. Her fingers were rough from years of labor, but gentle when they touched Lu's scalp.
"You have strong roots," Sister Li would say. "Your hair grows like wild bamboo."
Lu never said anything back. But she always listened. Bamboo bends in the wind but never breaks. The wind may howl, may scream, may tear, but bamboo remains. Lu wanted to be bamboo. No. She wanted to be something more. Something the wind feared.
She asked Master Wang once, "Do gods punish children?"
The old monk had paused, brush in hand, as he copied scripture.
"No," he said finally, "only people do."
Lu said nothing. But that night, under her thin blanket, her small fists clenched. It was the rainy season when the fire came.
It started in the kitchens. A young monk had forgotten to watch the oil. Flames licked the wooden walls like hungry wolves. The smoke curled through the temple like a vengeful spirit, choking the halls, swallowing the silence.
Lu was in the prayer room when she heard the first scream. Not one of fear but pain. She ran, feet pounding the floor, slipping on the wet stone. She didn't think. She didn't hesitate. She just moved. People ran past her, smoke in their eyes. Monks yelled. Bells rang. Chaos bloomed.
And still, she moved toward the fire. Sister Li was still inside the kitchen, trying to drag out the old rice urns. They were heavy, and she coughed as she struggled.
"No!" Lu shouted. "Leave them!"
But the nun did not move. So Lu ran to her, wrapped her small arms around her waist, and pulled. Smoke bit at her throat. The heat was cruel. But her legs did not fail her. Her grip did not loosen.
Together, they stumbled out both coughing, both alive. That night, half the temple burned. The sleeping quarters were gone. So were the gardens. Lu watched it all from the courtyard. Her eyes reflected the flames. They danced in her pupils like tiny dragons.
"Fire takes," Master Wang said beside her, "but fire also purifies."
Lu nodded. "Then let me burn."
After the fire, everything changed. The temple rebuilt, but slower. Donations were fewer. Whispers came from the village. Some said the fire was a sign. That the temple had taken in a cursed child. That the girl with the mark had brought ruin.
Lu heard them. And for the first time, she felt it, not sorrow, not fear but rage. Pure, clean and live.
She asked Master Wang, "Is it wrong to be angry?"
The monk looked at her for a long time. "Anger is not wrong but it is hungry. Feed it too often, and it will devour you."
Lu did not reply. But in her heart, she whispered: Then I will make it my friend. I will train it. And one day, I will unleash it.
By age eight, she could recite scripture better than the monks. She learned to read lips, to hear lies, to memorize faces.
By ten, she no longer cried at pain. A broken bone once healed crooked in her hand. She wrapped it herself.
By twelve, she stood atop the temple walls, watching the road beyond the mountains. Not dreaming. Calculating.
One day, she would leave this place. One day, she would find the people who abandoned her. One day, they would kneel not before a monk not before a god but before her.
The temple could not contain her forever and as her thirteenth year approached, fate sent a stranger to the mountain.
A silk-clad official with a jade ring and a gaze like glass. He came to offer incense but watched Lu with curiosity.
"She is not like the others," he told Master Wang.
"No," the old monk agreed. "She is not."
"What will you do with her?"
Master Wang looked toward the girl sweeping ashes from the altar.
"I will not do anything," he said. "But one day, the world will."