Xue Wanjun

Kuizhou marketplace, dusk. The smell of smoke and roasted chestnuts lingers in the air. A commotion draws a crowd—Xue Yang, is being held by city guards, accused of stealing from a nobleman’s son. A small cut on his lip, dirt smudged across his cheek, but his glare is defiant.

I was there that day — in the Kuizhou market, just before dusk. The sky was the color of old blood and copper, and the lanterns were flickering in early.

We heard shouting near the fruit stalls. A child had been caught — scrappy-looking thing, small, sharp-eyed, with that reckless sort of defiance only the poor seem to wear like armor. Said he tried to rob one of the local lord’s boys. I didn’t see it, but does it ever matter?

Guards were already dragging him toward the magistrate’s platform. The kid fought, not with strength, but with a sort of desperate squirming, like an animal in a trap.

And then—

He appeared.

Xue Wanjun.

I remember him from years ago—back when he wore his blade like it meant something. People say he was never strong enough to rise, never clever enough to scheme. But that day, standing between his son and the guards, he looked ten feet tall.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He just said:

“Stand down. That’s my son.”