Night always brought with it memories I wished would stay buried. No matter how much I tried to push them away, they came back like shadows creeping through the cracks of my mind. They whispered to me of the life I could never talk about at Lingxian Academy, not to anyone. How could I explain something I barely understood myself?

I don’t remember my real family. I doubt I ever had one. I was abandoned as a baby, left at the gates of a small, remote temple tucked away in the mountains. If it weren’t for the head monk, Master Jianming, I wouldn’t be alive today. He found me in the dead of winter, wrapped in nothing but a ragged cloth, barely clinging to life. Fate—or maybe it was just chance—spared me that night.

The monks were all men, and as far as they were concerned, there was no room for a little girl in their world. They made a decision, one that would shape my entire life. I became "Jian." A boy. Another disciple under the strict guidance of Master Jianming. From that day on, no one ever spoke of my true identity. They cut my hair short, dressed me in the same robes as the other boys, and treated me as one of them.

I became a lie.

Life at the temple was hard. I woke up before dawn every morning, completing chores with the other boys. We swept the temple grounds, fetched water, chopped firewood—whatever needed doing. There was no affection, no warmth, and definitely no sympathy for the orphaned "boy" who never seemed to fit in. The other boys treated me like a rival. To them, I was just another competitor, another body standing between them and Master Jianming’s approval.

"Jian, you're too slow!" one of them would bark during our endless runs around the temple courtyard. My legs would burn, my lungs on fire, but I couldn’t let myself stop. Weakness wasn’t an option.

"Keep up, or you'll never be anything," another would sneer. I clenched my teeth and pushed harder. I had to. They didn’t know the truth, and I couldn’t let them find out.

Master Jianming wasn’t unkind, but he believed in discipline above all else. “The world is cruel,” he told me one morning during meditation. His voice was soft, but his words were sharp. “If you want to survive, you must be stronger than the cruelty it throws at you.”

So I learned. I learned to endure, to fight, to bury my feelings deep where no one could reach them. I learned to be "Jian," the boy, even though every part of me knew that wasn’t who I truly was. The monks taught me the ways of martial arts—how to fight, how to meditate, how to still the mind and strengthen the body—but they never taught me how to be myself. They didn’t care. To them, I was just another disciple, another stray they had taken in.

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Once, when I was still very young, I gathered the courage to ask Master Jianming why my parents had abandoned me. I thought maybe he would have an answer, some wisdom to make sense of it all. But his response only cut deeper. “Some people,” he said, staring into the distance, “cannot bear the weight of their responsibilities. Perhaps your parents were among them.”

It wasn’t the answer I wanted. I never asked again.

Years passed. I grew faster, stronger, more skilled than most of the boys. I trained hard—harder than anyone—because I had to. I had nothing else to cling to but the strength I was building. Yet no matter how strong I became, there was always something missing. I could feel the emptiness gnawing at me, a hollow space inside that no amount of training could fill. I wanted answers, wanted to know why I had been abandoned, but there was no one to ask. My past was a mystery, and the only future I had was the one I could carve out for myself.

The boys never accepted me fully. They treated me like one of them in the training yard, but I could feel their whispers, their resentment. They didn’t understand why Master Jianming sometimes gave me extra attention or praised my progress. They envied it. And yet, they had no idea who I really was. They didn’t know the secret I had to carry with me every single day.

Sometimes, when I looked into the river and saw my reflection staring back at me, I would wonder—who was I? Was I really "Jian," the boy training alongside the others, or was I something else entirely? Someone I was never allowed to be?

I remember one evening in particular. I had just finished another grueling day of training, my body aching with exhaustion. I sat on the temple steps, watching the sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and red. For a moment, I let myself imagine what my life might have been like if my parents had kept me. Would I have grown up in a warm home, with people who loved me? Would I have known who I truly was?

“Jian,” Master Jianming’s voice broke the silence. I looked up to see him standing behind me, his face as unreadable as always. “You trained well today. But remember, strength is not just of the body. It is of the mind and spirit.”

“Yes, Master,” I replied, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. I had learned long ago not to show weakness.

“One day,” he continued, his voice softer now, “you will leave this temple. You will walk your own path. And when that day comes, you will have to decide who you truly are.”

His words hit me harder than any physical blow ever could. I had spent my entire life pretending to be someone I wasn’t. But I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t keep up the lie forever. The day would come when I would have to face the truth, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.

The sun disappeared, leaving only shadows in its wake. I stood at the edge of a precipice, caught between two worlds—one where I was "Jian," the boy I pretended to be, and one where I might finally find out who I truly was.

But for now, all I could do was survive. The world outside the temple was harsh and unforgiving, and I needed all the strength I could gather. Because when the time came, I would face the truth head-on, no matter how painful it might be.