Zhuxie Gule came from a distant land.
He remembered endless sandstorms by day, and at night, the wind carrying children's laughter, women's songs, and the flicker of candle flames.
He ached for it. Though its people, like those in the Central Plains, feared and hated him, there had been those who shielded and loved him.
But the vast desert stretched eternally. He could never return, never see those dear faces again.
In that damp, lightless prison beneath the earth, he paced and roared, a creature with no path back.
Until one day, a new sound threaded through the moaning wind: the flutter of wings, followed by a high, fragile chirp.
Had the gods heard his turmoil, sending this delicate creature as a salve?
He cradled the bird in his palm, nurturing it day and night, offering every scrap of beauty he could find.
He waited for it to grow strong.
He hoped it would soar free, to see the distant horizon for him, to hear the laughter and the flicker of flames in the wind.
