The wind whispered through the old locust trees at the village entrance, rustling dry leaves like distant murmurs of the past. The last glow of sunset had faded behind the vast Great Green Mountains, leaving the land bathed in twilight. In the quiet mountain village, dim oil lamps flickered to life one by one, casting long shadows on the cracked mud walls of the homes. Somewhere, a lone dog barked—sharp, uncertain—until others joined in, their voices fading into the stillness of the night.
Inside one of the small, worn-down houses, an old man sat near the doorframe, his rough hands gripping a long-stemmed smoking pipe. The years had weathered him like the earth itself, leaving deep lines across his face. He took a slow drag, the tip glowing faintly as he exhaled into the still air.
"We've decided, haven't we?" His voice was hoarse, carrying the weight of long days under the sun. "Being a soldier means food in your belly. At least he won't starve. And if the heavens favor him… maybe he'll find a future out there."
Across from him, a frail woman sat hunched on a low wooden stool, her clothes worn thin, her face lined with sorrow.
"He's only fourteen…" Her voice trembled, tears glistening in the flickering lamplight.
The old man knocked the pipe against the doorframe with a sharp thud.
"It's been two years since the locusts came. We're not the only ones suffering—half the families in the village have already sent their boys off. Some go to the city to work, some leave for distant lands, and some—" his gaze flickered, dark and unreadable, "—some become soldiers. At least that way, we get an allowance. And if he survives long enough to make rank, he might send back silver. Might even have a name people respect."
Silence settled over the room.
Outside the house, a shadow leaned against the wall, eyes fixed on the distant outline of the mountains. Li Yan had been listening for a while. He had already made up his mind.
The quiet resolve in his heart was stronger than fear.
He knew the village too well—the scarcity, the hunger, the way people looked at each other when the food ran thin. He knew that staying meant watching his family struggle while the world beyond the mountains moved on without him.
Finally, he pushed himself up from the ground and stepped inside.
"Father, Mother, don't worry." His voice was calm, steadier than his thin frame should allow. "I'll go. The village has already changed—people leave, one by one. Our crops barely feed us, and even the hunting squads can't venture too far into the mountains. This is the best path."
His mother let out a quiet sob. His father gave a slow nod.
Outside, the moon bathed the land in its silver glow, casting shadows that stretched beyond the village—toward places yet unknown.
Li Yan looked at them one last time before turning away. Somewhere deep inside, he made a silent promise.
One day, he would return. But not as the same boy who left.