The bells rang at dawn.
Not loud—not like war gongs or victory drums. Just three soft chimes that echoed through the fog-drenched temple grounds. It meant training was beginning. The older initiates filed into the courtyard like smoke—barefoot, silent, eyes half-shut from sleep.
Ren was not silent.
He burst from the dormitory with a stick already swinging, shouting, "I challenge the sun to single combat!"
A monk rapped him on the head with a staff. "Less shouting. More balance."
The others laughed. Even the monks cracked smiles.
All except one.
The quiet boy sat beneath the dead tree at the edge of the yard, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. His robe was too big for him again. He didn't move. Just watched.
"Hey," Ren called out, stick resting on his shoulder. "You gonna sit there again? You know what the master said—'Only still water reflects heaven, but still fists reflect nothing.'"
"I don't remember him saying that," the boy replied calmly.
Ren shrugged. "Maybe I made it up. Still sounds right."
The training began.
The others moved through forms—stances rooted in old tradition, fists flowing like waves, breath sharp and timed. Ren stumbled, corrected himself, then stumbled again. He always had heart. Precision, less so.
But the quiet boy never joined them. He just sat. Observing. Like always.
One of the younger monks—Bata, short-tempered, strong hands—finally snapped.
"You do this every week," he barked. "You sit there like a statue while we sweat for our strength."
"I never asked for strength," the boy said.
"You won't last a day outside these walls if you don't learn to fight."
The boy looked at him. Not defiant. Not mocking. Just... looking.
"Then maybe I won't last," he said.
Bata took a step forward. "You think you're better than us? That peace makes you pure?"
"I think peace that depends on fists," the boy said, "was never peace to begin with."
Silence settled over the courtyard.
Then came the elder's voice—thin, dry, but firm.
"Enough."
Bata stepped back, his jaw tight.
The elder crossed the yard slowly, staff tapping against stone.
"He is not refusing out of arrogance," the elder said. "He simply refuses."
The others returned to their stances, though many shot glances at the strange boy who would not lift a hand.
That evening, the air turned colder than usual. Wind moved through the broken slats of the temple roof, rustling old paper scrolls like leaves.
Ren and the boy sat by the garden wall, legs dangling over the side.
"You know they're gonna push harder next time," Ren said. "Bata thinks you're trying to shame him."
"I'm not."
"I know that. But he doesn't."
The quiet boy picked at a cracked stone.
"Why do you try so hard to be strong?" he asked.
Ren looked up at the sky.
"Because out there," he said, pointing toward the edge of the mountain, "things aren't kind. People take. Kill. Burn."
"Have you seen that?"
Ren hesitated. "No."
"Then how do you know?"
Ren thought for a long time.
"I don't," he said. "But I don't want to find out too late."
The quiet boy nodded.
Just after dusk, a traveler arrived.
No one saw his approach. No footsteps. No call at the gate. Just the creak of the old temple door and the sudden presence of a tall man in silver-gray robes, streaked with dust.
He looked like a scholar.
But the way the air bent slightly around him—the way the candles leaned inward when he passed—told a different story.
A cultivator.
Few came here anymore.
The elder greeted him with the slow bow reserved for those who walked closer to the heavens.
The cultivator returned it, but said nothing.
He was shown to the old prayer hall. A few monks joined to hear him speak, expecting scripture or insight.
He offered neither.
He simply watched.
Until his gaze fell on the boy.
And stopped.
The boy felt it immediately. Not pressure. Not fear.
Something deeper.
Like being remembered by something he hadn't yet met.
He looked up.
The cultivator's eyes were sharp—silver, but not with age. With stillness.
And in that moment, the candlelight between them dimmed.
No wind. No movement.
Just—absence.
Then the flames flickered violently. A scroll fell from the wall. The wood beneath the boy cracked faintly.
The cultivator's gaze shifted. Just slightly. But enough.
The elder noticed it. A twitch in the corner of the man's mouth. Not fear. Not interest.
Recognition.
And then it passed.
The room returned to normal.
The monks muttered about wind. About poorly sealed rafters.
But the elder said nothing.
And the cultivator, still silent, turned and left the room.
That night, the boy sat outside alone, staring up at the stars.
Ren found him eventually, chewing on a rice ball.
"That guy was weird," Ren said through a mouthful. "Didn't even speak."
"He didn't need to."
Ren squinted at him.
"You think he saw something in you?"
The boy was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know what he saw," he said at last. "But he looked through me like I hadn't happened yet."
Ren tossed the rest of his food aside and laid back on the grass.
"If you had that kind of power inside you," he muttered, "what are you waiting for?"
The boy's voice came soft, like wind over embers.
"I wasn't waiting. I was hoping it wouldn't answer."