The first chill of dawn found Link a solitary figure, swallowed by the vast, indifferent expanse of Hyrule Field. The Faron Woods, a green memory of healing and heartbreaking farewells, receded behind him. He carried little: the Master Sword, a cold, silent weight on his back; his father's blade at his hip; a small pouch of nuts and dried meat; and the green cap, pulled low over his eyes, a somber crown for a king who had lost his kingdom. He was not running from the grief that consumed him, but carrying it, a heavy, unyielding stone in his gut. His purpose was simple, brutal: to become strong enough that no one he loved would ever die for him again.
Weeks bled into one another, marked only by the rising and setting of two suns. Link became a ghost in the wild lands, a silent pilgrim driven by a relentless, self-punishing need. He sought out the harshest environments, places where the land itself seemed to mirror the desolation in his soul. He climbed the treacherous, ice-sheathed slopes of the Hebra Mountains, the biting winds scouring his skin raw, his breath turning to ice. He traversed the scorching, volcanic plains of Death Mountain, the air thick with ash and the earth trembling with infernal heat, pushing his body to the brink of collapse. He plunged into the suffocating, water-logged depths of the Lanayru Wetlands, fighting against the suffocating current, his lungs burning.
Rest was a luxury he denied himself. Sleep came in brief, fitful snatches, his dreams haunted by the burning embers of Ordon, by the faces of the fallen, by the cold, mocking eyes of Asmodeus. He punished his body, seeking to burn away the weakness he felt, the guilt that festered within him. He climbed until his muscles screamed, ran until his lungs ached, trained with his blades against phantom enemies until his arms trembled from exhaustion. He used his inhuman stamina, the silent blessing of his Triforce, not for glory, but for penance. He was building himself into a weapon, sharpening his edges, hammering his spirit into unyielding steel.
His diet was sparse, his existence ascetic. He spoke to no one, and if he saw other travelers, he faded into the landscape like a shadow, unwilling to draw attention, unwilling to risk forming another bond. He was a vagabond, stripped bare of everything but his grim resolve. The Master Sword remained dormant, a cold reminder of the spiritual strength he still lacked. His mind, too, was a harsh landscape, cleared of chaotic hatred but still a barren field where joy refused to grow. The Sage's words, echoing from his journey within, came back to him: The sword rejects it not to punish you, but to protect you from the very darkness you carry within your own heart. He was trying to burn that darkness out, to replace it with pure, unyielding might.
One month had passed since he left the Faron Woods. One month of endless, grueling self-crucifixion. He found himself in a remote, forgotten corner of Hyrule Ridge, the land here wild and untamed, far from any established path. He had pushed himself through a gauntlet of towering cliffs and treacherous ravines, his body screaming, but his will unbroken.
As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet, Link finally paused. He stood on a high bluff, the wind whipping his green cap around his face, surveying the wild beauty of the land. His eyes, though weary, held a new, steely glint. He was stronger. He was faster. He was harder. But the Master Sword on his back remained cold.
He descended into a small, secluded valley, seeking shelter for the night. In the center of this forgotten dale, a single, ancient oak tree stood, its gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like supplicating hands. And beneath it, a small, hunched figure.
It was an old man, impossibly frail, his back bent like a willow in the wind. His clothes were ragged, his beard a wispy, snow-white cloud around his wrinkled face. He sat perfectly still, his eyes closed, his breathing shallow, looking utterly lost and completely at peace. He looked like he had been forgotten by time itself.
Link, his instincts honed by weeks of solitude, approached cautiously. This was no ordinary vagrant. There was a profound stillness about the old man, a quality that resonated with the very earth around him. He felt no threat, but a strange, ancient power emanating from the frail form.
As Link drew closer, the old man slowly opened his eyes. They were a startling, vibrant blue, clear and deep like the Faron Spring, and they fixed on Link with a knowing, gentle gaze that seemed to see not just the weary warrior, but child beneath.
"And who might you be, child?"