The old man's question, gentle as it was, hung in the quiet air of the valley, a stark contrast to the silent, solitary world Link now inhabited. For a month, he had spoken to no one and had been spoken to by none. To be addressed now, with such simple, direct kindness, was a disarming experience.
Link did not reply. He could not. He simply stood, his small, hardened frame a portrait of weary defiance, and met the man's startlingly blue eyes. He let his own gaze, a landscape of grief and cold, hard-won resolve, be his answer.
The old man's gentle smile did not falter. A look of profound, sorrowful understanding washed over his wrinkled features, and he nodded slowly, as if he had just read a long and tragic story.
"Ah," he whispered, his voice a dry rustle of leaves. "No need for a name. I see who you are. You are a boy carrying a sorrow so heavy it would break a mountain." He gestured with a frail, steady hand to the ground at the base of the ancient oak. "Sit with me a while. You look weary. The path you walk is a hard one."
Wary, but drawn in by the man's immediate and accurate perception of his pain, Link did as he was asked. He sat on the soft moss, a respectful distance away, and laid the dormant Master Sword on the ground before him, its dead steel a silent testament to his spiritual failure.
The old man's cloudy blue eyes drifted to the legendary blade. "The spirits of the woods, the great, ancient ones… they have spoken to you, haven't they?" he asked, his voice full of a kind, knowing pity. "They told you your grief and your anger are a weakness. That the sacred blade rejects you because of the storm in your heart." He shook his head slowly, a gesture of deep, commiserating sadness. "That is a convenient lie, my child. A beautiful, simple story told by those who have never truly suffered. They preach of peace and letting go because they fear the terrible, beautiful power that is only born from true pain."
The words struck Link with the force of a physical blow. This old man was not just speaking to him; he was speaking a truth that resonated with the deepest, most wounded part of his soul.
"They tell you to be the stone in the river, to let the current of your grief flow past you," the man continued, his voice dropping to an intense, conspiratorial whisper. "What a foolish, passive thought! I tell you to become the river. Let your sorrow be your current. Let your rage be the flood that carves the canyons and sweeps away the filth of this world. Your pain is the purest, most honest thing you have left. Why would you ever let it go?"
This philosophy was a revelation. For weeks, Link had been at war with himself, trying to suppress the very emotions that felt most justified. The Sage in his dream had offered a path of peace that felt distant and impossible. This old man was offering him a path of power, a way to turn his agony into a weapon.
The hermit pointed a thin, trembling finger to a small, struggling sapling growing near the great oak's roots. Its leaves were yellowed and curled, its spirit weak. "Look," he said. "The spirits would have you sing a lullaby to that dying thing. Offer it gentle comfort. And it would remain weak, a ward of charity, forever dependent on the songs of others. It is dying because it has forgotten the fire in its heart, the will that drives it to shatter the very rock with its roots to reach the sun."
He looked at Link, his gaze sharp and compelling. "You can save it. But not with a song. You will give it a gift far more precious. You will give it your will." He motioned to the sapling. "Place your hand upon its bark. Do not think of peace. Do not think of healing. Think of what was taken from you. Feel the rage you felt as your village burned. Feel the injustice of your father's death. Let that fire, that righteous, beautiful fire, flow from you. Give it not your pity. Give it your strength."
Hesitantly, his heart pounding, Link knelt by the sapling. He placed his hand on its thin, frail trunk. He did as the man instructed. He closed his eyes and summoned the nightmare. He saw Asmodeus's mocking face, he heard his mother's last, fading breath. He felt the cold, black, and boundless rage he had been trying to bury rise up within him, a welcome, familiar fire. A surge of that cold, furious energy flowed from his palm into the tree.
The sapling shuddered violently. It did not sprout a single, green leaf. In a sudden, unnatural burst of growth that was both terrifying and exhilarating, its trunk thickened and darkened to the color of wet iron. Its branches twisted upwards, not like a plant reaching for the sun, but like claws reaching for an enemy. Small, sharp, black thorns pushed their way out of the bark. It was alive. It was undeniably, ferociously strong. But it was now a dark, twisted, and aggressive thing, a monument to his pain.
Link stared at it, a sense of awe and a strange, dark pride filling him. It had worked. His anger, his pain—the very things he had been told were a flaw—had just produced a tangible, powerful result. For a boy who had felt nothing but powerlessness for so long, the feeling was a profound and intoxicating relief.
The old man smiled his gentle, knowing smile, but now it held a cold, predatory glint that Link, in his relief, did not see. "You see?" the hermit whispered. "Your pain is not a flaw. It is a gift. It is your true power. Forget the old stories of balance and peace. The world is a harsh and unforgiving place. To defeat a great shadow, you must be willing to embrace a greater darkness within yourself."
He stood to leave, his dark work now done. "The sword will answer not to a peaceful heart, little hero. It will answer to an absolute, unbreakable will. Nurture your pain. Feed your anger. Let them forge you into the weapon this world truly needs."