Silent Peak
The clash of light and darkness faded into silence, but the echoes of that eternal struggle lingered in every stone, every breeze, every star in the night sky.
Far from the chaos of the heavens, at the edge of the mortal world, there stood a solitary mountain. Its peak pierced the clouds, its slopes wrapped in endless forests, and its valleys hidden beneath mists that never dispersed. The locals called it Silent Peak—a place where birds sang freely, beasts roamed, and mortals rarely dared to tread.
It was here that Ming grew up.
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The House of Wood and Stone
At the foot of the mountain, half-hidden among ancient pines, stood a modest wooden house. Its walls were patched with rough stone, its roof weighed down by moss, and its courtyard lined with herbs and firewood.
This was Ming's home.
No grand sect banners fluttered here. No treasures shone. Only the simplicity of survival and the quiet hum of life.
Inside lived two souls: a boy named Ming, and the old man he simply called Teacher.
Teacher was not a man of many words. His hair was silver, his back slightly bent, and his face marked by the long years of solitude. Yet his eyes, dark as midnight, held a depth that frightened most who met them. He had never told Ming his true name. To Ming, he was only Teacher—the one who provided food, fire, and knowledge.
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Ming the Child
Ming was no ordinary child. At ten years old, he was already sharper than boys twice his age. He questioned everything.
"Teacher, why does the sun rise from the east and not the west?"
"Teacher, why do trees grow upward, but their roots grow downward?"
"Teacher, why do we eat meat while the beasts eat grass, and yet both live?"
His questions were endless, and though Teacher rarely answered in detail, Ming never stopped asking.
Sometimes, the old man would reply with silence. Other times, he would give vague riddles:
"The east and west do not bind the sun. It is only mortals who bind directions."
"Roots and branches do not oppose. They complete one another."
"Meat and grass, strong and weak—such things are not fixed. Only balance matters."
Ming would frown, think for hours, then nod seriously as if he had understood. In truth, he often didn't. But instead of being discouraged, his curiosity only grew stronger.
He was clever, yes—but what defined Ming was not cunning schemes or sly tricks. It was his straightforwardness. If he disliked something, he said so. If he didn't understand, he admitted it. If he believed something was right, he would stand by it even if it made him suffer.
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The Weight of Training
Life on Silent Peak was not easy. Every day, Ming was made to chop wood, carry water, and run up the mountain slopes with heavy stones tied to his back.
At first, he thought Teacher was being cruel.
"Why must I carry rocks, Teacher? The mountain is already heavy enough."
The old man glanced at him and replied only, "The mountain does not complain of its weight. Why do you?"
Ming gritted his teeth. He was small, his body thin, and his back often bruised. But he never gave up. He cried at night, yes, but in the morning, he rose again.
By the time he was eight, his small frame had hardened. His arms could split firewood with a single strike. His legs carried him up steep slopes without pause. His breaths grew longer, steadier, until even the mountain air felt light in his lungs.
Unknowingly, Ming's body was tempering itself—not through mystical pills or secret arts, but through blood, sweat, and persistence.
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Nights Beneath the Stars
At night, after the chores were done, Ming would sit outside the house and gaze at the stars. The heavens stretched infinitely, speckled with countless lights, some faint, some brilliant, some burning like fire.
"Teacher," he once asked, "are those stars the same as the sun?"
Teacher nodded faintly. "Yes. But distance makes them small to your eyes."
"Then why do they shine in darkness? Why does light not lose when surrounded by night?"
Teacher looked at him for a long time before answering, "Because darkness does not consume light. It only makes it visible."
Ming's young heart stirred. He clenched his fists, eyes reflecting the stars.
He did not fully understand, but he felt the weight of those words. Somewhere deep within, an ember flickered.
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The Beast Incident
One day, when Ming was nine, a wild boar wandered into the courtyard. Its tusks gleamed, its eyes bloodshot with hunger. Ming froze, the firewood bundle slipping from his hands.
The beast charged.
Before it could reach him, Teacher stepped forward. With one hand, he seized the boar's tusk and twisted gently. The beast squealed, its massive body collapsing as if struck by thunder. Teacher did not even break a sweat.
"Fear is natural," he said, releasing the creature. "But fear alone cannot save you. Courage and strength must walk together."
Ming trembled, but instead of hiding behind his Teacher, he picked up a wooden stick and stood before the wounded boar. His legs shook, his grip unsteady, but he did not step back.
The boar roared, but Teacher's gaze silenced it. It limped away into the forest.
That night, Ming could not sleep. His heart still raced, but mixed with fear was something else—determination. He hated feeling powerless. He hated standing helpless while danger loomed.
From that day on, his training doubled in intensity. He no longer complained about carrying stones. He no longer asked why. He understood now—strength was not a choice. It was survival.
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Seeds of Curiosity
Still, Ming was no ordinary child.
While others his age might only dream of food or play, Ming dreamed of the stars. He wondered what lay beyond Silent Peak, beyond the forests, beyond the skies.
When he split wood, he thought of how trees grew.
When he fetched water, he thought of how rivers flowed.
When he gazed at the stars, he thought of light and darkness, of Teacher's riddles, of the boar that had nearly killed him.
Every thought piled upon the next, shaping the boy into something different—something sharper, deeper, hungrier.
Teacher noticed. He would often sit silently by the fire, watching Ming study the flames as if trying to unravel their secrets.
Finally, one evening, he spoke.
"Ming," he said slowly, "do you know why you live here, on this mountain?"
The boy shook his head.
"Because the world beyond is vast and cruel. And yet, one day, you will have to leave this place. Until then, you must grow strong—not only in body, but in spirit."
Ming clenched his fists. He looked up at the stars, his voice firm:
"Then I'll be ready, Teacher."
And though he was only nine, in that moment his words carried a weight beyond his years.
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End of Chapter 2
Thus passed Ming's childhood on Silent Peak—a life of questions, training, fear, and determination.
He was still only a boy, ignorant of the greater world. But already, the first seeds of strength had been planted. Already, the first sparks of his path had begun to glow.
Far beyond the mountain, the clash of light and darkness continued, unseen and unknown. But here, in this quiet corner of the world, a child was preparing—step by step—to walk a road that would one day shake existence itself.
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