The courtyard had changed.
Where once the silence had pressed against the walls like a heavy fog, now laughter, chatter, and the scampering of paws filled the space. Ming swept the tiles in the early light of dawn, his sleeves tied back, his breath steady from the morning run. Just behind him, the little monkey dragged a small branch like a broom, scattering more dust than it cleared.
"Not like that," Ming muttered with mock sternness, though his lips curved into a faint smile. "You're making a bigger mess."
The monkey puffed out its chest as if unbothered, then tossed the stick aside and climbed up to the tiled roof. From there, it let out a victorious screech before stealing one of the pinecones Ming had gathered earlier.
"Hey!" Ming barked, dropping the broom. "That's for the fire."
The chase began.
Monkey bounding from the roof, Ming darting through the courtyard, the pinecone changing hands—or rather paws—three times before the boy managed to snatch it back. They tumbled together onto the grass, Ming pinning the little creature while it flailed dramatically, as if caught in the fiercest of battles.
Finally, Ming released it, both of them panting. The monkey sat back, rubbing its belly, and then pointed straight at Ming's bowl of apples.
"Again?" Ming sighed, sitting upright. "We just ate."
The monkey didn't blink. It tilted its head, stretched its tiny hands, and gave a pitiful whine.
Ming held firm for a breath. Then, as always, he caved. He tossed over an apple, shaking his head.
"You're going to turn fat at this rate."
The monkey ignored him, already gnawing noisily.
When the sun climbed higher, Ming settled near the old training post. His fists tightened, and he struck out again and again. The sound of knuckles against wood echoed across the mountain, steady, controlled. Sweat slid down his back, but his mind remained calm.
Beside him, the monkey tried to copy the movements. Its tiny fists smacked the post with exaggerated effort. Each strike was sloppy, too wild, but it didn't stop. Every time Ming paused, the monkey's bright eyes looked up at him—expectant, determined.
Ming's chest tightened.
It reminded him of himself, long ago, striking until his arms felt like lead, trying to prove his worth to a teacher who was no longer here.
Without realizing it, he reached out, adjusting the monkey's stance.
"Like this. Straighten your arm. Don't waste strength."
The monkey blinked, then tried again, this time clumsily mimicking the form. The strike still lacked power, but Ming chuckled softly.
"That's better. You'll get it."
A silence stretched between them—warm, unspoken. It was strange, but in that moment, Ming felt as though he was no longer just a student. He was… something else. A brother. Perhaps even a teacher himself.
That night, as the lantern flickered inside the small house, Ming sat cross-legged on his mat. The monkey curled against the second cushion, its breath even in sleep.
Ming closed his eyes. The mountain wind whispered through the cracks in the wood.
His thoughts drifted—not to power, not to cultivation, but to the simple rhythm of his days. The meals they shared, the playful quarrels, the training side by side. It was nothing like the path he had once imagined. Yet somehow… it felt whole.
He opened his eyes again and looked at the monkey's small form.
"Maybe…" he murmured, voice barely audible, "maybe this is enough."
Morning mist blanketed the mountain path, softening every stone and tree into a pale silhouette. Ming stepped outside with a wooden bucket, heading toward the stream. The monkey trotted after him, tail swaying, eyes alert to every rustle of leaves.
They reached the water's edge. Ming crouched, lowering the bucket, watching the ripples spread. His reflection looked back at him—thinner than before, older somehow, though only a year had passed since his teacher's absence.
The monkey leaned over the stream too, mimicking him exactly. It dipped its paw in, splashed the surface, then let out a satisfied squeak.
Ming chuckled. "Careful. You'll fall in."
As if proving him right, the monkey leaned too far and slipped, tumbling into the shallow current with a splash. Water sprayed over Ming's robes, soaking his sleeves.
"Ah—you fool!" Ming exclaimed, reaching in quickly. He pulled the monkey out, dripping wet and shivering.
For a moment, both of them stared at each other. Ming's stern expression cracked, and laughter burst out.
"You really… you really don't learn, do you?"
The monkey sneezed pitifully, then shook itself like a dog, spraying more water onto Ming.
"All right, all right. Come on." Ming carried it back to the courtyard, wrapping the creature in a rough cloth to dry. The monkey burrowed into the warmth, eyes half-closed, sighing contentedly.
Ming's hands slowed. His smile softened. It wasn't just a companion anymore—it felt like family.
Later that day, Ming set out two bowls in the courtyard. One with rice, one with fruit. He ate slowly, savoring the quiet, while the monkey gobbled noisily beside him. When the fruit was gone, the little creature reached toward Ming's bowl.
"No," Ming said firmly, pulling it back. "This is mine."
The monkey tilted its head, then lunged.
Ming caught it mid-pounce. "You greedy thing!"
What followed was a ridiculous struggle—boy and monkey rolling across the ground, both clutching the same bowl. Rice scattered everywhere. The monkey screeched triumphantly as it managed to grab a handful, while Ming groaned, lying flat on his back with grains stuck to his cheek.
When it was over, both of them were panting, the bowl empty, the courtyard a mess.
Ming sat up, brushing rice from his hair. "We'll both starve if you keep this up."
The monkey licked its fingers, smug as ever.
Ming couldn't help but laugh. "Fine. Next time, I'll make three bowls."
That evening, as twilight painted the sky in fading orange, Ming sat on the steps again, the monkey perched on his shoulder. The forest below was still, the village beyond unseen.
A thought pressed gently into Ming's heart, uninvited. Is this enough?
He had once dreamed of reaching the heavens, of becoming a cultivator whose name would echo across generations. But here, with this small companion, sweeping, training, quarreling, laughing—his days felt whole.
His teacher's words returned to him like echoes: "Strength is not only in fists, Ming. Sometimes, it is in what you choose to hold onto."
Ming exhaled slowly. His gaze lingered on the mountain path, but instead of longing for departure, he simply thought:
Even if I never leave… I will not regret this.
The monkey nuzzled against his cheek, as though sealing the thought with silent agreement.
The mountain grew quieter as autumn crept in. Leaves curled gold and red, falling like slow-burning embers onto the courtyard stones. Ming swept them each morning, but he never hurried. The monkey would leap into the piles he made, scattering them again, forcing him to start over. At first it annoyed him, but soon he realized—he didn't mind.
The chores that once felt like burdens had become shared rituals. Drawing water from the stream, tending the small garden, even patching his worn robe—all of it carried a different weight now. Not heavy, but light.
One evening, after a long day of training, Ming sat cross-legged on the ground. His hands rested on his knees, breath steady. The monkey curled beside him, tail wrapped around its body.
His mind drifted—not to power, not to realms beyond his reach, but to a simple thought: What if I lived like this forever?
The question startled him. For years, he had chased strength, endured pain, and held onto his teacher's vow. Yet here he was, wondering if that vow could be fulfilled by something other than power.
He thought of mortals in distant villages: waking at dawn, working the fields, sharing meals with family, telling stories by lamplight, then dying quietly after a hundred years. There was hardship, yes, but there was also warmth.
"Would that be so bad?" Ming whispered.
The monkey stirred, tilting its head as if it had heard.
Ming smiled faintly. "If I die as a mortal, I won't regret it. But…" He pressed a hand against his chest. "…I still want answers. I want to know why we suffer, why we love, why we lose. If I can find those truths, then even an ordinary life will be worth it."
The night breeze carried his words into the dark.
Days stretched into weeks. The mountain taught him patience. The monkey taught him joy.
Ming no longer felt trapped in solitude. He felt… grounded. His fists still struck the wooden post until his knuckles ached, his legs still carried him through endless trails, but his heart was lighter. His ambition was no longer a fire devouring him—it was a quiet ember, glowing just enough to guide him.
One night, he lit a lantern outside the hut. Its small flame flickered against the cold wind. The monkey curled at his side, half-asleep.
Ming bowed to the light—not to the heavens, not to destiny, but to the life before him.
"Teacher," he murmured, voice steady. "I will still walk my path. But it will be mine. Whether it ends in power or in simplicity, I will not regret the choice."
The vow was not thunderous. It did not shake the mountain. Yet it felt truer than any promise he had ever made.
The monkey gave a soft chirp, shifting closer. Ming rested his hand on its back. For the first time, he felt no restlessness, no hunger gnawing at his heart. Only peace.
And with that peace, he closed his eyes and slept—dreaming not of battles or realms, but of laughter, bread baking, rain tapping on the roof, and the echo of small feet running across the courtyard stones.
> "I don't want to become a cultivator or chase endless strength. If I can live like a mortal, with family and routine, and die after a hundred years… I won't regret it. All I want are my answers. Once I get them, I'll regret nothing."