From mountain stone, the heavens breathe. In the age before time, when gods still walked among the clouds, their hands carved the winds of peace and shaped the bones of the world. When their work was done, they left behind whispers—echoes that drifted across the peaks, carried by the breath of dragons and the sighs of mortals. From dust and flame, humankind rose to bear the weight of Heaven's name.
It is said that the mountain remembers.
On one of its countless ridges, where mist wrapped the cliffs like a pale serpent, a single figure sat upon a great boulder of ancient granite. He was motionless, his posture as steady as the peak itself. His clothes were plain—faded linen worn thin from years of use. His hair, long and black as polished jade, fluttered gently in the mountain breeze. Beneath the waning sunlight, his skin glowed with a dark bronze hue, like earth after rain.
This youth was Ming Sheng.
For several hours he had been sitting upon that stone in meditation, unmoving, unshaken, his breath steady as a stream beneath ice. Around him, the Tai Mountain range stretched endlessly, its forests whispering with unseen spirits, its stones humming with the ancient memory of gods.
Now, as the crimson sun began to sink behind the western horizon, the mountain's shadow stretched long and thin. The wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine and snow. Ming Sheng's eyelids fluttered, and for the first time that day, he moved.
He opened his eyes.
They were a deep jade black—calm, reflective, yet holding within them the spark of untamed thought. For a moment he stared at the burning horizon, his gaze filled with quiet wonder. Then he sighed softly.
"How will I explain this to Mother…"
His voice was calm but tinged with worry. He had promised to return before sundown.
Standing slowly, Ming Sheng stretched his arms, feeling the stiffness in his body. The great boulder beneath him radiated the day's warmth, its surface etched with tiny veins of quartz. He placed a hand upon it in farewell, as though acknowledging an old friend.
Then, with practiced grace, he leapt down from the stone. His bare feet landed lightly upon the rough earth below. The mountain path wound downward, narrow and steep, carved through ferns and wild bamboo. Ming Sheng began to descend, his steps sure despite the fading light.
As he moved, the world around him came alive. The evening chorus of insects rose from the underbrush. Birds returned to their nests, their wings whispering through the air. From distant valleys, the sound of flowing water echoed faintly, a lullaby of stone and stream.
The Tai Mountains were vast beyond comprehension. From a distance, they seemed eternal and silent, but to those who walked their paths, they were a living realm—each rock, each gust of wind, each rustle of leaf a fragment of an ancient spirit's breath. Ming Sheng had grown up beneath these peaks. To him, they were not gods or guardians, but kin.
As twilight deepened, the sky shifted to violet. Ming Sheng paused for a moment on a ridge and turned to look back. The boulder where he had meditated was now a small dot among countless others, swallowed by distance and mist. Against the fading sun, it looked almost like a star resting upon the mountain's crown.
He smiled faintly and continued downward.
After a long descent, the path widened into a dirt trail lined with young pines. Fireflies began to appear, blinking like tiny lanterns in the dusk. In the distance, the faint outline of Dong Hai Village came into view—a cluster of wooden roofs and smoke pillars rising gently into the evening air.
Ming Sheng's pace quickened.
Dong Hai Village sat nestled at the base of the Tai Mountain range, surrounded by fertile fields and streams that glistened even under moonlight. More than a hundred families lived there, their lives bound together by work, kinship, and the unspoken reverence they held for the mountain that towered above them. The villagers believed the spirit of Tai Mountain watched over them, guiding the rains, the harvest, and the beating of their hearts.
To Ming Sheng, it was simply home.
As he drew closer, he noticed torches flickering near the wooden gate that marked the village's entrance. A tall figure stood guard there—a man broad of shoulder and thick of arm, dressed in tough leather armor that had seen many seasons. A long spear rested in his right hand, and a round wooden shield hung at his side.
"Uncle Lei Gang!" Ming Sheng called as he approached.
The guard turned, his face half-lit by the torch's glow. His eyes, sharp as flint, softened at the sight of the boy.
"Ming Sheng," Lei Gang said, lowering his spear slightly. "You've kept the mountain company until dark again, haven't you?"
Ming Sheng scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "I lost track of time."
Lei Gang's thick brows furrowed. "Your mother has been worried sick all afternoon. And your father—he returned from the hunt just before sunset. Go on, lad. Don't make them wait any longer."
Ming Sheng's eyes widened. "Father's home already? Thank you, Uncle Lei Gang!"
Without another word, he bowed respectfully and hurried past the gate.
Lei Gang watched him go, a faint smile breaking through his stern expression. "That boy," he muttered to himself, "his heart is in the clouds, but one day the mountain will call him for real."
Inside the village, the world was alive with the rhythm of evening. Smoke curled from chimneys as families prepared their meals. Children ran through the narrow dirt streets chasing each other with sticks, their laughter echoing through the cool air. Lanterns hung from wooden posts, their soft orange light swaying with the wind.
Ming Sheng moved swiftly through it all, exchanging quick nods with familiar faces. Though his clothes were dusty and his hair windswept, there was an energy about him—a restless curiosity that set him apart from other youths.
As he neared his family's home, he slowed. The house stood near the edge of the village, overlooking a small stream. It was modest—two rooms, a sloped roof of thatched reeds, and a small garden where his mother grew herbs and vegetables. Light flickered from within.
Ming Sheng paused at the doorway, his heart tightening with guilt. He could already imagine his mother's worried face, her hands on her hips, ready to scold him gently yet firmly.
He took a breath and stepped inside.
The smell of stew filled the room—rich with wild mushrooms and herbs. At the small wooden table sat a woman in simple robes, her hair tied back neatly. Her eyes were kind but sharp, like polished river stones. When she saw her son, she exhaled in relief, though her expression quickly shifted into mock sternness.
"Ming Sheng! The sun has long set. You promised to return early today."
He bowed his head. "I know, Mother. I was on the mountain again. I didn't realize how late it was."
From the corner, a deep voice rumbled with laughter. "The mountain again, eh?"
Ming Sheng turned. His father, Ming Tao, stood in the doorway that led to the small storage room. He was tall and broad, his skin tanned from years of hunting in the forest. His clothes smelled faintly of pine and leather. A freshly cleaned bow leaned against the wall beside him.
"I see the mountain hasn't taught you how to tell time yet," Ming Tao said with a grin.
Ming Sheng smiled shyly. "It teaches patience, Father… not time."
Ming Tao laughed again and clapped a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Good answer. Come, sit. You can tell us what wisdom you've gathered from the stones."
Ming Sheng sat between his parents. His mother ladled stew into bowls, and they began to eat together in the soft light of a single lantern.
Outside, the night deepened. The wind whispered through the bamboo, and in the distance, the mountain loomed—a silent giant under the silver moon.
Ming Sheng listened to his parents talk of the day's hunt and the coming harvest, but his mind wandered. He could still feel the faint hum beneath his fingers where he had touched the boulder—the same pulse he had felt in meditation. It was as though the mountain itself had breathed through him.
For a fleeting moment, he thought he heard a voice in the wind—a whisper, ancient and low, calling his name.
He blinked and looked toward the open window, but there was nothing—only the moonlight spilling across the fields.
Ming Sheng shook his head and smiled faintly. Perhaps it was just the echo of the wind.