The ascent was not a climb so much as it was a negotiation with gravity. As the air grew thin, it lost its sweetness, turning into a cold, sharp blade that cut at the back of the youth's throat with every breath. One-Eye moved with a maddening, rhythmic persistence. He did not pant, nor did he falter. His wooden staff struck the stone with a sound like a ticking clock, marking a time that seemed separate from the world below. The youth, despite his vigor and the raw strength forged in the labor of Oakhaven, felt the weight of his own body becoming an anchor.
They had left the tree line behind hours ago. Now, the landscape was a skeletal world of grey shale and jagged limestone. The wind here did not just blow; it searched. It found the gaps in their clothing and the cracks in their resolve. The youth kept his eyes on the old man's heels, watching the way the tattered hem of his robe danced in the gale. He wondered how a man so withered could carry such momentum.
Why do we climb? the youth finally asked, his voice cracking against the wind. His lungs felt as though they were filled with hot sand. There are schools in the valleys. I saw their banners from the road.
One-Eye did not stop. He did not even turn his head. Those are not schools, boy. Those are kennels. They teach men how to bark and how to bite on command. They sharpen the teeth but dull the mind. If you want to learn how to be a tool for a lord, go back down. If you want to understand the metal, you must go where the metal is born—in the cold and the pressure.
The youth looked at his hands. They were shaking, a fine tremor born of exhaustion and the plummeting temperature. He thought of the village riders and the way he had felt a strange, cold power when he grabbed the man's wrist. He had thought that was the beginning of mastery. Now, under the indifferent gaze of the peaks, that moment felt small, almost pathetic.
By late afternoon, the path narrowed to a ledge barely wide enough for a single man. To their left was a wall of wet stone; to their right, a drop into a mist-filled abyss that seemed to have no bottom. The youth felt a surge of vertigo, a sudden, sickening realization of his own fragility. One misstep, one loose pebble, and he would be nothing more than a memory fading in the clouds.
Stop looking at the edge, One-Eye commanded, his voice surprisingly loud despite the wind. The edge is not your enemy. Your fear of the edge is.
It is easy to say when you have lived this long, the youth muttered, pressing his back against the cold rock.
One-Eye stopped then. He turned around, his single blue eye locking onto the youth with a terrifying intensity. Do you think I lived this long by being careful? No. I lived because I accepted that I was already dead. The moment you step onto the mountain, you must leave the boy who wanted to live behind. Only the one who is prepared to fall can truly walk the wire.
He reached out with his staff and tapped the youth's chest, right over the heart. You are carrying too much baggage, Nobody. Not in your pack, but in your spirit. You are trying to hold onto Oakhaven. You are trying to hold onto the anger you felt for those riders. Drop it. All of it. If you don't, the mountain will take it from you, and it won't be gentle about it.
The old man turned and continued, his pace never wavering. The youth closed his eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of wet stone. He tried to imagine the village as a shed skin, something he had outgrown and discarded. When he opened his eyes, the abyss didn't look quite so hungry.
They reached a small plateau just as the sun began its final, bloody descent behind the western range. In the center of the plateau sat a ruined shrine, its roof long ago surrendered to the elements. Only four pillars remained, standing like broken fingers reaching for a silent god. One-Eye walked to the center and sat down, crossing his legs in a single, fluid motion.
Sit, he ordered.
The youth collapsed more than sat, his muscles screaming in protest. He reached for his water skin, but One-Eye struck his hand with the staff. Not yet. First, you earn the water.
How? the youth wheezed.
Draw your blade.
The youth hesitated, then pulled the rusted short sword from his belt. In the dying light, the metal looked dull and tired.
Balance it on your forefinger, One-Eye said. By the hilt.
The youth tried to comply. The sword was poorly balanced, the weight leaning heavily toward the tip. It tumbled into the dirt almost immediately. He picked it up and tried again. And again. Each time, the blade slid off, clattering against the stone with a mocking ring.
The sword is unbalanced, the youth said, frustration bubbling up in his chest. It's a cheap piece of iron.
One-Eye smiled, though there was no warmth in it. The sword is exactly what it is. It does not lie to you. You are the one lying to the sword. You are trying to force it to be balanced according to your idea of where the center should be. You are not listening to the metal. You are not feeling the way the air moves around it.
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. To master the blade, you must first master the silence between the heartbeats. If your mind is full of noise—of hunger, of cold, of resentment—you will never find the center. The sword is a bridge. If the bridge is shaky, it is because the foundations on both sides are weak.
Try again. And this time, don't look at the blade. Look at the horizon.
The youth took a deep breath. He ignored the stinging in his legs and the hollow ache in his stomach. He placed the hilt on his finger and looked out at the vast, darkening sky. He felt the weight of the sword, the subtle pull of the earth. He shifted his finger a fraction of an inch to the left. He felt the wind catch the flat of the blade. He adjusted his stance, sinking his weight into his heels.
For a heartbeat, the sword stood perfectly still. Then another. The youth felt a strange sensation, as if the iron were an extension of his own bone. The barrier between his skin and the metal seemed to dissolve.
It fell after three seconds, but the youth didn't feel frustrated this time. He felt a flicker of something he hadn't experienced since before the fires of his childhood: curiosity.
Better, One-Eye said, tossing a small, dried fruit toward him. Eat. We have a guest coming.
The youth caught the fruit and frowned. A guest? Up here?
One-Eye didn't answer. He simply closed his eye and seemed to vanish into a deep, meditative state. The youth ate the fruit, which tasted of dust and honey, and watched the shadows lengthen. The silence of the mountain was absolute, yet it felt heavy, as if it were vibrating with a hidden frequency.
An hour passed. The stars emerged, cold and brilliant, like diamonds scattered on black velvet. Then, the silence was broken. It wasn't a loud noise, just the soft scuff of leather on stone and the faint metallic jingle of a harness.
From the darkness beyond the pillars, a figure emerged. It was a woman, tall and slender, wrapped in a cloak of deep indigo that seemed to drink the starlight. She carried no visible weapon, but she moved with a grace that suggested a hidden lethality. Her face was pale, her features sharp and elegant, and her eyes were the color of smoke.
One-Eye, she said, her voice like silk over glass. I heard you were dragging a stray behind you. I didn't believe it until I smelled the mud.
The old man opened his eye but did not move. Isara. You are far from the capital. Does the Emperor no longer require his favorite shadow to keep his secrets?
The Emperor is busy counting his sins, she replied, stepping into the circle of the pillars. He has little time for secrets when the borders are screaming. She turned her gaze to the youth. And what is this? A new disciple? Or a sacrifice for the mountain?
He calls himself Nobody, One-Eye said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
A fitting name, Isara said, walking around the youth with the same predatory curiosity One-Eye had shown earlier. Most men spend their lives trying to be someone. It takes a certain kind of madness to embrace being nothing. But being nothing is dangerous, little ghost. It means you have no anchor when the storm comes.
She stopped in front of him and reached out, her fingers brushing the hilt of his sword. This iron is beneath you. It has no soul. It was made by a man who hated his work.
The youth didn't pull away, though every instinct told him to. It's all I have, he said.
Is it? she asked, her eyes searching his. Or is it just the only thing you've allowed yourself to hold? Strength is not found in what you carry, but in what you are willing to break.
She turned back to One-Eye. The Southern Prefecture is moving. They aren't just collecting taxes anymore. They are looking for something. Or someone. There are whispers of a child of the Old Blood, a survivor of the Ember Night.
One-Eye's expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to grow colder. The Ember Night was a long time ago, Isara. The ashes have cold.
Ashes can hide embers for decades, she countered. And some embers refuse to go out. They just wait for a wind to find them.
She looked at the youth one last time, a strange expression flitting across her face—was it pity? Or recognition? Be careful, Nobody. The path you are on does not lead to glory. It leads to a mirror. And most people die of fright when they finally see what's looking back at them.
Without another word, she turned and vanished into the darkness as quickly as she had appeared. The youth stared at the spot where she had stood, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Who was she? he asked.
A ghost of the past, One-Eye said, standing up. And a warning for the future. Sleep now. Tomorrow, the real work begins. We reach the Monastery of the Broken Cloud by noon. If they don't kill you at the gate, you might actually learn something.
The youth lay down on the hard stone, using his pack as a pillow. He looked up at the stars and thought about the woman's words. *A mirror.* He reached down and touched the rusted sword at his side. He thought about the three seconds of balance he had achieved. It was a small thing, a tiny fragment of order in a chaotic world.
As sleep finally claimed him, he didn't dream of fire or smoke. He dreamed of a vast, white plain where there was no wind and no sound. In the center of the plain stood a single, perfect blade, stuck into the ground. He walked toward it, but the further he walked, the further away it seemed to be. He realized then that the blade wasn't a destination. It was the horizon itself.
He woke up before dawn, the air so cold it turned his breath into a thick fog. One-Eye was already standing at the edge of the plateau, looking toward the north. The old man looked different in the pre-dawn light—less like a beggar and more like a ruin that refused to crumble.
Ready? One-Eye asked without turning.
The youth stood up, his body stiff and aching, but his mind strangely clear. I'm ready.
They began the final leg of the ascent. The path became even more treacherous, a winding stair carved directly into the face of the mountain. In some places, the steps had collapsed, requiring them to leap across gaps where the wind tried to push them into the void. The youth found that if he didn't think about the fall, if he focused only on the texture of the stone under his boots, the fear stayed at a distance.
As the sun cleared the horizon, they rounded a sharp corner and the youth gasped. Perched on a jagged outcropping, seemingly defying the laws of physics, was the Monastery of the Broken Cloud. It was a sprawling complex of grey stone and dark wood, its towers disappearing into the permanent layer of mist that clung to the peak. It looked less like a building and more like a natural growth of the mountain itself.
There was no wall, no gatehouse. Only a single bridge of braided rope and wooden planks spanning a gorge so deep it seemed to swallow the light. On the other side of the bridge, a lone figure stood waiting. He was dressed in a simple grey tunic, his head shaved, a long, curved sword sheathed at his waist.
One-Eye stopped at the foot of the bridge. This is as far as I go as a guide, he said. From here, you are a petitioner.
What do I do? the youth asked, looking at the bridge that swayed violently in the wind.
You walk, One-Eye said. And you don't look down. If the bridge accepts you, you enter. If it doesn't... well, the mud will have its guest back.
The youth looked at the old man, seeking some sign of encouragement, but One-Eye's face was a mask of indifference. This was the final test of the climb. The youth stepped onto the first plank. It groaned under his weight. The wind caught his cloak, pulling him toward the edge. He tightened his grip on his pack and took another step.
The bridge was a living thing. It bucked and twisted, responding to every gust of wind and every shift of his weight. He felt the familiar surge of panic, the cold hand of the abyss reaching for his ankles. But then, he remembered the sword. He remembered the feeling of the center.
He stopped in the middle of the bridge. He closed his eyes. He didn't try to fight the wind. He moved with it. He allowed his body to become part of the bridge's rhythm. He stopped being a man trying to cross and became a weight finding its balance.
When he opened his eyes, he was only three steps from the other side. The grey-clad monk was watching him, his expression unreadable. The youth stepped onto the solid stone of the monastery and took a long, shaking breath.
He turned back to look for One-Eye, but the old man was gone. The plateau was empty, the ruins of the shrine hidden by the mist. He was alone.
The monk stepped forward. He didn't bow. He didn't speak. He simply pointed toward the open archway of the main hall.
The youth walked forward, his boots echoing on the ancient stone. He felt the weight of the mountain above him and the weight of the silence within. He didn't know what waited for him inside those walls, but for the first time in his life, he didn't feel like he was running. He felt like he was arriving.
He stepped through the archway and into a courtyard filled with the sound of rushing water. In the center, a group of men and women were moving in perfect unison, their wooden practice swords cutting the air with a collective whistle. They didn't look like warriors; they looked like dancers in a violent ballet.
He stood and watched, the rusted short sword heavy on his hip. He was the Son of Nobody, a stray from the mud, standing in the heart of the world's greatest school of the blade. He was lost, but as he watched the rhythmic motion of the practitioners, he felt a strange, quiet certainty.
The journey wasn't about finding a name. It was about finding the man who didn't need one. And as the mist swirled around him, swallowing the world below, the youth took his first real step toward the iron.