By the age of six, the boy learned an important truth.
Running was not optional.
It was not training.
It was not practice.
It was life.
"Run."
That single word replaced breakfast greetings, lessons, and bedtime stories.
If the boy woke up late, the old man didn't scold him.
He just said, "Run."
If the boy asked why the water bucket was empty, the answer was the same.
"Run."
Even when the boy sneezed one morning, the old man glanced at him and muttered, "If you have the strength to sneeze, you have the strength to run."
The boy ran.
At first, he thought the mountain paths were cruel.
Then the old man proved him wrong.
One afternoon, the boy was happily running circles around the courtyard when the old man called him over.
"Good news," the old man said.
The boy's eyes lit up. "Food?"
"Worse."
He pointed toward the mountain trail.
"Stairs."
The boy followed his finger and froze.
Someone—clearly insane—had carved uneven stone steps all the way up the mountain. They twisted, broke suddenly, and rose at angles that made the knees cry just by looking at them.
"Up and down," the old man said calmly. "One hundred times."
The boy stared.
"…Master."
"Yes?"
"Am I being punished?"
The old man thought for a moment. "No."
Then added, "This is normal training."
The boy ran.
By the time the sun began to set, his legs trembled as if they belonged to someone else.
He collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, face-first.
The old man crouched beside him and poked his cheek with a finger.
"Still breathing," he said, satisfied.
The boy groaned. "Master… my legs are angry."
"They should be," the old man replied. "You use them too much."
The boy didn't see the logic in that, but he was too tired to argue.
At seven, the weights came back.
Bigger ones.
Wooden blocks were tied around his ankles with rope so thick it looked like it was meant for livestock.
The boy tried to take a step.
He didn't move.
The old man watched silently.
After a long pause, the boy leaned forward and dragged one foot ahead.
Then the other.
Then he fell.
He stood up again.
He fell again.
The old man nodded. "Good."
The boy looked up from the ground. "What part of this is good?"
"You didn't cry."
"…I forgot how."
Sometimes, the old man made him run while carrying water.
Sometimes, he made him run backward.
Once, he made him run while reciting numbers out loud.
The boy tripped.
"Wrong number," the old man said. "Start over."
"But Master, I fell because of the rock!"
"Yes," the old man agreed. "Rocks exist."
The boy ran again.
One night, while soaking his legs in cold mountain water, the boy finally asked:
"Master… why don't I train my arms?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
He stared at the moon.
"When danger comes," he said at last, "people swing fists. They swing swords. They think about winning."
The boy listened quietly.
"I think about leaving," the old man continued. "And leaving requires legs."
The boy nodded slowly.
Then asked, "What if I can't leave?"
The old man looked at him.
"Then you didn't run enough."
That night, the boy dreamed of running.
Not away.
Forward.
Faster than the wind. Faster than falling.
When he woke up, his legs were already moving.
The old man watched from a distance, sipping tea.
For the first time, he frowned.
"…He's adapting too fast."
End of Chapter 2