At eight years old, the mountain stopped being quiet.
It growled.
The first time it happened, the boy was halfway through his morning run when the ground beneath him gave way. Stone cracked. Dirt slid. His foot sank, and suddenly the path wasn't there anymore.
He tumbled.
Branches scratched his arms. Rocks slammed into his ribs. He rolled down the slope until his body hit a tree hard enough to knock the air out of him.
Silence followed.
The boy lay still, staring at the sky, chest burning.
Then he moved his legs.
They worked.
He laughed.
The old man appeared above him moments later, peering down the slope.
"You fell," the old man observed.
"Yes," the boy said proudly.
"And you survived."
"Yes."
"Good," the old man nodded. "That means we can do it again."
The boy's smile slowly faded. "Again?"
"Of course," the old man said. "The mountain doesn't care about your feelings. You should get used to that."
From that day on, the paths changed.
The old man stopped clearing loose stones. He stopped warning about narrow ledges. Sometimes, he quietly altered the trails at night—loosening rocks, digging shallow pits, redirecting paths closer to cliffs.
The boy noticed.
"Master," he asked once, staring at a suddenly missing handhold, "was this always here?"
The old man sipped tea. "Yes."
"…It wasn't."
"Your memory is weak," the old man replied calmly. "Run."
The boy ran.
At nine, the boy learned what fear felt like.
A mountain boar burst out of the bushes mid-run.
It was massive—tusks curved, eyes wild, breath steaming. It snorted and charged without hesitation.
The boy froze for half a second.
The old man's voice echoed from somewhere above.
"Run."
The boy didn't think.
He moved.
The world narrowed into motion. His feet struck stone, dirt, roots—each step barely touching before the next replaced it. The boar chased him, roaring, tearing up the ground behind him.
The path curved sharply.
The boy didn't slow down.
He leaned.
The boar couldn't.
It missed the turn.
There was a crash, then silence.
The boy kept running.
Only after several minutes did he stop, hands on knees, laughing so hard it hurt.
"I won!" he shouted.
The old man arrived later, glanced at the broken trees and gouged earth.
"You didn't win," he said. "You left."
"…Isn't that the same?"
"No," the old man replied. "Winning makes you stay."
The boy thought about that.
Then nodded.
That night, the boy couldn't sleep.
His legs twitched. His heart raced. Every sound felt loud.
The old man sat nearby, quietly repairing a sandal.
"Master," the boy whispered, "was that dangerous?"
"Yes."
"Could I have died?"
"Yes."
The boy swallowed. "Then why—"
"Because," the old man interrupted, "danger doesn't ask permission."
The boy stared at the ceiling.
"…Tomorrow too?"
The old man tied the final knot and stood.
"Of course."
The next morning, the boy ran faster.
Not because he was told to.
But because something inside him understood.
The mountain wasn't his enemy.
It was practice.
From a distance, the old man watched the boy vanish around a bend, steps lighter, sharper.
He narrowed his eyes.
"…This is going to become troublesome."
But he didn't stop him.
End of Chapter 3