By twelve, the boy stopped asking questions.
He ran.
That was enough.
The old man no longer shouted commands. He simply stood somewhere on the mountain, and the boy knew.
Find him.
Some days it took minutes.
Some days hours.
If the boy failed, he didn't eat.
If he succeeded, the old man nodded once.
That nod meant more than praise.
The final trial came without warning.
One morning, the old man didn't appear.
No tea.
No command.
No presence.
The mountain felt wrong.
The boy ran anyway.
He searched every trail, every ledge, every shortcut he had carved into memory. His legs screamed, lungs burned, vision blurred—but he didn't stop.
Night fell.
Rain followed.
Still no sign.
Fear crept in—not of the mountain, but of absence.
Finally, near a cliff edge, he found him.
The old man sat calmly, as if he'd been there all along.
"You're late," the old man said.
The boy collapsed to his knees. "I thought you were gone."
The old man looked at him.
"That was the test."
The rain slowed.
The boy stared at the ground, voice quiet.
"Master… everyone has a name."
The old man didn't respond.
"…You never gave me one."
Silence stretched.
"A name," the old man said at last, "is a handle."
The boy looked up.
"If someone knows it," the old man continued, "they pull."
The boy clenched his fists. "Then what am I?"
The old man stood.
"You're alive," he said. "That's enough."
Then he turned away.
At dawn, the old man handed the boy a small pack.
Food. Coins. Simple clothes.
"The mountain ends there," he said, pointing toward the distant road. "So does my teaching."
The boy froze. "I'm leaving?"
"Yes."
"…What do I tell people?"
The old man paused.
"Nothing," he replied. "If they ask who you are—run."
The boy bowed deeply.
When he looked up, the old man was already gone.
The boy stood alone at the edge of the world.
No name.
No master.
Only legs trained to escape anything that tried to hold him.
He stepped forward.
And ran.
End of Training Arc