The first days were hell.
Aaryan ran up and down the mountain path with the tiny wooden bucket, filling it at the lake below and emptying it into the massive wooden chest inside the hut.
Again. And again. And again.
The mountain showed no mercy.
Sharp stones tore his feet open. Freezing mist soaked his clothes at dawn. The afternoon sun burned his skin until his vision blurred.
He stumbled.
He fell.
He bled.
Most days… he was late.
And whenever he was late, the old man would simply close the lid of the food pot and sip his tea as if Aaryan did not exist.
Hunger became his constant companion.
Many nights, Aaryan lay awake on the hard wooden floor, clutching his stomach while it twisted violently.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
Seasons began to change.
The mountain path that once felt endless slowly became familiar.
Aaryan memorized every sharp rock, every loose stone, every hidden root along the descent. He learned which slopes were safest after rain, which turns were slippery at dawn.
The mountain stopped feeling like an enemy.
It became a test.
One evening, after barely reaching the hut before sunset, Aaryan collapsed near the doorway, breathing heavily.
"…Old man…"
The mentor glanced at him lazily.
"You're still alive. Impressive."
Aaryan glared weakly.
"…How do I do this faster?"
The old man raised an eyebrow.
"You want to become stronger… or just eat more food?"
Aaryan clenched his jaw.
"…Both."
The old man smirked.
"Good answer."
He stepped outside.
"Watch carefully."
Then he moved.
His feet barely touched the ground.
He shifted weight from toe to heel with effortless precision, gliding across uneven stones like flowing water. Every step was relaxed… yet impossibly fast.
Aaryan stared in shock.
"That," the old man said calmly, "is footwork."
Aaryan's eyes lit up.
"You'll teach me battle movement?"
The old man shrugged.
"No."
Aaryan froze.
"It's useful for running away," the old man added. "You're weak. Survival comes first."
"…You enjoy insulting me, don't you?"
"Very much."
Training changed.
Aaryan tripped.
Slipped.
Rolled down slopes.
Crushed into trees.
Every mistake earned him either a cold stare… or an extra water run as "punishment."
But slowly—
His balance improved.
His steps grew lighter.
His breathing steadier.
The mountain path that once defeated him began to feel smaller beneath his feet.
One afternoon, for the first time, Aaryan completed both water runs before midday.
He stood proudly in front of the hut.
"I did it!"
The old man observed him for a long moment.
"Your speed improved."
Aaryan grinned.
Then the old man pointed behind the hut.
"Sit."
"…Sit?"
"Horse stance."
The grin vanished instantly.
Aaryan lowered himself into position. His legs began shaking almost immediately.
The old man calmly placed heavy stones across his thighs and shoulders.
"This is punishment," he said.
"For what?!"
"For being proud."
Days turned into months.
Months into years.
Aaryan's body transformed.
The fragile child who had collapsed at the hut door slowly became lean and defined. His shoulders broadened. His movements sharpened.
His breathing deepened.
His gaze steadied.
One evening, while holding the horse stance beneath a burning sunset, he asked through clenched teeth,
"…Why all this physical training? I'm a mage…"
The old man sipped tea.
"Your body is too weak to carry mana properly."
Aaryan remained silent.
"Mana is flow," the mentor continued. "A broken vessel cannot hold water."
He pointed at the wooden chest.
"You spent months filling that. But if it had cracks… what would happen?"
"…The water would leak."
"Exactly."
He looked at Aaryan directly.
"Strengthen the vessel. Then power will follow."
The training intensified.
Aaryan carried logs across cliffs.
Balanced on narrow ledges while blindfolded.
Ran down the mountain in storms.
Swam across the freezing lake in winter.
And eventually—
He hunted.
The first time he faced a wild bear, his body froze.
His hands trembled around the crude spear.
"Fight," the old man's voice came calmly from a distant tree branch.
Aaryan barely survived.
But he learned.
He learned how fear sharpened instinct.
How exhaustion forced efficiency.
How hesitation meant death.
The next time he faced a beast—
He did not freeze.
Spring covered the hills in blooming wildflowers.
Summer filled valleys with golden light.
Autumn painted forests crimson.
Winter buried the mountain beneath silent snow.
Through every season—
Aaryan trained.
One night, after returning from hunting, he sat cross-legged near the cliff's edge, staring at the endless sea of stars.
The old man sat beside him.
"Your mana is still unstable," the mentor said quietly.
Aaryan sighed.
"…I try every day. But it feels like something blocks it."
The old man closed his eyes.
"Stop forcing it."
Aaryan frowned.
"Sit quietly. Listen to the mountain. Feel the air. Let nature speak before you try to command it."
He opened one eye slightly.
"Don't command wind."
"Understand it."
Aaryan slowly closed his eyes.
The night breeze brushed across his face.
At first… nothing.
Then—
He heard it.
Leaves whispering.
Rivers flowing in the distance.
The steady breathing of the mountain itself.
For the first time in his life…
His mana did not resist him.
It flowed gently.
Like air moving through open space.
Peace filled his core.
Years passed like drifting clouds.
Snow melted.
Flowers bloomed again.
And again.
And again.
Five years slipped away beneath the mountain sky.
The starving boy who once arrived trembling now stood tall at the cliff's edge.
His black hair swayed calmly in the wind.
His frame was lean but powerful.
His eyes carried quiet control—
And something deeper.
Something waiting.
Far beyond the mountain…
The world continued moving.
Unaware that the boy it had cast aside…
Was no longer the same.
And soon—
The mountain would no longer be able to contain him.