In the cradle of the Yunji Mountains, where the morning mist never quite left and the peaks stood like silent elders wrapped in clouds, a boy named Li Wei was chasing after a cricket.
Not an ordinary cricket, mind you. This one had a stripe of gold along its back—thin as a hair, but unmistakable—and it chirped like it had secrets. Li Wei was certain of this. He'd first heard it the day before, hiding in the tall grass near the elder shrine, and now he'd woken with a singular purpose: catch it.
He crouched low in the underbrush, lips pursed, arms spread wide like wings ready to sweep. His black hair stuck up in places where the wind had mussed it, and his cheeks bore a faint flush from the cool air. Ten years old, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, he was a wiry, bright flame in the quiet green world of Yunji.
"There you are," he whispered, squinting. The cricket sat on a flat stone, its legs still. As if it knew it had an audience.
He inched forward, silent as he could manage, though the dried leaves had other ideas.
Crunch.
The cricket twitched.
"Don't you dare—" Li Wei lunged.
The cricket vanished in a flick of legs and wings, darting into a nearby clump of ferns.
Li Wei landed with a thud, arms splayed, face in the moss.
"Unfair!" he groaned into the earth. "That one knew I was coming."
He rolled over, stared up at the sky. Above, the bamboo swayed gently, the tall stalks creaking ever so slightly in the breeze. Between them, the sky was a pale blue canvas washed with morning light. Not quite gold, not yet white—a color that belonged only to early hours.
The village lay just down the slope, past the stone path that wound like a lazy river through the forest. Yunji was no more than a scattering of homes built from wood and stone, their rooftops curved in the old style, always damp from the mist. Smoke drifted from the chimneys, mixing with the fog. The scent of steamed buns and pine filled the air.
Li Wei could hear old Granny Lin yelling at her son again—something about "that leaky roof" and "his lazy bones." Her voice carried well. Too well.
He chuckled and stood, brushing moss from his knees. The cricket was gone, but the day was just beginning.
And there were shrines to tend.
The path to the elder shrines was narrow and winding, lined with crooked stones that had long since given up trying to stay even. Ferns spilled over the sides. Birds chirped in the canopy above—warblers, thrushes, and the occasional white-eye with its soft, sweet call.
Li Wei walked with a stick in hand, swinging it idly. Not for protection. Just something to poke things with. Stones. Fungus. Mysterious piles of animal droppings. He prodded all with equal curiosity.
The elder shrines were nestled at the foot of the North Cliff, a great wall of dark stone draped in ivy. There were seven of them, each older than the village itself, carved into the rock with care and reverence. The smallest was a fox with three tails, its snout lifted as if sniffing for trickery. Another, a crane with feathers like flowing water. The largest bore no name and no form, just a great stone disc etched with interwoven patterns that glowed faintly on fog-heavy mornings.
Li Wei approached the fox first. He placed a small bundle of dried tea leaves before it, then tapped the stone three times with his knuckles.
"For cleverness," he said. "And for that cricket, next time."
He moved down the line, offering rice at the crane, a sliver of salted plum at the heron, even a carved peach pit at the laughing monkey god with the chipped ear.
When he reached the blank disc, he paused.
No one in the village ever mentioned this shrine. It had no offerings, no incense. The adults always looked away when passing it. But to Li Wei, it felt... warm. Familiar, somehow.
He placed his palm on the stone. It was cold. Always cold.
"I'll bring you something nice tomorrow," he said, almost to himself. "Maybe a carved bell. Or a poem, if I can get Elder Song to stop falling asleep mid-lesson."
The wind answered with a soft gust, stirring the leaves. He thought—just for a moment—that he heard laughter. But there was no one behind him, only the rustle of the forest.
By noon, Li Wei was ankle-deep in the stream, pants rolled up and face scrunched with effort as he tried, and failed, to catch fish.
He had a net. It had holes. He'd tried patching it with thread and spit, but it wasn't going well.
The fish, sleek and silver, darted through the water like dancers, always one flick ahead of him.
He swiped, stumbled, caught a rock instead. Nearly dropped the net.
"You know," he said aloud, "I could just wait for them to get tired."
The fish ignored him. Arrogantly.
Nearby, his bamboo basket sat half-filled with wild ginger, mossflowers, and a few mushrooms he thought were the safe kind. Granny Lin had once smacked his head for bringing home a poison-cap. He still had the scar.
Li Wei sat down on a rock, feet dangling in the cold stream. The forest sang around him—crickets, wind, the occasional snap of a twig. This was the world he knew. Trees older than stories. Rocks that never moved but always seemed different. Clouds that dipped low enough to kiss the treetops.
"Why would anyone leave here?" he asked the water.
The water, being a stream, did not answer.
Later, with the sun beginning its lazy descent behind the mountains, Li Wei made his way home. His house was small, like most in Yunji—wooden walls, clay-tiled roof, the faint scent of smoke clinging to everything. But it was his, and it was warm.
His mother was gone, passed away when he was six. His father, a quiet man named Li Shen, worked with the woodcutters and rarely spoke more than he had to. But he carved beautiful things—flutes, bowls, little animals with sad eyes—and sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would hum old songs.
Li Wei didn't mind the quiet. He filled it well enough.
That night, the rain came suddenly, slanting sideways as if pushed by an angry spirit. The wind howled, and the trees groaned like old bones.
Li Wei sat by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, gnawing on a steamed bun. The flames danced, throwing shadows along the wooden walls. His father was sharpening a blade in the corner, the slow shhhk, shhhk sound steady and soft.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
Li Wei froze.
His father looked up. One brow lifted.
A visitor? At this hour? In this storm?
The door creaked open, and in stepped a figure, cloaked and dripping. Water pooled at his feet. A long white beard hung down to his chest, streaked with leaves and tangled bits of twine. His eyes gleamed beneath the shadow of his hood—too bright. Too sharp.
"Evening," the old man said, voice rough like tree bark rubbed smooth. "Might I borrow your fire for a while?"
Li Shen hesitated. Then, silently, he nodded.
The man stepped inside. Removed his cloak. Sat with a sigh, close to the hearth, stretching his long, wiry fingers toward the flames.
"Ahhh. That's the stuff. Haven't felt warm since the spring festival of the Ghost Lotus year. Or was it the year the moon cracked?" He chuckled. "Time's a fickle thing."
Li Wei stared at him.
The old man turned, met his eyes, and grinned.
"Well, now. You've got the eyes of a deer and the heart of a fox, I can tell. What's your name, little wind?"
Li Wei blinked. "Li Wei."
"Li Wei," the old man said slowly, tasting it like tea. "A name with roots. Strong. Good. Mine's Yao. Just Yao. I've had others, but they don't stick."
He leaned closer, eyes gleaming.
"Tell me, Li Wei—do you like stories?"
Li Wei blinked at the old man seated across the fire.
Stories?
That was a word like honey. Sticky in the mouth. Sweet in the ears. He sat a little straighter on his woven mat, the blanket slipping from his shoulder. His father, Li Shen, said nothing. He only kept sharpening his blade, the steady rhythm never once faltering.
Yao—just Yao—smiled wider.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, stretching his legs out toward the flames. Steam curled from the edges of his damp robes. "Let me think. Hmm. What sort of tale would suit a boy like you?"
Li Wei narrowed his eyes, suspicious and intrigued in equal measure. "What do you mean like me?"
Yao lifted a crooked finger. "Sharp-tongued. Brighter than you let on. You've got nimble fingers and a mind that doesn't sit still. You see things other people don't."
Li Wei opened his mouth to deny it—then closed it again. He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve.
"Maybe," he muttered.
"Definitely," Yao said with a wink.
Outside, the wind howled louder, rattling the shutters. A tree branch scraped across the roof, the way an old man might drag his fingers across a table while thinking. The fire crackled louder. Shadows danced.
Yao reached into his robes and pulled out a dried plum, the wrinkled fruit nearly black in the firelight. He bit into it, chewed thoughtfully, then began:
"There once was a man who carried a sword he never drew. Not once. Not in ten thousand steps, nor in a hundred years. They called him the Silent Blade."
Li Wei's eyes widened. "He never drew it? Not even once?"
Yao tapped the side of his nose. "Not once. You see, he didn't need to. People looked at the way he stood, the way he walked, and they knew—if that sword came out, the world would change. Mountains would fall. Rivers would boil. Children would stop crying forever."
Li Wei frowned. "That doesn't make sense."
"Exactly," Yao said, grinning. "That's how you know it's a true story."
Li Wei opened his mouth again, then closed it. He wasn't sure he liked how that logic worked, but it sounded like it belonged in a story.
"What happened to him?" he asked.
Yao leaned closer. His eyes, dark as polished inkstone, gleamed.
"No one knows," he whispered. "Some say he drew the sword and vanished. Others say he put it down and became a fisherman. I like to think he turned into a tree. One of those tall ones, high on a cliff, always watching. That way, he's still standing guard."
Li Wei stared into the flames. The fire popped. Rain beat harder against the windows. The wind groaned like it was tired of wandering.
"I like that," he said finally. "The tree part."
Yao nodded solemnly. "Trees are good endings."
From the corner, Li Shen spoke at last. His voice was quiet, but not unfriendly. "We have few visitors this deep in the valley. Especially in storms."
Yao turned to him. "Aye. And you've fewer fools who'd climb down a cliff and cross a half-washed-out bridge just for the pleasure of a warm fire and a story."
Li Shen raised an eyebrow. "You came from the west?"
"From wherever the wind last tossed me." Yao shrugged. "West, east, up, down—who keeps track? I go where I'm needed."
Li Wei grinned. "So you're a wanderer."
"A little more than that," Yao said, scratching his beard. "But I do my best not to seem too impressive. Keeps people from asking difficult questions."
Li Wei thought about that. "Is that why you talk like everything's a riddle?"
Yao laughed—a sound like an old flute, crooked but not unpleasant. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like the sound of my own voice."
That night, after Yao had dried his clothes and filled his belly with rice and mushrooms, he settled on a mat near the hearth. Li Shen offered no protest. Something unspoken passed between the two men—an understanding perhaps born not of words but of silence.
Li Wei lay in his own cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
The storm still murmured beyond the walls, but softer now. Like a child being hushed.
"Hey," he whispered across the room. "Yao?"
A rustle. A yawn. "Mm?"
"Was that story true? About the Silent Blade?"
A pause. Then: "Do you want it to be?"
"Yes."
"Then it was."
Li Wei smiled and let the rain carry him to sleep.
The next morning dawned gray and wet. The storm had passed, but the clouds hung low, dragging their bellies along the mountain ridges like lazy cats.
Yao was already awake, crouched by the door, tying something strange-looking to his feet.
Li Wei blinked sleep from his eyes. "What... are those?"
Yao held up a foot. A thick wooden sole was strapped beneath with loops of woven bark. "Storm walkers," he said proudly. "Keeps you above the muck."
Li Wei stared. "They look ridiculous."
Yao beamed. "That's how you know they work."
He stood—surprisingly tall for an old man—and took two careful steps. The wooden soles made a tock tock sound on the floor.
Li Wei scrambled out of bed, curiosity winning out over dignity. "Where are you going?"
"For a walk," Yao said. "Maybe find a few mushrooms that haven't drowned. Maybe speak to the trees. Maybe listen to the wind."
"You talk to trees?"
"They're good listeners."
Li Wei grabbed his coat. "I'm coming too."
They walked through the forest, not following any trail that Li Wei recognized. Yao moved like he'd been here before, even though he claimed he hadn't. His steps were light, barely bending the grass. Every so often, he'd pause—listen to something Li Wei couldn't hear—then change direction.
"You know," Li Wei said after a while, "you're really weird."
Yao turned, his white eyebrows raised. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not," Li Wei admitted. "Just... most old men around here sit on porches and talk about the weather."
"I do that too," Yao said. "But I prefer doing it with the weather. Much better conversation."
They came to a small clearing where moss blanketed everything—rocks, logs, even the bases of trees. A stream gurgled nearby, half-swollen from the rain. The air smelled rich. Alive.
Yao crouched beside a stump and began poking the soil with a stick.
"You ever breathe on purpose?" he asked.
Li Wei blinked. "I breathe all the time."
"Yes, yes," Yao said, rolling his eyes. "But on purpose. Like... really pay attention to it."
"Why would I do that?"
Yao took a long, slow breath. Held it. Released it with a soft hum. The leaves around them stirred, even though the wind had gone still.
"Because," he said, "that's where it begins."
Li Wei frowned. "Where what begins?"
"Everything."
Over the next few days, Yao did not leave.
He made no announcement of staying, no plea for shelter. He simply remained, as though he'd always been part of the house, like the hearthstones or the old kettle with the cracked lid. Li Shen didn't complain. If anything, he seemed to welcome the presence—though he never said so aloud.
Yao told stories. All kinds.
There was one about a woman who sang storms into jars. Another about a turtle who carried a temple on its back for three hundred years before realizing it was alone. He spoke of spirit beasts and gods that drank dew and cried stones. Of rivers that remembered names and mountains that mourned lost footsteps.
Li Wei devoured them all.
But more than stories, Yao began teaching.
Not formally, never in so many words. But in moments. In gestures.
"Stand like this," he'd say, shifting his weight. "Now breathe in through your heels, out through your shoulders. That's it. You're a tree swaying. Not a stick cracking."
Or, "When you walk, don't push. Let your foot fall, like a leaf landing. Soft. Quiet. Every step is a dance."
Li Wei watched. Listened. Tried. Failed. Tried again.
Yao showed him how to place his weight so he could balance on the edge of a stone no wider than a rice bowl. How to move without rustling a single leaf. How to feel the breath of the forest—not through his ears, but through the soles of his feet.
One evening, as they sat by the fire carving a wooden flute from a length of river reed, Li Wei asked, "Why are you teaching me these things?"
Yao didn't look up from his carving. "Because you're listening."
"Lots of people listen."
"Not like you."
Li Wei frowned. "Like how, then?"
Yao paused. Turned to him. "Like someone who might one day hear the threads."
"The... threads?"
But Yao only smiled and handed him the flute.