The mountain path was cruel.
Tikshn's feet were bare and blistered, his stomach hollow. Each step up the winding trail scraped another piece of his childhood away. But he kept moving. There was no going back—only forward.
The sword strapped to his back was far too heavy for a boy of thirteen. It dragged against the dirt, scraped stone, and tore through bramble like it didn't care who carried it. Sometimes, Tikshn thought the sword resented him.
Above, hawks circled lazily, waiting for him to collapse. The Murim world did not coddle orphans. It swallowed them.
Three days passed. He ate what he could catch—roots, insects, snowmelt—and on the fourth night, he reached the old temple.
It was half-sunken into the mountainside, covered in vines and moss. The stone lions guarding the entrance were chipped and eyeless, and the wooden gates hung open like a yawn. No banners flew. No light shone. But something old and watching waited inside.
Tikshn stepped through.
Dust choked the air. Empty scroll racks lined the walls, long abandoned. The smell of incense still lingered, faint and ghostly. He moved deeper, past broken statues and prayer wheels, until he found the inner courtyard.
There, a man stood barefoot in the snow, sword drawn—not moving.
At first, Tikshn thought he was a statue. But the man's eyes flicked open, and in them, Tikshn saw storms.
"You carry that blade like it's punishment," the man said, voice calm, ancient.
Tikshn tightened his grip on the hilt. "It is."
The man tilted his head, amused. "Then you may be worth teaching."