The rain cascaded down from the skies.
Each drop akin to a needle piercing through the low hanging clouds of Bai Lu Mountain.
The rain mixed into the breeze of the vast cliffs, weaving through the stalks of the jade green bamboo covering the damp soil.
It was already late in the night, and the moon glowed in the darkness.
And yet, Bai Lu Mountain was anything but dark.
From the base and side of the mountain, dozen of lantern lights flickered like scattered gold throughout the night.
The lights shone from the straw huts, wooden sheds and open courtyards. Each representing a spark of life and basic unit of civilization.
Settled on the grand peaks, was Leng Yue Village.
The village has clung onto the mountain ever since the whispers of the ancient times, the village itself being famous for herbal medicine and bamboo wine.
Being more than just a simple settlement but a cradle of forgotten traditions.
At the heart of Leng Yue Village stood the Dharma Bell, its surface etched with bronze and rustic symbols of praying monks.
It is said that the bell rang not by hand, but only when the winds streamed down from the highest of peaks to warn the sleeping gods of an incoming change.
Simple hay roofed homes and weathered wooden halls lined the narrow paths carved into the rock, frost condensed onto the oiled paper windows even in the late autumn season of the year.
And in the pale mist of the night, the breath of wandering villagers rose akin to incense.
Despite the cold, life still remained and went on for most, lanterns hung onto the outside of walls swaying in the breeze, casting light onto the stone paved roads.
Families huddled within the humble hearths of their quiet households, children sat together captivated by the sparks of burning pine and the bed time stories told by the whims of their folks.
For most, a simple life is all that is needed.
Not rich, yet nor poor.
Not full, yet not hungry.
Not smitten with toil, nor lazy in spirit.
The people of Bai Lu Mountain have lived as such for long. Like grass in the wind, bent but not broken.
But not all are as fortunate in their destiny.
Some are left bereft in their lives.
Beneath one of the old balconies of the Flame Spirit Monastery and beneath the slanted roof where rainwater streamed down like falling threads, a boy sat.
Skin and bones.
Wrapped in damp rags which could barely be called clothing, the boy stood out in the rain. Arms wrapped in his knees, his bare feet pressed against the cold moss lined stone.
Each of his breaths barely visible in the air, swallowed by the raindrops.
His name was Long Wei.
Once a beggar, now...still a beggar in all but name.
An orphan left behind by war, with no memory of his kin, only hunger, cold and the weight of empty days.
The boy has been found near a riverbank, beneath the roots of a dead tree. Clinging to his life in the bite of the weather.
He was found by the monks of the monastery and brought up the cliffs half unconscious and barely hanging on to his life
It is not uncommon for monks to take in orphans, sick or the elderly.
Since then, the boy has lived among them, not as a disciple but as something between a younger brother and stray dog.
The monks would feed him porridge in the morning, rice water at noon and if it was a good day he would be given a bowl of sweet mountain milk when the winter winds howled at the walls of the monastery.
No name was asked of him, as he himself didn't remember one.
But one day, a dream came to him and so did his his name.
Everyday he would wake up and sweep up the leaves from the steps of the monastery and then help feed the old ox that turned the grinding wheel.
This would always take him through the end of the day, at which he always like to sit out here and enjoy the view.
The balcony of the monastery which the boy liked to rest out on, has a perfect bird like view of the whole village itself.
Long Wei sat there just beneath the eaves of the balcony, his shoulders trembling beneath his damp hemp clothing.
The chill of the rain clung to his bones, and yet there was a stubborn light in his eyes, a dim flickering light refusing to go out.
Whenever he would sit here his gaze would often drift into the mist shrouded peaks far into the distance. Beyond the range of the Bai Lu Mountain, far beyond it.
Even in this downpour, the mountain was beautiful, distant but beckoning.
And in the drifting clouds his imagination would take over and the stories he heard from the monks would suddenly gain color.
Stories whispered by the elder monks about wandering traders.
Of swordsman who split clouds and skies with a simple sweep of their blade.
Of fellow monks who walk on air.
Of mortals who carved rivers with their bare hands.
Of spirits.
Of demons.
Of mortals who climbed higher than even gods.
But he? He had nothing.
He was stuck on this mountain, in this village and inside this monastery.
He has never stuck a single step outside the limits of Bai Lu Mountain, and why would he? He never had much but he always felt like he had just enough.
He has long since grown satisfied in the security of his small world.
On this mountain? The damp clothing on his back was his.
The rain was his, and the warmth of yesterdays porridge still clinging just faintly to his stomach was his.
His fate has already been decided, growing old on this mountain, becoming a simple kind monk and then having his ashes spread into the eastern winds of the cliffs.
This was his fate, and he has long since prepared himself to follow it all the way to the end.
The rain grew heavier and heavier.
A single drop of rain slipped past the roof and landed on his brow, but the boy remained still.
Suddenly, a soft creak echoed as the wooden door behind Long Wei slid open.