Greenwood Mountain looked a lot like Saka Haphong —
but wilder, harsher, more dangerous.
Tall green mountains surrounded everything, dense jungle below,
leaves swaying in the wind as if whispering with a thousand unseen voices.
Water from waterfalls streamed down into the river,
moss covered the rocks,
and sometimes I would spot deer, rabbits, wild foxes — even tigers.
But when night fell, this forest turned into something else entirely.
Crickets screamed, insects glowed,
and strange roars echoed from far away.
The first few days, all I did was try to survive.
No shelter.
No food.
No one to help me.
I slept under trees,
and since the river water was usually poisonous, I had to heat it heavily before drinking.
Whatever fruits I found — I ate.
But you can't live on fruits forever.
One day, I tried catching a rabbit.
But the moment I moved, it shot off like lightning.
That's when I realized — my speed and stamina were both weak.
Right then, I made a decision:
I would learn.
I would survive.
I would change.
Days passed like that.
On the morning of the third week, my lighter finally ran out.
But I needed fire.
So I cut some wood and kept striking stones together, trying to spark something.
Suddenly, a voice behind me said,
"You can't make fire like that, boy."
Startled, I turned around.
An old man stood there, leaning a long plow-handle on his shoulder.
He wore a dusty, old wide-brimmed fedora hat —
brownish, greyish, tilted low to block the sun.
Just one look at it was enough to tell —
he had worn it for years.
His skin was sun-burnt bronze, carved by years of working under open skies.
His cheeks were hollow, but his face carried a firm, unshakable presence.
A thick grey-white moustache rested above his lip —
the kind that made him look like an old veteran warrior.
The hairs were dense, neat, and styled in an old-school way.
He wore a dark navy or black heavyweight mechanic's overall —
the fabric thick and creased near the knees, worn but never torn.
Inside it, a faded grey striped work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
A sturdy belt held a small pouch — tools, or maybe a small knife.
On his feet, heavy dark-brown leather work boots —
old, but well-maintained.
He said,
"My name is Galland. I've lived in these mountains for many years."
He looked about fifty.
He asked,
"How will you survive here alone? This place isn't a playground."
I replied,
"I want to grow stronger.
I want to survive the wild.
I want to free my country."
Galland chuckled.
"With that weak body, you won't last even a single second in war."
"I have to," I said sharply, anger burning through my voice.
Seeing my determination, the old man nodded.
"Fine. Making you strong — that'll be my responsibility.
I've trained many in my life."
And that day, my training began.
Morning runs, climbing mountains, climbing trees, lifting heavy rocks,
holding my breath underwater —
Galland taught everything with his own hands.
He said,
"It's not your body. Your mind has to change first.
Run — until your legs tremble in pain."
In the beginning, I kept falling,
cutting my hands, scraping my knees, bleeding.
But Galland never said anything except,
"Get up. A warrior doesn't cry."
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
Slowly I understood —
Speed, Stamina, Health, Ability —
these four things would keep me alive.
My body hardened.
The muscles in my arms and legs tightened.
A strange new strength awakened inside me.
Four weeks later, Galland and I were walking together.
Suddenly he leaned toward me — his voice calm, but his eyes sharp.
"Listen, Riven.
Now I'll teach you how to hunt.
Rule number one — hide yourself.
Do not show presence.
Animals have sharp instincts —
once they sense you, it's over."
He placed a hand on my shoulder as we walked.
"For starters, you'll learn to catch rabbits and deer.
They're simpler, but not stupid.
A rabbit needs you to smell like soil, move with the wind behind you, stay silent, step lightly.
And when the moment comes — jump.
Don't hesitate."
I followed Galland's words.
At first, I messed up —
stepping too hard, making noise.
The rabbit ran.
Galland didn't scold me —
just said, "Get up. Try again."
For several days, I only observed from a distance —
their paths, their movements,
controlling my breathing,
my posture, my hands.
He corrected me again and again.
"Keep your eyes focused,
but keep your mind calm.
Feet first, hands second, aim last."
Soon, catching rabbits became easier —
night-long practice, silent stalking, sudden leaps —
and I succeeded.
Catching deer wasn't simple either —
it needed patience and speed.
Galland kept saying,
"You don't need strong — you need patience."
I practiced everything —
breathing, foot pressure, timing.
Weeks passed.
From rabbits to deer —
I managed to hunt all of them.
Galland smiled slightly.
"Good. Feel a bit of relief now."
A few days later, he said we'd now learn how to catch fish without a rod.
It needed sharp eyes.
He showed me how to tie a knife to a stick and strike cleanly.
After several tries, I learned it.
That night, under the moon and stars,
we roasted the fish by the campfire.
Crickets glowed around us, their calls echoing in the dark.
As we ate, I finally asked,
"Why are you here?
Who takes care of your family?"
Galland said,
"War isn't just blood.
It's sacrifice."
His eyes glistened.
When he finally spoke, the words didn't simply come out—they ripped from his throat like thorns.
"I was once a commander in the army," he began, his gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the room.
"I commanded Sector 007 during the war against South Greenery in 1925.
It was the first battle North vs. South on our border.
(A border is a line separating two areas, most commonly a political boundary between countries or states)
They invaded first… and we did everything—everything—to protect our land."
He swallowed hard.
"But things went terribly wrong."
There was a pause. A heaviness.
A weight only soldiers know.
"My father… he was a freedom fighter too," I said quietly.
His eyes shifted to me.
"What's his name?"
"Steven Ray."
The spoon slipped slightly in Galland's grip as his entire body froze.
"Steven… Ray?" he repeated, almost whispering.
"He was in my sector.
What fate… that I trained your father…
and now, I'm training you."
He exhaled—long, tired, broken.
"We believed we could fix everything," he murmured.
"We believed we could change the village people fate.
But war… is never a heroic tale.
It doesn't lift people up.
It cuts them down."
His voice trembled for the first time.
"During one major operation… we charged in.
Everything looked under control.
But then—
the cycle turned against us."
His hand shook around the spoon.
"My men fell one after another.
Bullets. Fire. Screams.
And suddenly… I was the only one still standing."
He drew a sharp breath.
"One face survived that day—your father's.
My most trusted soldier.
He made it out alive… barely.
But he lost his leg.
He will never walk the same way again."
The night seemed to shrink around us.
"Those memories haunt me," Galland whispered.
"Their blood. Their screams. The way their bodies collapsed.
I see them every night."
He looked down, guilt carved deep into every line of his face.
"I keep thinking…
if I had commanded better…
if I had chosen differently…
maybe they would still be alive."
His voice locked tight in his throat.
"After that night… something inside me shattered.
I lost faith in myself.
I felt unworthy of leading anyone—ever again."
He looked at the walls, the trees beyond them, the lonely cabin he had chosen.
"So I left.
Left the army.
Left people.
Left the world."
His voice dropped to a near whisper.
"I came here… to Greenwood.
To live in silence.
To bury that day."
He closed his eyes.
"But every night, that day returns in my dreams."