School was a daily storm of papers and deadlines, and Wisterdom often sailed behind. Yet, while others saw a boy lagging, they missed the steady, golden light that seemed to glow around him-his unbreakable optimism.
He'd sit at his cluttered desk, a forgotten textbook open, and smile to himself. "The grades will catch up," he'd think, tracing a finger over a dusty window pane. "But my understanding... that grows on its own schedule."
The key to his peace came from an old proverb, given to him by his friend's father. The man had leaned in, voice low and grave: "Son, remember this: a mischievous spirit is a simple trick. But the human mind? That's an endless maze designed to fool even itself. It's more treacherous than any ghost."
Wisterdom never forgot. He became a collector of silence, listening more than he spoke. In the cafeteria, on the playground, he observed. The flash of jealousy in a smile. The hidden kindness behind a gruff word.
One afternoon, after seeing a bully, Bruman, switch from cruel taunts to helpful praise in a heartbeat, Wisterdom found his usual quiet corner under the old oak tree. He closed his eyes, the proverb flashing in his mind like a neon sign.
The mind is more treacherous than any spirit.
"Okay," he whispered to the breeze. "Let's map the maze."
Inside, his consciousness lit up. He wasn't just thinking; he was visualizing. He saw Bruman not as a monster, but as a swirling storm of feelings-a red spark of anger at home, a gray cloud of insecurity, a tiny, stubborn yellow seed of wanting to be liked.
If I poke the anger, he fights. If I acknowledge the insecurity, he crumbles. If I water the good seed... maybe it grows?
Scenarios played out like chess moves behind his eyelids. He calculated possibilities, paths through Bruman's personal maze. He didn't judge the pieces as just 'good' or 'evil'-he saw them as weather, constantly changing.
A smile touched his lips. He didn't know this deep dive was an ancient form of meditation. He just knew he loved it. To him, it wasn't homework; it was the most fascinating puzzle in the world.
He opened his eyes. The school bell rang, harsh and real. Wisterdom stood up, brushed off his pants, and walked back toward the noise. He carried a new map within him, ready for the next move in the mundane, marvelous, treacherous human world.
The wheel of karma turns, where every good and evil deed finds its fruit in the world of samsara. Now, that wheel turned toward a boy named Wisterdom, casting the shadow of a coming storm upon his fate.
At the age of twelve, his world was one of quiet absence and gentle bustle. His father was a distant figure, a silhouette on the ramparts, consumed by the grim duty of watching for foreign invasion. His mother was the warm, weary heart of the home, her innocence worn thin by the care of many children. Then, the accident arrived-a violent, shattering moment that cracked open the shell of his ordinary mind. From the fracture, a brilliant and terrifying power awoke, flooding his inner world, lifting his psychic senses to a dizzying, frightening height.
Into this changed world came his elder brother, returning from the dust and grind of merchant roads. To Wisterdom, he was a legend made flesh: the family's beloved son, a pillar of quiet strength. The brother moved with a careful economy, measuring every ration, turning every coin earned into the promise of schooling. He was a striking figure, tall and pale, with a cascade of hair that seemed to hold whispered conversations with the wind. His beauty was a silent poetry that stirred the hearts of village girls, though he remained a statue of devotion, blind to their sighs, his life a continuous offering upon the altar of his family's needs. This absolute selflessness wove a cloak of deep respect that draped him in the eyes of all who knew him.
A day later the invitation arrived, delivered into their mother's hand. The Chief Commander himself had summoned their parents to the castle for his daughter's birthday celebration. It was a three-day journey by wagon, a long trek through the dense, whispering jungle. The house felt suddenly still after they departed.
No sooner had their parents' wagon vanished down the road than their eldest brother also left, murmuring about urgent business in town. The duty of the house fell onto the shoulders of Zamina, the eldest sister.
The short winter day seemed to gallop like a horse. After a quick lunch, the youngest brother vanished with his friends. It was school vacation, and the endless cycle of watching siblings and chores had become Zamina, a dull prison. So Zamina made up her mind to visit her friend's house. Then she searched for her youngest brother who was already gone, lost to the games of his friends. Zamina briefly searched for him, then shrugged. It wouldn't take long to get back home, she reasoned; coming back would take a few seconds.
At her friend's house, the air was filled with the girls' light chatter and the fragrant steam of cordyceps tea-a luxury that marked a family's status.
But in a few seconds, Wisterdom could not share in the calm. A deep, formless unease tightened in his chest. He felt a phantom pressure on his shoulder, and a silent, urgent echo pulsed in his inner ear: Go home. Now.
He tugged at Zamina's sleeve, his voice tense. "We need to leave. Right now."
His insistence cut through the gentle mood. The girls exchanged puzzled looks, but something in Wisterdom's pale face made them hurry. They abandoned their cups and rushed back into the fading light.
As they walked, a cold dizziness swam through Wisterdom's head. He could not understand this sudden storm within him -this raw, psychic alarm that screamed of danger he could not yet see. The strange energy that had slept inside him since the accident was now awake, ringing like a bell in the empty house they had left behind.
He was a young and innocent mind, eager to learn, ready to explore. He felt a deep pull toward the world's beauty, a beauty he had only just begun to see and longed to understand more fully. Yet, destiny had charted a different, darker path for him, one that would soon eclipse this simple desire.
On the road back home, Wisterdom felt a thrill unlike any he had known before. The air was cool and clean, sweeping down from the evergreen forest that lined the path. It moved through the branches, causing them to sway and rustle with a steady, peaceful sound. The breeze flowed over his skin and streamed through his long black hair, creating a sensation so light and free it felt like floating. Above them, the early evening sky deepened to a soft violet, and the newly lit street lamps began to glow. To Wisterdom, their light was not ordinary; each one shone with a clear, steady brilliance, like a star that had fallen to earth just to guide their way. This was his first true experience of such pure, uncomplicated joy-a moment where the world seemed not just good, but wondrous.
Beside him, his younger brother shared in this sudden burst of happiness. The two boys, released from the quiet tension of the visit, began to play. They laughed, a sound that was bright and careless in the twilight. They ran ahead of their sister, their footsteps light on the dusty path, moving almost in rhythm with the direction of the wind. They were not running from anything, but toward the feeling of the moment itself, toward the comfort of home that lay ahead.
Zamina, their elder sister, followed a few paces behind. A small, tired smile touched her lips as she watched them. Her own mood, lifted slightly by the visit and the rare tea, was soothed by their obvious delight. She felt the weight of her responsibility-a weight she carried every day-lift just a little. For these few minutes, she was not a caretaker, but merely a sister observing a scene of simple childhood joy. The weariness of her daily chores and the constant watchfulness faded into the background, replaced by a fragile, hopeful contentment. She quickened her step, not to scold them, but to stay within the warm circle of their shared happiness.
The feeling that enveloped them was beautiful and complete. It was the joy of being together, of being free under an open sky, of feeling safe and loved. Wisterdom's heart felt full and light at the same time. He looked at his brother's smiling face, felt the cool air, saw the star-like lamps, and thought that perhaps this was what peace truly felt like.
But this perfect, fragile peace was only a few seconds away from being shattered forever.
They carried their joy with them like a precious, glowing light. Yet, moving silently in the deepening shadows just beyond the reach of the lamplight, something else carried itself with them. It was a presence that existed in the cold places where the wind did not reach, a thing that watched with a patience that was not human. It was drawn not to the path, but to the very warmth of their lives, to the bright energy of their laughter which sounded like a beacon in the gathering dark.
They had no knowledge, no warning. They did not feel the subtle shift in the air behind them, a drop in temperature that had nothing to do with the evening chill. They did not see the way the shadows at the edge of the forest no longer simply lay still, but seemed to thicken and cling together. The catastrophe that approached was not a sound, but a growing silence-a void that swallowed the natural noises of the coming night. It followed, step for silent step, a predator drawn to the radiant, unprotected happiness of three children walking home.
Their laughter still rang out, bright and clear, a stark contrast to the absolute darkness beginning to coil on the path behind them. The last light of the lamps illuminated their backs, casting long, vulnerable shadows ahead-shadows that the pursuing darkness was slowly, inexorably, beginning to overtake.
As the saying goes, a hurricane has the power to wipe out a city. The deed of karma follows them.
It wasn't a monster you could see. It was a compression of absolute ruin-a force that, if unleashed, could shatter mountains and boil oceans dry. It moved as a swarm of invisible, torn-apart sparks. A heatless, silent fire that could ignite a jungle from the inside out. And it was gaining on them.
Ahead, Wisterdom's elder brother stood in the doorway of their home, finally returning. He looks breathless with unspeakable fear, looking at the empty house.
His posture changed. All the tiredness from his work, all the gentle patience he was known for, burned away in an instant. His shoulders tightened like coiled rope. His hands, usually careful with ledgers and rations, clenched into fists of stone. A fierce, terrifying calm settled on his face, but in his eyes was a storm of uncontrollable anger. He wasn't just worried.
He was ready to wage a war.