The mountain did not welcome visitors.
It rose beyond the eastern boundary of the Sound Clan, its slopes uneven, its paths half-swallowed by time. No sect banners marked its territory. No spirit beasts guarded its approach. Even the wind thinned as one drew closer, as if unsure how to pass.
Vale began his ascent at dawn.
Elder Rin had not given him instructions—only a direction.
"Walk until sound no longer answers you,"
"Then continue."
The lower paths were ordinary enough. Loose gravel shifted beneath his boots. Insects stirred in the brush. Distant birds cried once, then fell silent.
As Vale climbed, those sounds faded—not abruptly, but politely, as if excusing themselves.
He did not cultivate.
He did not circulate resonance.
He simply walked.
By midday, his breathing grew heavier. The air was thinner here—not spiritually, but structurally. Each breath felt precise, measured, as though excess was being trimmed away.
Vale paused to rest near a stone outcrop.
When he exhaled, he noticed something strange.
The breath made no sound.
Not because it was quiet—
but because the mountain did not return it.
He remembered the quarry.
The swallowed echoes.
The pressure without vibration.
For the first time since leaving the clan, Vale felt no surveillance, no probing resonance brushing his senses.
The Covenant did not listen here.
That realization carried both relief and unease.
As dusk approached, Vale reached a narrow plateau. At its center stood a single wooden hut, old enough that its grain had turned silver. Smoke curled from a stone chimney—not thick, not fragrant. Just present.
Someone lived here.
Vale bowed toward the hut, instinctively respectful.
The door was already open.